The next time Thorne woke, he knew the cause straightaway; he could feel the mobile phone vibrating in his coat pocket. He groped for it, getting hold of the thing just as the shaking stopped. The glow from the illuminated screen lit up lines of grime on the heel of his hand; it was 6:18 a.m. and it had been Holland calling…
It rang again almost immediately.
Thorne pushed his way out of the box and took a few steps away from where Spike and Caroline were still sleeping. He squatted down, answered the phone with a whisper.
“Dave?”
“Thank fuck for that…”
During the short pause that followed, Thorne stood and waited for his head to clear a little. A plastic bag flapped along the tunnel and he shuddered as the draft whipped into him; icy against clammy skin.
“I just wanted to make sure you were alive,” Holland said.
“That’s thoughtful, but it’s a bit bloody early-”
“They’ve found another body. We haven’t got anyone down there as yet.”
Thorne could smell piss and sugar, vinegar and grease. He glanced up and down the corridor, checking that there was no movement from any of the boxes. He wondered if the body might be that of Ryan Eales; if the killer had finally completed the set.
“Sir…?”
“I’m listening,” Thorne whispered.
“A rough sleeper, looks like the usual method, in the doorway of a theater behind Piccadilly Circus. D’you see what I’m getting at?”
Thorne saw exactly.
Just keeping it warm for you, obviously.
Now his head was clear, but the rest of him was suddenly leaden. He could feel a prickly heat rising…
There was a grunted laugh of relief before Holland spoke again. “I just wanted to be sure,” he said. “I thought it might be you…”
Thorne leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily. He stared down at the discarded chicken bones and scattered flakes of leprous-looking batter.
And was violently sick.
Part Three
Luck of the Draw
TWENTY-FIVE
Holland and Stone stood on the platform at Stockport Station, waiting for their connection to Salford. Both had hands thrust deep into pockets, and as they gazed along the track in the hope of seeing the train’s approach, they could see the rain coming down in skewed, billowing sheets.
“Fucking hell,” Stone said, miserable. “I’m still wet from the other night…”
Holland nodded, remembering the downpour as they’d gathered at the crime scene, waiting for the sun to struggle up. The rain had hissed off the arc lights, and the only dry body there was curled up and stiffening in the theater doorway. As with the other victims, there hadn’t been a great deal that was recognizable about Terence Turner. He’d finally been identified by a friend thanks to the chain and padlock around his neck. Later, this had been removed with a hacksaw by a mortuary assistant, just prior to Phil Hendricks getting to work and doing some cutting of his own…
“I’m going to see if I can grab some coffee,” Stone said. “D’you want some?”
Holland eagerly accepted the offer and Stone walked toward the station concourse in search of what would be their third cup of the day. It was a little over twenty-four hours since they’d found the body, and Holland had slept for perhaps three of them.
It was accepted that the first twenty-four hours were “golden”; that this was when they had the best chance of picking up a decent lead. As far as Holland was aware, at that moment they still had nothing, and he’d be surprised if anything changed. It wasn’t always just a killer they were up against. Care and caution could get thrown to the wind in the name of urgency, and adrenaline was easily swamped by fatigue and protocol.
After they’d wrapped things up at the murder scene, a DS from the Intelligence Team had conducted the “hot debrief ” at Charing Cross police station. Every officer who’d been present had run through the notes in their incident report book and made a statement. These would need to be collated and added to the duty officer’s report and the log that would later be completed by the DCI. This was all part of the procedure instituted in the wake of the Lawrence Report. There were those who thought it would mean fewer mistakes. Others, including Tom Thorne, were more skeptical. They thought that it was less about doing the right thing than being seen to do it.
Thorne…
This was what, for some of them at least, had given the latest murder an unsettling significance; had brought it far closer to home. Those on the team who knew of Thorne’s role in the investigation had come to an obvious, and disturbing, conclusion. Holland, Brigstocke, and Hendricks had stared at the battered body of a man in a doorway; had watched it being bagged up and loaded into a wagon; had seen the progress of the pathologist’s blade through its flesh, and known, as they looked on, that it should have been the body of Tom Thorne that was suffering such indignities.
Holland looked up, watched Stone walking back toward him with the drinks, and thought about the phone conversation two nights before.. .
That’s thoughtful, but it’s a bit bloody early.
He’d rung from home as soon as he’d been contacted about the discovery of the body. Sophie had been woken by the initial call, and he’d gone into the living room so she wouldn’t hear him talking to Thorne. He’d felt a little embarrassed at how relieved he’d been to hear the miserable git’s voice.
It was strange: Thorne had taken longer than anyone else to grasp the importance of just where Turner’s body had been found. Maybe Holland had caught him at a bad time…
“Train’s coming in,” Stone said, still a few feet away.
Holland looked back and saw the train rounding a bend, moving toward them through rain that was getting heavier. The huge wipers were moving fast across the locomotive’s windscreen.
Stone seemed to have cheered up a little. He put on a coarse, Hovis accent: “It’s grim up north,” he said.
Holland smiled and took his coffee, thinking that it wasn’t exactly a bed of roses back where they’d come from.
“Do you want me to tell you how many of those kicks could have killed Terry Turner on their own? How many different bones were broken? How many of his teeth were actually smashed up into his nose?”
“Only if you want to put me off my lunch,” Thorne said.
They were sitting in a dimly lit pub, south of the river near the Oval. A television was mounted high on one wall. Through the Keyhole served only to highlight the lack of atmosphere in the place. Aside from a couple in their thirties who scowled at each other across scampi and chips, Brigstocke and Thorne were the only customers.
Brigstocke knew that, with Thorne looking the way he did, they’d have had a fair amount of privacy even if the place had been much busier. Though the bruises had faded to the color of nicotine stains, Thorne was still far from a pretty sight. That said, though, he had never been a GQ kind of man, and many had given him a wide berth even when he hadn’t looked like a battered sack of shit. Brigstocke had said as much to him as they’d collected drinks and cheese rolls from the bar.
Thorne held up his Guinness and smiled. “Cheers, mate.”
“Those clothes are actually starting to smell…”
“I think you’re the one they’re worried about,” Thorne had said. He’d nodded toward the couple who’d given the two of them a long, blatantly curious look when they’d walked in. “They think I’m some sort of over-the-hill rent boy and you’re a very pervy businessman on a limited budget.”
