playing the opening bars of 'Abide With Me' badly. As Thorne stood, he caught the eye of the headmaster who had just returned to his place, his tribute to Ken Bowles paid. Thorne opened his mouth to sing and realised that he hadn't heard a word of what had been said.
Later, outside the church, people watched the coffin being loaded into the back of the hearse. With McEvoy away somewhere reapplying make-up, Thorne was joined by Malcolm Jay and Derek Lickwood. They both lit cigarettes hungrily and the three of them stood around, not knowing what to do with their hands and trying not to look too much like police officers.
'Inspector Thorne…?'
Thorne turned at the familiar voice and found himself face to face with a smiling Andrew Cookson, the teacher who'd shown him around the school. The teacher who, two weeks earlier, Thorne had mistakenly assumed to have been the body they had today come to bury.
'Here mob-handed then?' Cookson said, laughing.
Thorne nodded and turned to his colleagues. They had obviously not been doing a great job of blending in. 'DS Jay, DCI Lickwood…'
'Andrew Cookson. I worked with Ken.'
While handshakes were exchanged, Thorne looked at the man who was hovering at Cookson's shoulder. His head was completely bald and spotted with brown patches. He leaned on a walking stick and stared at something in the distance, his lower jaw moving constantly, as if he were chewing something everlasting.
He turned his head suddenly, looked at Thorne. 'Thank you for coming.'
'I'm sorry about your son,' Thorne said.
Cookson stepped back and took the old man by the elbow. 'This is Leslie Bowles, Ken's father.'
Thorne saw Jay and Lickwood exchange an uneasy glance. Before they had a chance to mumble an awkward response, the old man spoke.
'Very kind of Andrew here, to look after me…
'Don't be silly,' Cookson said.
'Doesn't know me from Adam.'
'I knew Ken…'
'Not as well as some.'
Cookson shrugged and shook his head. Bowles took a slight step towards Thorne and the others. 'It's supposed to stop isn't it?' he said.
'Everybody says it switches around when you get old and they have to look after you. The parent becomes the child…' He sounded well educated. The voice was surprisingly strong and deep. Thorne knew that the old man was a lot tougher than he looked. 'It's nonsense though, it really is. Even when they're cooking for you and getting your shopping in, you know? Even when they're doing up the buttons on your pajamas and pretending to listen to your stupid stories, even…' His eyes twinkled and he lowered his voice conspiratorially. '… Even when they're wiping your arse, you're still the father-' His voice faltered suddenly. He swallowed, took a breath and continued, the sentences now shorter, the words spoken between gulps of air. 'It never stops, never. You're still the father and he's still the son. Still the son…' He turned his head away from them. His jaw began its chewing movement again.
'Dad. They're ready…' Leslie Bowles's daughter appeared behind him. Thorne watched them move slowly away towards the line of cars, and saw McEvoy pass them on the narrow gravel path, walking towards him.
'He's amazing,' Cookson said, looking towards the old man. 'He must be pushing ninety.'
McEvoy arrived. She nodded to Lickwood and Jay, stepped in close to Thorne. 'Lippy re-applied. All's right with the world. What's happening?'
Thorne caught a look from Cookson and made the introduction.
'Andrew Cookson, he teaches at King Edward's. This is Detective Sergeant McEvoy…'
McEvoy and Cookson shook hands. 'I was wrong,' Cookson said.
'You don't all look alike.'
'Oh, you've noticed that, then?' McEvoy said, smiling sarcastically.
'And you're a teacher, are you?'
The cars were rolling sedately away from the church. The mourners began to drift after them, putting up umbrellas as a light rain began to fall. Thorne was pleased. He was still damp anyway from tramping about on the railway embankment and his feet were freezing, but he thought that, all things considered, it should rain at a man's funeral. There should be flurries of black umbrellas and rain hammering down on to the lid of the coffin, and a mysterious woman who nobody can identify, weeping.., and a dirty great shitload of alcohol. Maybe he was just thinking about his own funeral…
'Come on,' Thorne said, and he and the others began to move towards where the cars were parked. It was three or four miles to the cemetery. Graveyard of course, never crematorium. Always burial, in case the body should ever need to be exhumed and looked at again. 'I mean what about afterwards? The actual searching. The digging: He remembered what he'd been doing that morning, thought about the dogs again. Barking, howling, pawing at the ground, sniffing out the stench of something long-dead below the Coke cans and the fag ends and the weeds.
The rain was really starting to come down by the time they reached the cars. Thorne and McEvoy climbed into the Mondeo. He started the engine, remembered that he still hadn't got the heater fixed, flicked on the squeaky wipers. He pulled the car out on to the main road and followed the line of bigger, blacker cars up ahead. I got Ken Bowles killed.
And Thorne knew that he had-that he would always be sorry for it, that he would catch the man who had done the killing. He knew that standing at the graveside, he would feel his guilt, hot and heavy inside him, curling round his innards and settling down to sleep fitfully in his gut. He also knew that as he watched the coffin going down into its grave, he would be thinking about Charlie Garner's mother Carol, in hers. About Katie Choi and Miriam Vincent in theirs. As they lowered Ken Bowles down, he would be thinking about Karen McMahon, in a grave as yet unknown and never tended.
A grave a good deal shallower.
He sat there shaking. Across the table from him, Caroline was crying, and in truth he wasn't far away from it himself… She had cooked pasta. They'd been sitting and talking about their respective days, neither of which had been particularly easy, and suddenly, she'd brought up the subject of kids again. It surfaced every few months, and for him, it was usually just a question of making the right noises. He'd nod and smile, and point out how far she could still go career-wise. He'd question whether now might be exactly the right time and squeeze her hand, and assure her that yes, of course he wanted children too, but that they needed to be sure. They needed to decide together… Tonight he'd been unable to conjure up even that piss-easy piece of flannel.
His mind was racing, as it was every second of the day. There was so much to consider, so many avenues to explore. He was still searching for the idea that would excite him, that would fire his imagination. He knew what he had to do, but he had yet to succeed in visualising it. The big idea. The concept that would replace the short- lived adventure with Palmer.
Caroline was talking about croches and maternity leave… It would involve creating a new scenario. A new backdrop to the act itself, which after all was the easy bit, the unsophisticated part. He had toyed with juicing up the killing. He'd visualised new and interesting ways of doing it, but it ended up like the script to an old Hammer movie, with Vincent Price knocking off people who'd upset him in the manner of Egyptian plagues or Shakespearean tragedies. No, he needed to mould the context, to shape his environment in a way that would stimulate and spark, that would challenge and charge him.
Above all, he needed to keep moving forward. Never still and never back.
This was what should be occupying him, but there was anger in the way. He couldn't think creatively while that was clouding his thoughts, preventing any real focus.
He was furious that they were looking for Karen. Caroline leaned across the table and took his hand. Would there be a better time than this? Their jobs were secure, there was enough money coming in. It wouldn't be plain sailing, of course not, there was bound to be a period of adjustment, but they could make it work… He'd watched Thorne and Palmer down by the railway line. Thorne cajoling, suggesting, Palmer looking forlorn in his handcuffs. He'd watched them strolling along the embankment like a pair of old poofs with a taste for S amp; M. What the fuck did Thorne think he was going to gain, even if he did find her?
