system. Maybe that's his pattern. You tell me mate…'
Then, Thorne knew. No, not his pattern…
The tears. A big man's tears on a body, outdoors. A body less damaged, wept upon. Elsewhere, a child in a house, nuzzling what was once the sweet-smelling neck of his mother, now bruised, and bloody, and broken inside. The wrapper from a chocolate bar, discarded… Was he taller than your Granddad?
And Charlie Garner slowly, defiantly, shaking his head.
'Phil, can I call you back…?'
Tired as he was, Holland had still not left. Thorne's expression, as he burst into the office next door, was enough to wake him up in a second.
'The stabbings.., tell me about the stabbings.' Thorne's voice low, measured, but with a scream of something – excitement maybe, or horror – lurking just beneath the surface.
'Sir…?'
Moving across the cramped office, talking quickly. 'Two women, both stabbed on the same day. July, I think you said.' Thorne nodded towards the computer, trying to stay calm. 'Call them up.'
Holland spun the chair round and began to type, trying to recall the details. 'One in Finchley, I think. The other one… much further south if I remember…'
The relevant documents appeared on his screen and Holland studied them for a second or two. 'Forest Hill, that's right…' He scrolled slowly through the document, shaking his head. 'No… no… it's not possible. He couldn't have done them both.'
Thorne nodded and glanced out of the window. His eye was taken by the sparks flying up from beneath a tube train passing below on its way south from Colindale; lolling heads in the brightly lit carriages, snaking away from him as the track curved round and out of sight.
'He didn't.'
Holland stared at him, waiting. Thorne stood stock still and spoke slowly, but Holland could see his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 'The knives used might have been similar, might not, I don't know.., not sure it matters. The pattern and depth of the wounds though.., in all probability the number of wounds, on each of the victims, will be at odds with each other. The… character of the two attacks will be completely different.'
Holland turned back to his screen and typed again, calling up SOC and pathology reports as Thorne continued. 'One of the women will have died from multiple stab wounds. Vicious… indiscriminate… savage. The other, probably one single wound, to the heart, I would guess, or…
Holland spun round again. The look on his face told Thorne all he needed to know…
Brigstocke answered his mobile on the first ring.
'Russell Brigstocke…' The voice low, betraying annoyance.
'It's Tom…'
'DI Thorne…' Spoken for somebody else's benefit. The meeting with Detective Superintendent Jesmond had probably turned into dinner. So much the easier.
'We're onto something. Tell Jesmond. Call it a breakthrough, he'll like that.' He turned to share the moment with Holland but the DC was studying the documents on his screen intently. Trying to make sense of it all. 'Tell him it's one hell of a good news-bad news routine…'
'I'm listening,' Brigstocke said.
'I don't think we're looking for one man.'
Thorne expected a pause, and he got one. Then: 'Are you saying that these murders might not actually be connected?'
'No I'm not. They are connected, I'm certain of that.' Thorne knew the look that Brigstocke would be wearing. Contained excitement, like trying to hold a shit inside. He wondered what Jesmond, no doubt holding a large glass of red wine and studying his DCI's strange expression, would be making of it.
Brigstocke was starting to sound a little impatient. 'So, what is it? A new lead on the killer?'
Thorne kept it nice and simple. 'Killers, Russell. Plural. There's two of them.'
1985
It was a moment he would always remember. Karen sitting on the bank, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and Smart smiling, mouth full of chocolate as always, his dark eyes focusing on something in the distance, searching for it, seeking out the source of their next adventure.
And him, looking from one to the other, nervous but happy, the sun in his eyes and a small cloud of gnats swirling in front of his face… It was a moment that took him back to a day two summers earlier. That day with the cricket bat. The day when he saw Karen for the first time. That was when he and Smart were at the same school of course. Before the business with the air pistol…
The two of them weren't really supposed to see each other after the Bardsley incident. Following the expulsion, efforts had been made to keep them apart, and for a while Palmer had been happy enough to go along with that. After all, the police had told their parents that it would be better for everybody if they were not allowed to be together. There had been talk of 'influence' and of 'geeing up'. He missed the excitement though, he missed the unpredictability, and he was delighted when Smart, once they'd started hanging around together again, told him that he'd missed it too. Plus, he always felt better about being around Karen, if Smart was close by.
Karen was older than he was, closer to Smart's age, but Stuart couldn't make her laugh the way he could. He'd always been the one that got her giggling, ever since that day when she'd crawled through the hole in the fence and seen the business with the frog. There were times, when he saw the two of them whispering, or smoking, or watched them walking ahead of him along by the railway line, that he would start to feel like he shouldn't be there. Then Karen would stop and smile that smile at him and ask him to pull some stupid face, or put on a silly voice or something and he would soon have her in fits. Sometimes he thought that perhaps she was teasing him a little, but he didn't really mind. He could see how important he was to her, and to Stuart. He could see the three of them together, friends for good, the long grass of the railway embankment becoming the carefully tended lawn of a college quadrangle and the back garden of one of the big houses that each of them owned.., and finally, the rambling parkland of that Heath in London his mum had taken him to once, where the three of them would sit together on a park bench, with dogs, and perhaps children. Palmer knew, as much as he knew anything at barely fourteen, that he was in love.
Karen stood up and looked around for a few seconds before half running, half-tumbling down the bank. She pretended that she was going to crash into Nicklin, and he pretended to be frightened. At the last minute, she jumped and Nicklin staggered back as he caught her, shouting and laughing, one hand holding tight to her arse. Palmer laughed too and swatting the swarm of gnats aside, followed them as they each lit a cigarette and began walking slowly towards the small group of blackened, broken-down railway buildings in the distance.
Once inside the main building – a disused equipment shed – they did the usual quick sweep, searching for signs of habitation. Tramps slept here sometimes. The place still smelt of stale piss and strong lager. They'd found the remains of a fire a few times before now, and empty tins and syringes, and once, a used condom which Nicklin had picked up and chased Karen around with for a while. Today the place seemed even more deserted than usual. The usual fixtures and fittings. A mountain of fag ends, some old newspapers, a soggy, mouldering roll of carpet that had once been a dosser's bed. Huge bluebottles flew around their heads as Palmer threw stones at the remaining slivers of glass in the rotting window frames. Nicklin stubbed out his fag and looked around for something, anything, to spark him off, and Karen wandered around singing the latest Duran Duran single, her light, high voice echoing off the grimy Artex walls.
'Let's go. Fuck-all in here.' Nicklin aimed a kick at an empty bottle. It skittered across the concrete floor and into the far wall where it smashed.
Palmer cheered. 'We could start a fire or something…'
'Let's all have a dump,' Karen said, ignoring him and leering at Nicklin. She began to laugh and Palmer turned away, blushing. He hated it when she talked like that. She would squat down in the long grass sometimes and he couldn't bear it.
'Boring,' Nicklin said. 'Fucking eggs for lunch anyway. Couldn't squeeze one out even if I wanted to.' He lit another cigarette from a packet of ten Silk Cut. Karen took a loose one from the top pocket of her denim jacket and moved over to join him. She took the cigarette from Nicklin's mouth and used it to light her own.
When Palmer turned round, Karen and Nicklin had gone. For a moment he was frightened, but then he
