He'd enjoyed his Sundays in the past. They had been a vital part of the process. It had been the day when he'd selected several of his early ones. He'd watched Christine on a Sunday – she'd had friends round. And Susan – at home alone in front of an old film. Even after he'd stopped working in other houses, Sunday was still a day to take stock. To plan. Today, he didn't like what he saw. It was all going to shit. He could feel himself on the edge of a depression that he knew would be crippling if he let it take hold. The days after Helen had been hard but he'd seen a light at the end of it all. The knowledge that success was possible. That the capacity to achieve success was within him. And the days after Alison. A happiness he hadn't known before or since.
Today he saw no light ahead. The doubt was taking hold of every part of him and starting to squeeze out the joy and the hope.
It was more than just his own failure, of course. Thorne was failing as well, or at the very least not being allowed to succeed.
Without Thorne there was really no point.
All his channels of information were clear. The news, the rumour, the word. None of it good. He'd made it all so easy for them and they'd screwed it up. They'd missed every marker he'd left so carefully in their path. He sat and stared at the pristine white wall. Whatever happened, however it worked itself out, he would always have Alison. She would always be a testament to him and his work. The other part of it, the other half of it, might not work out exactly as planned but that was not his fault. That was the result of involving others. There were ways of achieving a similar end on his own.
The punishment was not going to fit the crime, but he would see it meted out nevertheless.
It wasn't over, not yet, but he was starting to feel weary. Twelve days before, with Margaret Byrne's body cooling where he'd left it and his car effortlessly trailing the night bus carrying Leonie Holden towards him, he'd felt bright and invincible. Today, he wasn't sure he'd even be able to drag himself out of doors.
Even though, later, he would have to.
They were laughing about his taste in music. The track was 'Delia's Gone', which involved Johnny Cash tying his girlfriend to a chair and shooting her. a couple of times, essentially because she was 'devilish'. Thorne couldn't see the problem.
Then the phone rang. 'Tom? It's Sally Byrne.'
Thorne laughed. 'Hi, Sally. Elvis is fine. He's destroying the place but he's fine.'
Anne, who hadn't met the cat yet, threw him an odd look from the other side of the bed. He grinned at her over his shoulder, shaking his head. Don't worry about it. She picked up a newspaper and snuggled down to read.
'It's not actually about the cat, Tom.'
Thorne began to sit up slowly. He could feel the smallest of sensations, a tingle, a burning, an excitement, building between his shoulder-blades. 'I'm listening, Sally.'
'It's just something a bit odd and I probably should have spoken to the Irish officer. What's his name?'
'Tughan.' Go on…
'Well, I've been going through Mum's things, you know sorting stuff out for the charity shop or whatever, and I was looking through her jewelry and I found a man's ring.'
Thorne was already out of bed and wandering into the living room, trying to pull on a dressing-gown.
'Tom?'
'Sorry. Which jewelry are we talking about?'
'This is what I'm saying, it's the stuff you lot took away. The scene-of-crime people. They let me have it all back after the funeral, said they didn't need it any more. I don't know where they found this ring, on the floor with the rest of the stuff, I suppose, and they obviously thought it belonged to my mum, but it doesn't.'
'It's definitely a man's?'
'Definitely. It's plain gold. Looks like a wedding ring.'
'Not your dad's?'
'Are you kidding? That bastard would never have worn a wedding ring. Might have spoiled his chances of pulling.'
Thorne was starting to miss what Sally Byrne was saying. A melody was pouring into his brain and filling every corner of it. A classical melody. Mournful and haunting. He couldn't remember what it was called. Something German. But he could remember where he'd heard it. And he could remember a rhythm, a tempo, marked out by the clicking of a wedding ring against a gearstick.
'I mean, I'm sure it's nothing, Tom, but…'
When Thorne came back into the bedroom a few minutes later, Anne knew in a heartbeat that something had changed. He was trying to sound casual. He asked if she wanted tea.
She got up and began to dress.
Whatever it was that had actually happened wasn't important. She knew that murder and suspicion were back in the room with them and she needed to leave. They moved around each other awkwardly now, embarrassed, and they froze for half a second as each caught the other's reflection in the long wardrobe mirror.
Thorne saw something like accusation and hated himself for wanting her to leave so that he could ring Dave Holland.
Anne saw the excitement that was running through Thorne like voltage.
She saw a hunger in him.
She saw the face of Jeremy Bishop and the dark sadness that had settled around his eyes as he'd whispered to her.
'People have secrets, Anne.
They sat at a table towards the back of the room, not in total darkness but close to it. It seemed to be the way he wanted it. He'd led her to the table, avoiding the empty seats near the stage. It was probably a good idea considering that they didn't want to get picked on and she was underage.
Rachel looked around. She wasn't the only one. Actually she had had no trouble in getting away with it. The club was dimly lit and the woman on the door had barely looked up from her cashbox when the two of them had come in. She'd spent a long time on her makeup. She'd even stood beneath the lights at the bar and bought them both a drink, staring at herself in the mirror that ran along the back wall behind the optics. She looked eighteen easily. Twenty, probably.
This small comedy club below a pub in Crouch End was, he'd told her, one of his favourite places. It was a mixed audience. Nobody cared what you looked like or how old you were. It wasn't exactly the Comedy Store, but you could see some of the same comedians that you were likely to see at the bigger clubs without having to struggle into the West End.
Rachel had liked the sound of it straight away and asked him if he'd take her. He told her about another night at the same club when they did what were called try-out shows or open spots. He came to those as often as he could, if he wasn't working. A dozen or more hopefuls would get up and do a couple of minutes. None of them was any good. It was clearly just therapy for most of them, but it was riveting to watch. Like a car accident. Watching them struggle, watching them 'die', was an amazing experience, he assured her. The comedian on the tiny stage was a sneering Scotsman with red hair and a loud suit who shouted a lot and swore too much. He talked about sex in graphic detail and Rachel sat blushing in the darkness. She looked out of the corner of her eye at the man next to her so that she could laugh when he did. She didn't want to seem young, or stupid, or unsophisticated.
He was enjoying himself, she could tell. He'd seemed a little tense when he'd picked her up outside the Green Man, but now he looked more relaxed. She watched him far more than she watched what was happening on stage. He stared, engrossed, at the comedian, or at other members of the audience. He was a ferocious watcher, critical and unblinking. She loved that about him. She loved how he lived every moment to its fullest, taking everything in and savouring it. She loved his intensity, his refusal to compromise. The comedian was telling some joke about his parents and Rachel thought about her mother. Anne had been in a strange mood when she'd come home – from the policeman's place, Rachel guessed. It had definitely been him who'd phoned that morning. Probably at it all day, the pair of them.
She thought quite a lot about Thorne fucking her mother.
She thought quite a lot about fucking.
