'Whatever, I ran from that place, from this place, terrified that I had done something to Karen that day. Later, after she had disappeared, Stuart did his best to confirm it.'
Thorne looked down. He saw that Palmer's fists were clenched.
They bobbed in front of his groin, forced forwards by his elbows, pressed tightly together by the handcuffs.
'He told you that it was your fault she got into the car, didn't he?'
Palmer nodded. 'Like I'd disturbed her so much she needed to get away. He told me he would keep it secret. He told me he was protecting me. He reminded me of it, that day when he walked into the restaurant. Hinted at things.., made threats.'
'He was using you to protect himself.'
'Yes I know that now,' Palmer said, irritation creeping momentarily into his voice. He lowered his head for a second, raised it. The irritation had gone. 'I'm sorry.'
Thorne said nothing.
'Over the years I gave it all a slightly spooky twist. I thought about it all the time, and it got hammered into this bizarre shape in my head. I convinced myself that what I'd done to Karen had somehow contaminated her. Like I'd put the smell of it on her. The victim smell. Something… powerful. The perversion of it lingering around her, attracting that man in the car, drawing him to her…'
Thorne waited a few seconds, making sure the story was finished.
'What else did you want to tell me about Nicklin, Martin?'
Palmer's eyes slowly closed. His head drooped. As Thorne watched, he half expected to see Palmer's bulk begin to sink into the soggy ground, pushed into it by the force of the invisible weight that was pressing down on him.
'What else were you going to tell me?'
Thorne turned and signaled to Holland, shaking his head. It was getting dark anyway. They might as well try and beat the rush hour. Martin Palmer wasn't saying anything else for the time being. Two cars driving nose to tail from north-west London in a long diagonal down to the south-east. In the dirty blue Mondeo, three men, lost for the majority of the journey in their own thoughts. Looking for solutions. Nursing desperate ideas.
Martin Palmer. Remembering lies, considering the nature of betrayal, praying in advance for forgiveness. Dave Holland. Weighing up his options and finding each of them in their own way unpleasant, sickening. Beyond him. Tom Thorne. Running out of time and ideas. Wondering if this was to be one of the ones he'd be doomed to remember. Would Smart Nicklin's be a face he'd never see and so never be able to forget?
For each of them the answers would come sooner than they could have guessed.
'I want this sorted before we get back to Belmarsh, Martin.' Thorne spoke casually, as if resuming a conversation. They were passing through Maida Vale, down towards Paddington. Twenty minutes without a word and he'd had about enough.
'I took you to see Karen's grave. Believe me, I went to a great deal of trouble…' Brigstocke's face had been a picture. Thorne couldn't begin to imagine the rictus that must have distorted Jesmond's death mask features when the request was passed on.
'You led me to believe there was something else you wanted to say. That's what I told people. Something about Nicklin.'
Palmer sat handcuffed to Holland, unmoving.
'I want to hear it, Martin. It felt like an agreement to me.'
'Quid pro quo, Doctor Lecter,' Holland whispered.
'Right,' Thorne said. Fuck knows what it meant, but he'd seen the film. He turned and threw Palmer a look. Well?
If Palmer knew what it meant, it didn't appear to make a great deal of difference.
Five minutes later, just past Victoria Station, Thorne yanked the wheel sharply to the left and put his foot down. Behind them, the Vectra flashed its lights.
'Sir,' Holland said, 'Vauxhall Bridge, Camberwell, Peckham, New Cross. That was the agreed route…'
Thorne raised a hand, acknowledging the Vectra. He raised his voice a little to answer Holland. 'Lambeth Bridge, Elephant amp; Castle. That's the new route. I've changed it.'
'The Elephant?'
'Dropping you off home, Dave.'
Holland leaned forward looking concerned. Palmer did likewise and not just because of the handcuffs. 'I appreciate the gesture, but in terms of the amount of shit we're all likely to be in, this really isn't one of your better ideas. Sir.'
'Probably not, but there's no need for anybody to know about it, is there?'
'No, but I still think…'
'Look, we're virtually driving past your place anyway. Besides, I think Martin's come over a little shy.'
Holland looked at Palmer, looked behind to the back-up car. One of the detectives raised both his palms. What the fuck are we doing?
They drove on through Victoria, across the river and past the huge twin guns outside the Imperial War Museum. Ten minutes later they were cruising slowly up Holland's road.
'Get the handcuffs off, Dave. Unless Sophie wants an extra body for dinner. Second on the left isn't it…?'
Thorne watched, amused, as Holland slammed the door and walked back to the Vectra. The two detectives were out of the car before he got there. A couple of minutes of shrugging and headshaking later, they were back inside, waiting.
Holland came round to Thorne's window, leaned down. 'Are you sure, sir?'
'Go inside, Holland.' He nodded towards the back seat. 'Look at him. I don't think he's going to be giving me a great deal of trouble. We're just going to be chatting.., hopefully.'
Holland stepped aside as the Mondeo pulled away and sped off towards the Old Kent Road.
Inside, Thorne was playing cabbie. 'Look at this traffic, not even four o'clock and it's mental. I bet it's already snarled, up round Deptford. You've got about fifteen minutes I reckon, twenty, tops.'
Thorne checked the rearview mirror. Palmer was staring at the back of his head, breathing hard. Was what he had to say so difficult to spit out?
'A quarter of an hour until we get back to the prison, Palmer. That's all. Now fucking speak up…'
Nearly going-home time.
The place was starting to empty but he was staying behind. He had one or two things to catch up on. Above all, he wanted to sit alone for a while and enjoy his cleverness.
He never thought about what he did as being particularly clever. What he did with his knives and his hands and his friends. It was something he needed to do, it felt more instinctive than anything else. Yes, of course there was planning, more when he was maneuvering Palmer, but none of it was really difficult. It was straightforward stuff, mostly. Surviving was easy. It was making it interesting that was the tricky bit. This was clever though, no question. He wondered whether it had been lodged in his subconscious for a while, waiting to pop out, fully formed. It was so perfect. She was so perfect. She fitted the plan and the plan fitted her, so snugly that he wondered if perhaps it was her, the idea of her, the things she made him think, that had been responsible for it in the first place.
He had finally selected his guest and really, there could never have been any other.
He could not be certain of course, not yet, that she would come, or if she did, that she would do precisely as she was invited to do. Whatever happened, he was protected. That was the brilliance of the scheme. As things stood, he was quietly confident. He knew he had made a wise choice.
A wise choice. Like ordering an expensive bottle of wine in some up-its-own-arse restaurant. A wise choice if I may say so, sir… It quickly became apparent to him that he was not going to get any work done. He could concentrate on nothing but the enterprise ahead. How was he going to kill her? Where? Jesus, so much excitement ahead, so many brilliant bits of it all left to work out…
No wonder he couldn't be bothered with paperwork. That had always been his way though: scan the horizon, find the source of the new adventure and then forget everything else. Throw yourself into it, take others with you if they had the bottle to come, wring each last ounce of life out of it, every drop of juice… He'd pick up a
