Annie Nicklin picked up an empty teacup, looked at it, put it down again. 'There was a letter once, from London.'
'Do you still have it?'
She turned her head slowly round to look at them and smiled, though she was clearly in some pain. 'I never opened it.'
'Did you not want to know where he was?' Thorne asked. He couldn't be sure whether she was choosing to ignore him or the question. Either way, she wasn't answering.
McEvoy moved on. 'He left in September 1985, is that right?'
The old woman nodded.
'Just like that? Out of the blue?'
'I wasn't.., hugely surprised.'
Thorne thought: or bothered…
'This was a month or so after the disappearance of Karen McMahon?' Mrs. Nicklin licked her lips, stared ahead. McEvoy tried again. 'When Stuart left, that would have been about a month after…?'
With a small moan, Mrs. Nicklin reached for the stick that was propped against her chair and, grunting with the effort, she pointed with it to a bottle of pills on top of the television. Thorne stood up and fetched the bottle. 'These?' He opened the bottle. 'How many? Just one?' Mrs. Nicklin nodded and he handed her a tablet. There was a glass of water on the tray attached to her chair and he passed it to her. She swallowed. Thorne sat down again. Pills for Annie's body which was giving up the ghost. Still sharp up top though. Sharp enough to understand everything. To decide when might be a good moment to take a tablet in order to avoid a question she didn't want to answer…
'Was he upset about Karen? Was that why he left?' McEvoy was craning her head round, trying to make eye contact. 'How much was he seeing of Martin Palmer before he left?' Somewhere, the dog was still crying, and now, Annie Nicklin was avoiding McEvoy's questions as well.
Thorne pushed himself up, stepped in front of her. She began to click her tongue and tried to move her head. Thorne stood solid, between the old woman and the television that wasn't on. The gentleness had gone from Thorne's voice. 'Tell me about Karen, Mrs. Nicklin.' There was a low moan from deep in her throat but that was as communicative as she was getting. Thorne leaned down close to her, very little patience left. 'Tell me about Karen McMahon.'
The case had begun to ring a bell when Palmer had first mentioned the name. Thorne remembered it of course, but not well – a missing girl, a nationwide search – the details were vague. When he found out the date he realised why. The summer of 1985. He had been… absorbed by a case of his own at the time. Johnny Boy. Francis John Calvert, a killer of gay men, who felt that the police were getting too close. So close that he had had no choice… The nightmare a young DC called Thorne had walked into…
'Tell me about Karen.'
He could see the pale, paper-thin flesh around her jaw constrict across the wasted muscle as she gritted her false teeth. With what little movement was left in her clawed fingers, she grasped at the blanket across her lap, pulling it close to her.
'Tell us and we'll go, Annie,' McEvoy said.
'She got into a car.' She spoke slowly and with emphasis, as if explaining something terribly complicated. Just to make sure Thorne understood, she said it again. 'She got into a car.'
'When she was with Smart?'
'After. A bit after that. She was ahead of him and the car pulled up.'
'The blue Vauxhall Cavalier…'
She stared down at her blanket, clutched at it. 'You know all this.'
Thorne shook his head. She looked away. 'Smart must have been very upset. He saw it all happen, didn't he?'
She turned back to him quickly. 'Yes. He was upset. He never stopped crying afterwards. Smart saw everything. He saw her get into the car. He saw the man who was driving it. He told the police what the man who was driving the car looked like, you can check.'
'He told the police? Or he told you and then you told the police?'
'Both, both.' She rot-rotted and one liver-spotted hand began to rap lightly on the arm of her chair.
McEvoy was on her feet now, standing directly behind Annie Nicklin's chair. 'This man, the man that Stuart saw, did he grab Karen? Did he get out of the car? Force her?' McEvoy might just as well have been talking to herself. She stared at Thorne across the white hair of Annie Nicklin's bowed head. She shrugged. Enough?
Despite what Thorne had said to McEvoy in the car on the way over, he had an urge to shout at this old woman, to bully her. He raised his voice only slightly, but as soon as he began to speak, Annie Nicklin raised her head. She met his gaze for the first time, and held it.
'Did Smart have any idea why? If this man didn't force her, did Smart have any idea why Karen McMahon got into his car? Did he tell you that, Annie?'
Thorne could feel his hard stare being returned with interest. Then, as if the movement was painful, she dragged her eyes away from his and down towards the floor, one hand clasping the blanket for dear life and the other reaching for the walking stick. It was only after a few seconds that Thorne became aware of what was happening and glanced down. The knocking of the stick against his shin was almost imperceptible. The impact of the rubber tip against the bone was feeble, but the impulse behind the movement was anything but. Annie Nicklin was poking and prodding, trying to push him away, to poke and push him away. Jabbing and pushing at him… In time with the jerky movements of her withered arm and knotted stick, she spoke. Her voice was clear and high, and the tone of it took on a strange sing-song quality as she spoke the same five words over and over again.
'She got into a car…'
Urging the Mondeo back towards Hendon, along the bizarrely named Honeypot Lane, Thorne pictured a girl in a white dress – he had no idea what Karen McMahon had really been wearing, but it had been a summer's day – pulling open the door of a blue car, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear and climbing in.
At the edge of the picture stood a boy called Stuart Nicklin, blurry, with his head slightly bowed, but with those dark eyes taking in every detail. Absent, but very much there, like a phantom image or a double exposure, was a man named Martin Palmer, still utterly fucked up nearly twenty years later.
There was something wrong with the picture…
'So, nature or nurture?' McEvoy said, as they got near to Becke House.
Thorne smiled. 'I'm saying nothing.'
'A lot like the old woman then…'
Thorne had to agree. 'I've known armed robbers, rapists… I've interviewed axe murderers who gave it up easier.' McEvoy laughed, but Thorne was being deadly serious. 'If Nicklin's got a fraction of that determination, or that.., cunning, we're in trouble.'
'What about Palmer's parents?'
Thorne shook his head. There was really no need, and besides, they would know what was happening soon enough. One phone call from Palmer, a day or two after he'd given himself up, had established how Nicklin had tracked him down. 'Oh yes, a nice boy you were at school with called, trying to get hold of you… didn't leave his name.., wanted it to be a surprise, I think.' Beyond that, there was nothing useful to be had out of them. Eventually, it would just be about giving them the bad news.
He was intrigued, but also a little relieved that Annie Nicklin had shown no interest in news of any sort about her son or his whereabouts. That would have been decidedly tricky.
'Oh yes, he's turned up… But…'
At the Peel Centre, they pulled up to the security barrier and Thorne fished around for his ID. McEvoy leaned across him and showed hers to the officer on duty. After a moment, the barrier lifted and Thorne nudged the car towards the parking bays.
'Got plans this evening?' Thorne asked.
McEvoy turned away and stared out of the window. There were a dozen or so recruits working with dogs on the far side of the compound.
'Not really. Early night, I think. You?'
'Myself and Mr. Philip Hendricks have a hot date with Sky Sports and a Chinese takeaway.'
