not responded well to the lecture Thorne had delivered, that he felt needed to be delivered, on leaking ships. He'd wanted Brigstocke to do the honours, but the DCI was still in no mood to do Thorne any favours. In terms of the bad feeling coming his way, the atmosphere that followed his speech was pretty much the icing on the cake, but Thorne knew that it was necessary. Besides, normally he only alienated the top brass. Now he was getting on everybody's tits. At least this was a change… Thorne wanted this to go right. He wanted nothing in the public domain, nothing, unless it could have come from a source other than Martin Palmer. They could, for example, go with Palmer's description of Nicklin – they could always invent a witness who might have come up with that – but any avenue of investigation that could only have originated with Palmer needed to be walked with the utmost care and discretion.
Thorne could handle the black looks, the comments subtle and otherwise, but the only real moment of doubt had come at the press conference on the Saturday, less than forty-eight hours after Miriam Vincent's body had been discovered.
It was the lies, naked in the light from a hundred flash guns and boldly sharing the stage with Miriam Vincent's grief-stricken mother, that were hard to bear. Someone, it might have been Steve Norman, had actually suggested that they hire actors to play the parents of Palmer's fictitious victim: Thorne was glad he'd drawn a line and said no to that one. This was bad enough…
Norman had led out an impressive looking party, consisting of Jesmond, Brigstocke, a young DC acting as Family Liaison, and Mrs. Vincent. After the predictable rhetoric from Jesmond, Norman introduced Rosemary Vincent. She was in her early fifties, tall and slightly awkward, with a face that had probably been open and easy to read until two days ago, when it had become the mirror of emotions that were alien to it.
The scalding in the belly, the scab to be picked at. Rage and guilt… She spoke movingly of her only daughter, clutching Miriam's picture and trying not to break down as she remembered their last conversation – a row about her not coming home. Thorne stood at the back of the room, behind the journalists, away from the cameras, unable to take his eyes off this woman. He had seen people in the same situation a hundred times, but rarely had he seen the freshly dead part of them so clearly. It was there in every nervous smile, every pull at the hair and quiver of the lip. He winced when she spoke about the grief that the parents of the other victim must be feeling. He felt the shame, like a cold hand at his throat, when she sent them her love and support, when she sympathised with their pain; an agony so crippling that they hadn't felt able to come along themselves… Thorne had made a promise to himself then that, whatever happened, when it was all over he would visit Rosemary Vincent and tell her the truth, and explain why he had done what he had done. That night, he watched the highlights of the press conference on half a dozen different channels and felt the fingers at his throat every time.
He was just about ready for bed when the phone rang.
'Yeah…'
'Tom? Is that Tom?'
'Who's this?'
'This is Eileen, love. Your dad's sister.'
'Oh…'
'Sorry if it's a bit late, but we were watching a film. You know, waiting for it to finish.'
'It's fine…' Thorne had actually been carrying a half-empty wine bottle and dirty glass back to the kitchen when the phone went. Now, he sat down on the sofa, stuck the bottle between his knees and yanked out the cork again.
'So how are you love?' She spoke as if he was ill, or a little slow. Thorne was about to fill his glass when he decided that, actually, he was in no mood to have this conversation. He knew what she wanted and he couldn't be arsed waiting for her to say it. Christ, how long had it been since he'd seen this woman? It was certainly before Jan had left. A funeral, but he couldn't remember whose. Maybe one of Eileen's husband's parents…
'Listen, Auntie Eileen-'
'I was sorry to hear about you and your wife…'
So Thorne poured the wine and made the tedious small talk, and waited for her to get to the point; to say what she'd obviously called to say. He'd warned his dad against ringing her, silly old bastard. Now it was going to be embarrassing. He started prompting her, getting tetchier, waiting to hear that she was ever so sorry but she really couldn't have Jim at Christmas. She had a houseful after all, and there wasn't the room to put him up and maybe if he'd given her a bit more notice…
Stuff you, Thorne thought. We'll be fine, the two of us…
'So we've talked about it and decided that your dad's coming to us this year.'
Thorne held the wine glass halfway between his knee and his mouth. He knew he'd heard correctly, but couldn't think of anything to say. 'Sorry? But…'
'If you drop him at Victoria, we'll pick him up at the other end.'
Thorne felt himself starting to redden a little. 'Listen, maybe I'd better have a word with dad…'
'Don't worry, it's all been organised, love.'
'But you'll have a houseful. You haven't got the room…'
'We'll be free. Look, we'd love to have him and I dare say it'll be a bit of a break for you.'
Then five minutes more of this and that, until Thorne heard the call-waiting signal on the line and dropped a hint. Auntie Eileen took it, announcing that now it was past her bedtime and telling Thorne how lovely it would be to see him sometime, too… Thorne had told Phil Hendricks the whole thing before he'd really had a chance to decide how he felt about it. It was probably rash of Hendricks to make the invitation and Thorne couldn't decide whether it was stupidity or desperation that made him accept, but either way, two days later, here he was…
Christmas Eve. Playing gooseberry. Sitting in a pub and not listening.
'Tom? For fuck's sake…'
Thorne felt as if he were emerging at speed from a long, long tunnel. Gold, silver and red coming into focus. Cheap decorations, catching the light, dangling from fake wooden beams. He blinked.
'Sorry Phil. Is it my round, mate?'
Hendricks stared at him. 'Hello! Brendan's up there, getting them in. You haven't heard a word, have you?'
Thorne downed the last of his pint. 'Yes, I have.'
'So? What d'you reckon?'
Thorne puffed out his cheeks, just needing a second or two. He began to recall bits of a one-sided conversation. Brendan and Phil were an item again. Yes, that was it. Hendricks wanted to know whether taking Mr. Didn't-Turn-Out-To-Be-A-Bastard-After-All back was a good idea.
'What's definitely not a good idea,' Thorne said finally, 'is having me dossing on your sofa like a spare prick at a wedding.'
Hendricks sighed. 'Look, we've been through this. It's not a big deal.'
Thorne looked around. The place was packed. It was hard to make themselves heard over the hubbub and the loud Christmas music. Slade, Wizzard, Mud. Utterly predictable and hugely reassuring. He glanced towards the bar where Brendan was handing over money for the drinks. 'Have you asked him?'
'It's fuck all to do with him. I'm not daft anyway – I know he's only back because he can't face being at home. His mum and dad don't know he's gay and he's got nowhere else to go…'
'None of us is exactly spoilt for choice.'
'Don't go on about it, all right? You're staying. It's either you for Christmas or some old tramp from outside the soup kitchen.'
Thorne grinned. 'Wouldn't the smell bother you?'
Hendricks gleefully supplied the punch line. 'I'm sure you can clean yourself up.'
They were still laughing as Brendan arrived with the drinks, but as soon as he put the glasses down on the table, Thorne was out of his seat and pulling on his jacket.
'Listen, I'm going to get out of your way…'
Brendan held up Thorne's new pint. He looked pissed off and was about to say something, but Hendricks put a hand on his arm to stop him. He knew there was little point in arguing.
'See you later, yeah?'
Thorne said nothing. He squeezed round the table, put a hand on Brendan's shoulder. 'I'm sorry about the
