man peered down at him from the first floor. Maybe they could go and have a pizza now – there were loads of places in Islington. Or they could just sit around, smoke a bit maybe, order something later. Whatever, it would just be really nice to see her.
He rang again…
'Don't let Bracher go anywhere. Just keep him there…'
Thorne and Holland had been heading south towards Blackfriars Bridge when Thorne's mobile had rung and he was informed that Sean Bracher was currently annoying the duty officers at Charing Cross, shouting about how he was one hundred and ten per cent certain, that the man in the e-fit was someone he worked with, someone from Baynham amp; Smout…
Thorne had all but yanked the wheel out of Holland's hands. The woman in Wandsworth, Jacqueline Kaye, could wait until tomorrow. This was someone who they needed to talk to right now. They'd been to the office… Jesus, even Lickwood had been to the office, and the fucker had been there all the time…
Now, Thorne was talking to a DI at Chafing Cross as well as trying to give Holland instructions on the new route they were taking.
'What's the name?' Thorne nodded solemnly as he was told, then began waving his arm in front of Holland's nose. 'Go right, we'll cut through Lincoln's Inn Fields.'
Holland smacked a palm angrily on the wheel and did as he was told, keeping one eye on Thorne, watching his reactions, desperate to be told the details.
'Has Bracher told anybody else? Anybody at work? Good…'
Thorne pointed some more, grunting into the phone, meeting Holland's sidelong glance and nodding. This was major. As the unmarked Rover roared along the Strand, Thorne began to shout into the phone, as if he was losing the signal. 'We'll be there in about ten minutes.., yes, ten.'
He punched the button to end the call and turned to Holland. 'Sean Bracher…'
Holland's phone began to ring.
'Fuck..;' Holland groped inside his jacket for the mobile.
'Bet you it's for me,' Thorne said, 'I could hear the call-waiting signal on mine…'
'River?' Holland asked, pulling out the phone. Thorne nodded. Holland answered. 'Hello? Right…' He handed the phone across.
'McEvoy.'
Five pounds to the good, a smiling Thorne took the phone. Sarah McEvoy was out of breath. She'd run to make the call.
'We've got a man fitting our description, a man named Martin Palmer…' The smile froze on Thorne's face. It was the same name he had heard a few moments before; the name Bracher had given.
'Palmer walked into West Hampstead nick half an hour ago, dropped a gun on to the desk and confessed to two murders.'
'OK, we're on our way.'
Holland grimaced, unsure which direction to head in now. Thorne pointed north. Keep going.
'Slight problem,' McEvoy said. 'West Hampstead doesn't have a custody suite.'
'Fuck.' Thorne thought fast. 'Right, Kentish Town's about the nearest. Get somebody to run him over.'
'I'll call them and get straight down there.'
'Good. We should be with you in about fifteen minutes.'
McEvoy was already there by the time Thorne and Holland arrived. The three of them stood outside the room where Martin Palmer was being held. McEvoy filled them in on the details. He had walked calmly into the station to give himself up at around about the same time that Bracher had barged into Chafing Cross, shouting his name out. Palmer hadn't been cautioned. He was there of his own volition.
Holland sat down on one of the green plastic chairs that were bolted in a row along the wall. 'He saw the picture too, must have. Knew somebody was going to recognise it. Thought he'd be doing himself a favour.' McEvoy looked across at him, nodded her agreement. Thorne stared at the door. 'Maybe…'
'Reckon he'll give up his mate?' Thorne turned and stared at McEvoy. She'd asked, knowing it was What he was thinking, watching the tension take hold as he glared at the scratched grey door, imagining the man on the other side of it.
Give up his mate…
It had been the question Thorne had been asking himself since he'd heard Palmer's name for the second time. Christ, it could be that simple. Perhaps there was a chance, if he was hit quickly, and hard.
'Is Brigstocke coming?' Holland asked.
McEvoy took a few paces back towards the main reception area, smiled politely at the small collection of gawping uniforms gathered around the desk. 'On his way.'
'Should we wait for him?'
'Probably,' Thorne said, and opened the door. In the couple of seconds he spent marching across to the tape recorder on the far side of the room, he took it all in. The uniform in the corner, jumping slightly as Thorne slammed the door. The cold. Palmer, his white collar grubby, sitting at the brushed metal table, head bowed. The wad of bandage clumsily plastered to the top of his head, the blood dried brown.
Thorne picked up two fresh cassette tapes and began tearing roughly at the plastic packaging, his eyes never leaving the figure seated at the table.
Palmer was a big man, that was obvious, slumped and hunched over as he was. Wispy, sandy-coloured hair and metal-framed glasses. Murrell and Knight had done a good job. The picture was spot on.
'I'm Detective Inspector Thorne and I'm in no mood to piss about, is that all right with you?'
Palmer said nothing. He didn't even move.
Thorne slammed the tapes into the recorder, hit the red button and waited. Once the buzzing had stopped and the recording had begun, he cautioned his interviewee. He spoke the caution quickly, spitting out the words like pips from something gone sour. He told Palmer he was free to leave, that he was not under arrest, that he was entitled to free and independent legal advice. He said these things because he had to, without thinking about them, or caring a great deal. The only moment of hesitation came when he looked across at the uniformed statue in the corner, to ascertain his name for the tape. The constable's eyes widened and he spoke his name as if he was confirming it from the dock.
Thorne stood opposite Palmer, his hands on the dull metal tabletop, staring hard. He was aware of Constable Stephen Legge in the corner, shifting his feet nervously. Good, Thorne thought. I'm scaring you, I must be scaring this fucker…
Palmer didn't look up.
'Now then, these two murders you're so courageously putting your hand up to. That's two murders out of four, if we're being accurate, isn't it? Four murders all told. There's another man, isn't there?'
Nothing. Thorne let a few seconds become thirty. Moved in that bit closer.
'Actually, we'd better make that five murders. You fucked up last night, fucked up or bottled out, doesn't matter which, but I'm bloody sure he didn't.' Slowly, asking it again, 'There's another man, isn't there?'
Palmer nodded. Sniffed. He was about to cry.
'Who is he?' Casual. Like asking the time. Just give me a name… Thorne moved round the table, stood behind him. Only a cliche because it was true, because it worked. Leaning down, close enough to smell the sweat, to see the first, fat teardrop plop onto the fag-browned table edge.
'There's a woman's body… somewhere. At the moment, she's only missing. I'm not sure it's even been reported yet, but people are missing her. There's people somewhere who are starting to feel it in their guts about now, just starting to feel it. That flutter of worry, turning to concern and then eventually to panic. That's when it really starts to hurt, like a cramp that's squeezing the inside of them, making it hard to breathe. Crushing the pipes and valves, there, in the gut. All of them, all those people, friends and relatives, huddling together because they all feel the same, and all of them feeling like parts of them are starting to shut down bit by bit. To stop working. Feeling as bad as anyone could ever feel, ever…'
Palmer's head drooped slowly down until his cheek lay flush on the table. There were still tears, pooling beneath the side of his face, but no sound at all.
Thorne's voice got lower, quieter. 'But it isn't. It isn't as bad. It's nothing like. When their missing wife or daughter or mother becomes their dead wife or daughter or mother, that's when the real pain begins.
