SEVENTEEN
This time, Thorne wasn't even allowed at the meeting… There are dozens of pubs in London with what can only be described as a less than salubrious past. Places where strong drink and acts of violence have come together, often infamously, to create moments of history.
The Ten Bells in Spitalfields, which used to be called The Jack the Ripper. Where the man himself is thought to have drunk, where several of his victims plied their trade, where, over a hundred years after five local prostitutes were butchered in three months, you could buy Jack the Ripper books, mugs and baseball caps and, most bizarre of all, you could watch strippers a couple of lunchtimes a week.
The Blind Beggar in Bethnal Green, where, if people are to be believed, at least a hundred thousand East Londoners saw Ronnie Kray shoot George Cornell, allegedly for calling him a 'big fat poof'. And the Magdala Tavern in Hampstead, where Ruth Ellis put five bullets into the pointless prick of a man who told her he loved her, three months before she became the last woman in Great Britain to go to the gallows. The Magdala Tavern, where Tom Thorne was sitting, early on a Monday evening, nursing a pint, waiting to hear what his sentence would be.
It was a pub he was fond of anyway; somewhere to pop into after spending an hour tramping across the Heath and marveling at the stupidity of grown men wanting to spend their free time flying kites. The beer was good, the landlord was amiable enough and the food was passable. It was the dark history of the place though, its associations, that drew Thorne, that engaged him. He could never resist putting a finger into those bullet holes that still cratered the tiling on the wall outside. It made him feel connected somehow. He would inevitably turn then, and imagine her.
Always in black and white.
The bleached hair, the pale, powdered skin fight against those perfect cheekbones, her long nails scraping against the heavy Smith amp; Wesson revolver. Twenty-eight years old and nowhere left to go. Fingers in the bullet-holes – as spiritual moments go, it was hardly thrusting a hand into Christ's wounds, but fuck it, when you've had a few of a lifetime…
Easter Sunday, 10 April, 1955. A moment of madness, of judgment, on a Hampstead pavement: the first step on a journey to the long drop in the execution chamber at Holloway Prison. Forty-seven years later, nearly half a century after they hanged Ruth Ellis, and life for those who kill for pleasure didn't always mean life. Now, Thorne sat and waited for DCI Russell Brigstocke, wondering just how fight they were going to fie the noose around his neck. Staring into his glass and looking at a few highlights of the past few days. The pre-sentence proceedings.
The early hours of Thursday morning: gazing down at bits of a teacher's brain on the carpet, Jesmond making his grand entrance, his face set in a reasonable facsimile of horror and grim determination. The smile that the Detective Superintendent had saved just for him. 'I think it might be best if you took things easy for a couple of days…'
'Best for who?'
Thursday evening: Hendricks ringing with the results of the postmortem. As usual, nothing of any real use, but a reference finally explained. 'The tiny wooden splinters embedded in what was left of Bowles's skull. They were willow.'
'A cricket bat…'
'Right. Night Watchman. Ha, fucking ha…'
Friday afternoon: His father. 'Oh… I didn't think you'd be there. I was going to leave a message on your machine… I need a bit of info. By body count, who were the three greatest killers in British history?'
'Greatest? Jesus, dad…'
'It'll be a trick question see, to wind up some of the lads down the Legion. I ask them for the greatest killers. They say Christie or whoever, and I tell them the greatest killers were actually bubonic plague or smallpox or what have you. See?'
'Right…'
'But I need the names. I reckon Shipman's got to be first hasn't he…?'
Saturday morning: Holland with an update. 'Nobody knows what the hell's going on to be honest. There's one or two new faces around, but everything's all over the place. There's a meeting on Monday, the DCI, Jesmond, you know…'
'Right, thanks. McEvoy OK?'
'How the fuck should I know?'
Thorne looked up to see Brigstocke walking quickly towards him. He downed the rest of his pint. What had Holland been so tetchy about anyway?
Brigstocke slid in next to him, leaned in close. The quiff had looked better. His breath smelled of the cheap cigars he was so fond of.
'You owe me a drink. You owe me lots of drinks.'
Fighting the urge to punch the air like a goal scorer, Thorne nodded, made his way to the bar and bought them both a couple of pints each. Halfway through the second, Brigstocke gave Thorne the headlines.
'You're still on the case. Just.' '
'Why do I get the feeling that's the only bit of good news?'
'Depends how you look at it. People are very pissed off.'
'I assume you're including Ken Bowles's family?'
Brigstocke struck a match, held it to the end of one of his cheap cigars. 'I'll ignore that, but strictly as a mate, shut your silly mouth, Tom.'
'Sorry, Russ.' Thorne was. He knew that Brigstocke had stuck his neck out for him. He would try to remember it. 'So, what's next?'
'Damage limitation.' Thorne opened his mouth, remembered, shut it again. 'The case proceeds as normal,' Brigstocke said slowly.
'Emphasis on normal. No more fucking about. We work crime scenes, we make enquiries, we gather evidence. It proceeds, as in procedure.' 'What about Palmer?'
'Martin Palmer was taken into custody and charged with the murder of Ruth Murray this morning. Highbury Corner Magistrate's Court this afternoon. Belmarsh or Brixton by teatime. By the numbers, Tom.'
Thorne had no argument. There simply wasn't one. Nicklin had killed Bowles as a warning. He must have. He knew that Thorne and Holland had gone to the school and that they could only have been led there by Palmer. There was no point in any further pretence. Having said that…
'Why did he send the e-mail to Palmer, when he knew we had him?'
Thorne asked this question of Brigstocke, as they had all asked it of each other, as he had asked it of himself a hundred times in the last few days. The reply he got was pretty much the best that anybody could come up with.
'He's playing some kind of game. Dicking us about.'
'Dicking me about. It was me that went to the school. Me he must have been watching…'
Brigstocke leaned forward to flick ash into a vast plastic ashtray. He shook his head. 'He's a clever sod, that's all. He wants us to be doing this, to be asking these questions.'
Thorne shrugged, picked up his pint, looked at it. He couldn't help feeling that in killing Ken Bowles, somebody he had spoken to, Nicklin had been sending him some sort of message. He wasn't sure whether thinking this was ego or instinct. He'd confused the two before.
He emptied his glass, put it down. He didn't know whether he wanted to stay at that table and swallow down beer until he couldn't feel anything any more, or rush home and shut the door tight. 'Are they giving Palmer to the press?'
'That's still being decided. Jesmond and a few higher up are in with the press office. It would be a good move in some ways, you know killer in custody, get a few old dears worked up, ready for a bit of banging on vans outside the Bailey come the trial. Do us all a bit of good, so soon after…' He left an appropriate pause which Thorne filled in his head. .. I got Ken Bowles killed.
'It's hard, without admitting we fucked up.'
Thorne scoffed. 'Thanks for the we: 'Don't blame yourself for Bowles, Tom.'
