beer…'
'Tomorrow for lunch, then?' Hendricks asked. Thorne nodded, but knew instantly that his friend could tell he didn't mean it. He took the hand from Brendan's shoulder and held it out towards Hendricks. 'Have a good one, Phil.'
Hendricks stood, took the hand and pulled Thorne into a slightly awkward hug.
'You too. Now, fuck off…'
So, Thorne did.
TWELVE
A DC answered the door and Thorne held up his warrant card. If the officer, who was ginger, pudgy and only an inch or so above minimum height, could smell the beer on Thorne's breath, his face wasn't letting it show. It showed only the same blank truculence that Thorne had seen on the faces of the two moppets in the car outside. Parents coming.., the cottage.., the kid's first Christmas…
'I'll not be long.' Thorne nodded back over his shoulder towards the chair in the hallway. The officer stepped outside and sat down, muttering and disgruntled. Thorne shut the front door behind him. He probably had smelt the booze. It didn't matter. Thorne noticed a copy of the Sun on the table just inside the door. He opened the door and offered it to the constable who took it with a grunt. Fuck you, Thorne thought, pulling the door shut again. He turned and walked through into the living room. Palmer stepped out of the kitchen carrying a mug of tea. He had evidently not heard the knock on the door and started slightly when he saw Thorne. They looked at one another for a few seconds. Then Palmer spoke, his voice deep and slightly nasal. 'Has something…?' Thorne shook his head.
Palmer held up his mug, the steam fogging his glasses for a second or two. 'Can I get you one?'
Thorne said nothing, walked across to where the computer sat on a small desk near the window. It was logged on to a server twenty-four hours a day. The second Nicklin got in touch, they'd know about it. Thorne stared at the screensaver – a series of multicoloured clocks which swam about, bouncing all over the screen, buzzing and ticking, chiming on the hour. He leaned forwards and moved the mouse so that the clocks disappeared. He pulled the chair away from the desk, turned it round so that it faced into the room and sat down. He hadn't taken his jacket off.
'What d'you do? Surf the Net? Chat? Play Scrabble on it?'
Palmer sat straight-backed on the sofa. He held his mug of tea in two hands against his chest. 'Yes. The Net. Sometimes.'
'And…?'
'Well, with a police officer in constant attendance, I'm hardly likely to spend the hours of darkness trawling through porn sites, am I?'
'But if you were on your own?' Thorne asked, quickly. Palmer stared down into his tea. 'I see. What would a filthy degenerate seek out? Well, I'd be looking for something perverse, almost certainly. You know, sick.' He looked up and across at Thorne. His head was tipped slightly back, his nose wrinkling slightly to stop his glasses sliding off. 'Bodies perhaps. Autopsy photographs, they're out there if you know where to look.' He started to talk faster, his voice getting louder, his breathing harsh and faintly wheezy; the best impression he could do, he could give, of excitement. 'Perhaps even a video or two, with sound if at all possible to pick up the noise.., the howl of the buzz saw. You know the sort of thing, danger and dissection, the usual saucy mix for the pathetic, the sexually dysfunctional-'
'Stop.'
Palmer had. Thorne silently admonished himself. He should never have got into this. At best, it was prurient. At worst, it smacked of the kind of cheap psychology that was also to be found on the bits of paper which would spill from crackers round lunch tables the following day. He glanced across at Palmer who clutched his tea and stared straight ahead. Thorne couldn't quite read the expression. Sad? No, disappointed.
The screensaver had kicked in again, and the growing silence was now broken only by a series of distant, electronic ticks.
'I might go out tomorrow,' Palmer said suddenly. He turned to look at Thorne, his upper body leaning forward, his face now keen and animated.
'Just for a walk, get a bit of air. Going a bit bonkers in here…'
Thorne snorted. Palmer started to nod thoughtfully even though it was strangely comic. 'I know, I'd better get used to it. Won't be many creature comforts when all this is over. Actually…'
He stood up quickly. Reflexively. Thorne did the same. Palmer looked over at him, nervous. 'I've got some cans of beer in the kitchen.'
He took a step forwards, then stopped. 'Have one. You could have one.'
Thorne nodded without thinking and Palmer was away towards the kitchen. 'It's bitter, I think. Is that all right?' Thorne said nothing, sat back down again.
He looked around the room. As usual, there was nothing out of place. The layout was simple, the furnishings modern and functional. The first time Thorne had walked into the place, he'd been reminded of somewhere, and then after a few minutes had shivered slightly as he'd realized that the flat was like his own. A few more books and plants maybe, an absence of family photos or souvenirs. Little evidence of a life lived with much enthusiasm. There was nothing homely…
Through the open kitchen door, Thorne could see Palmer moving around, hear him getting glasses from a cupboard and rinsing them out. He was a big man; a man that lumbered and loomed and yet he was oddly graceful. Considering his height and weight, he had very small hands and feet, and looked on occasion as if he must surely tumble forwards on to his pale, fleshy face. These were observations Thorne had made in the beginning when they'd spent many hours going over it all. Getting the story. Then they'd spent days and days planning, working out how they could make it work; giving Palmer a last taste of freedom so that Nicklin might.., might show his hand. All those hours in overheated interview rooms and yet they had never talked, not really. Thorne thought about this now, as he sat in Palmer's living room, not with any sense of regret – he had no desire to get to know this man – it was just interesting, that was all, considering where they were. And still he had that lingering sense that Palmer was holding something back. Saving something up…
Palmer returned with two glasses of beer, an odd look of pride on his face, as if he were delivering the heads of a pair of conquered enemies. Thorne took the glass that was offered and placed it on the floor by the side of his chair. Palmer stayed standing, staring out of the window and nodding slightly. He smiled. 'Quite lucky, actually. All these police officers everywhere, especially the one outside the door.., at least I haven't been bothered by carol singers.'
Thorne stared up at him. Palmer was wearing baggy grey tracksuit bottoms, blue moccasin-style slippers and an orange hooded top. The clothes looked cheap, not a natural fibre anywhere. And not for the first time, Thorne wondered what Palmer spent his money on. He had a good job, but his car wasn't flashy and there were no signs of extravagance.
'Where does all the money go?'
Palmer moved across to the sofa and sat down. He looked across at Thorne, squinting at him, as if trying to grasp every nuance of meaning in the question.
Thorne tried again. 'What do you spend money on?'
Palmer shook his head, shrugged. 'I save it.'
'Holidays?'
'I save it. It's all in the building society. I send some home occasionally, well I did, but my parents don't like taking it, so now I just buy them things. You know, when they need them. I bought them a new boiler a couple of months ago.' He nodded again, a series of small nods, like he gave all the time. As if he was agreeing with himself, trying to confirm something.
Thorne thought again about that first meeting, when he had spoken and shouted about a disease called bereavement and Palmer had first spoken about Nicklin. Later, he'd been taken to have his head wound stitched – Jacqui Kaye had done a fair amount of damage with that shoe – and when he'd returned he'd talked more, and
