'She mentioned you, too,' Angie said.
There was not too much more to say after that. Had someone older died, someone whose death had not been totally unexpected, one of them might have said, 'It was a nice service, wasn't it?' or told a funny story. But it was simply too hard for any of that, for the pleasant lies, and instead, they focused all their energy on keeping themselves together.
Thorne had watched the mother and father all day. The man's hand on the woman's arm almost every time Thorne caught sight of them: stepping out of the shiny Daimler; moving into the church; drifting between the groups of friends and relatives in their kitchen and sitting room, glassy-eyed, as though they could not quite believe they were able to put one foot in front of the other.
To stay upright and engaged. To speak without howling.
There had been a cursory greeting at the church, but back at the house, hovering between the buffet table and the sitting-room door, Thorne finally got a chance to speak to them properly. With Thorne in hospital, other officers had dealt with Robert and Sylvia Carpenter in the days following the shooting. So, although he felt sure they knew exactly who he was, this was his first opportunity to introduce himself.
'You're the one who was there,' Sylvia said. 'The one who broke his collarbone.'
Thorne swallowed. Said that he was.
The one who failed to protect my daughter.
The one they were after.
The one who should be in that box.
'How is it now?' Sylvia asked. She reached a hand out towards him. 'They can be a pig to set. A cousin of mine had all sorts of trouble.'
Thorne stared. If she were intending to be snide or sarcastic, it was not there in her voice or her eyes. On the contrary, her face was set in an expression of almost manic concern.
'Clavicle.' She said the word slowly, emphasising each syllable. Her hand was still stretched out, the fingers fluttering a few inches from Thorne's chest. 'That's the proper name for it.'
'Sylvia…' Robert Carpenter gently laid a hand on his wife's arm. She turned her head slowly to look at him, then abruptly moved away, staring intently at the platters of cheese and cold meat as she walked the length of the buffet table.
The two men watched her go, then Robert Carpenter turned back to Thorne. He looked down at his shoes for a few seconds then raised his eyes. 'It's hit her very hard,' he said.
'Of course,' Thorne said.
'I mean, obviously, it's hit all of us.'
Thorne could say nothing, aware of the inadequacy of the platitudes he might have been expected to trot out. Indeed, had trotted out in countless similar situations. Looking at Anna's father then, it struck him that, in recent years, the influence of American TV shows had crept into the language of condolence every bit as much as it had been felt elsewhere.
I'm sorry for your loss.
That final word set Thorne's teeth on edge. Surely it implied the possibility that, some day, whoever had been lost might be found. Keys were lost and mobile phones. Dogs and wallets and telephone numbers. Those wrenched from their families by violent death were gone – plain, simple and terrible, but they were anything but lost.
Thorne and the rest of those under Robert Carpenter's roof had gathered together to mourn Anna's absence.
'Did she tell you she was not her mother's favourite?' Robert asked suddenly.
'No,' Thorne said.
'She always thought that. The stupid thing is that she was.' He shook his head and lowered his voice still further. 'She really was. ..'
Thorne wondered what else Anna might have told him, given time.
'There's no news, I suppose?'
'I'm sorry?' Thorne said.
'Your colleagues have all been very good, keeping us informed and what have you. But I haven't heard anything for over a week, so…'
'We're doing everything we can.'
'Of course, I do understand that.'
Thorne had been at home for a fortnight following the shooting – compulsory leave in the wake of an incident involving a firearm, if not strictly merited by the severity of his injury. There would be counselling sessions too, a little further down the line, the thought of which filled Thorne with horror. Reminded him of a few other things that you could lose.
Your diary.
Your way, en route to the counsellor's office.
The will to live.
During those two weeks away from the office, Thorne had stayed in touch with the investigation: talking to Brigstocke, Holland and Kitson half a dozen times a day; phoning Gary Brand to see if any of his contacts had heard any whispers. Keeping on top of things. So, he was acutely aware of the lack of witnesses, the deafening silence in response to numerous appeals, the absence of any forensic evidence on the abandoned scooter. He was intimately acquainted with each brick wall and dead end in the search for the shooter.
'She told me about the case she was working on,' Robert said. 'This man everyone thought was dead.'
'Right.'
'She was excited about it. I told her how much I enjoyed seeing her like that.' He paused and the smile slid from his face. 'He did this, I suppose?'
Tried to kill you and killed my daughter instead.
Should have organised something a little more efficient than a gun fired at night from a moving scooter.
'We think so,' Thorne said. 'Or at least paid to have it done.'
Anna's father was studying his feet again, glancing up every few seconds towards others in the room. 'Well, I'd better…'
'Thank you,' Thorne said.
He was not sure what he was thanking the man for. For his hospitality? For not pushing him against the wall and screaming into his face with grief and fury?
For Anna?
Thorne spent another half an hour or so wandering between kitchen, sitting room and garden. He caught Rob and Angie looking at him and did his best to smile. He looked at the collection of family photographs on a dresser: Anna and her sister on holiday somewhere warm; the family at Anna's graduation; Anna and her mother, their postures and expressions almost identical. Reaching across the buffet table for more food he did not really want, he felt the ache in his collarbone. He felt it spread into his shoulder, and he felt again the weight of her as they lay together at the bottom of the stone steps.
Her breath bubbling and shallow against his chest and her blood leaking through his fingers.
He spoke to Robert Carpenter one more time that day, as goodbyes were being said at the front door. Anna's father was thanking people as they left, braced for the final litany of condolence, taking hands in his own. Thorne searched for the right words. He said he was glad he had come, mumbled something about how good the food had been, then found himself blurting out, 'She told me you liked bluegrass.'
Robert Carpenter smiled and nodded, then handed Thorne a handkerchief.
'The captain has turned on the seatbelt signs, so…'
Thorne stuffed his newspaper into the pocket and pressed his knees hard into the back of the seat in front to remind the selfish bastard in the row ahead of him to raise his seat into the upright position. The woman next to him said something, having clearly decided that with no more than a few minutes left before landing, it was safe enough to strike up a conversation.
'Sorry?'
'Holiday?'
