'You talk to anybody; Holland said, 'and you'll be opening a major can of fucking worms.'
McEvoy looked up at him, confused. 'You think I'm the leak?'
'I can't afford to waste it, you said.' Holland snatched up the paper, screwed it into a ball. 'Shit, this is easy money, isn't it? A tip here, a photo opportunity there, that's you sorted for the week. For all I know, they probably fix you up with the coke themselves, save messing about with cash.'
'Dave…'
'Just admit it, you did, didn't you? Just fucking well admit it…'
Holland saw McEvoy's eyes flicker, saw her body tense. He turned to see Thorne standing in the doorway. There was no awkward pause, no meaningful silence. McEvoy was up and moving towards the door, wisecracking to Thorne on her way out as if nothing had happened.
'Some people around here are obviously feeling as shitty as you look…'
Then there was a silence.
Thorne closed the door, moved into the room. 'Dave, is there a problem between you and Sarah?' Holland said nothing. Thorne felt hot and hassled. He did not want any more uncertainty, any more disorder.
'DC Holland, is there a problem between yourself and Detective Sergeant McEvoy?'
Holland looked at Thorne. Later, standing at bars or staring up at a striplight, he would remember this moment. In the months and the years to come, sitting on the side of the bed in the middle of the night, Sophie stirring next to him, he would look back and picture this instant. He would recall every detail of Thorne's bruised face, every nuance of his bruising voice. He would remember, and wish to God that he'd told the truth.
Holland looked at Thorne. 'No, sir.'
Thorne let out a long slow breath and moved across to the window. He looked down, hoping to see something that might raise his spirits. Some cadets marching badly would do the trick. Better yet, a group of them forming a human pyramid, mounted on the back of two motorbikes like they used to do on those displays when he was a kid… There was just a pair of civilian staff smoking in a doorway. Thorne turned and walked back across the room. He was feeling aimless, untrusted, unnecessary. He opened the door of the office, looked out across the incident room. In the far corner he saw Norman standing over McEvoy's desk. She said something that made him laugh.
'McEvoy and Norman are getting friendly, aren't they?'
'He's probably trying to talk her into going on to the next press conference,'
Holland said. 'He's been telling her she should get some media training. Says he thinks she'd come across well on camera.'
Thorne turned back into the room. 'What about me? How camera friendly am I looking?' Holland said nothing, trying to decide how diplomatic to be. 'Does it really look bad?'
'Once the bruising's gone it'll be fine. A broken nose is quite cool actually. Women go for that sort of thing…'
'Please, God…'
'I should look on the bright side,' Holland said. 'Fact is, with all due respect, sir, you were quite an ugly fucker before.'
No picking, no sneezing. The pain told Thorne that they definitely needed to add laughing to the list.
Thorne waited until the office was quiet before making the call. His heart was pounding as he dialed, as it had each time he'd tried the number from home. A dozen times or more since getting back from the hospital. A dozen times or more, he'd got the answering machine.
He waited for the connection.
He should have told them about this, there were things they could have done – traces – but he felt instinctively that their efforts would be fruitless, that this was the right thing to do.
The phone rang.
This was the way he might make up for his mistake… Ten, twelve rings as usual, then the familiar message. 'Shit…' 'This is Tom Thorne. Leave a message or try my home number, which Then suddenly Thorne remembered the call he'd seen Steve Norman take earlier. He pictured the press officer as his phone was ringing. Looking at the screen before answering.
Caller ID…
This number, the office number, was withheld, as was his own at home. Both would show up on the screen as private numbers. The calls would go unanswered. He needed a number which was registered, which would show up and give the man who had. his phone a good idea who was calling.
Thorne opened the door, scanned the incident room, hoping that Dave Holland hadn't left yet.
Minutes later he was dialing the number again on Holland's borrowed mobile. The name would show up on his phone. He had programmed it in himself.
The phone began to ring…
Whoever was holding it would be seeing HOLLAND MOB come up on the small screen and would surely be able to guess who was calling. Would perhaps risk taking the call.
The phone was answered.
'Palmer. This is Thorne.'
Fifteen seconds. Thorne was starting to wonder if maybe it wasn't Palmer on the other end. Then that voice, the nasal tones even more pronounced over the phone. 'I'm really sorry, Mr. Thorne…'
'You broke my fucking nose…'
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.'
Thorne moved across to the window, stared out at the lights of Hendon, the cars speeding north on the M1. 'Why did you take my phone?'
'I won't be on long enough for you to trace this. I presume you're tracing this…'
'Did you take it to give yourself more time to get away, or because you knew I'd call?'
Thorne could hear Palmer breathing, considering the question. 'A little of both, probably.'
'This is so stupid you know. We'll find you. You've given yourself up once, you should do it again.'
Palmer laughed, but it sounded desperate. 'Why? Is it going to make a difference to my sentence?'
'Why should you care about that? You wanted to be locked up for life anyway. What's changed, Martin? Why are you doing this?'
'I should go…'
'Is it because of what I said about what might happen to you in prison?'
'Not really. Yes, sort of…'
Thorne looked at himself reflected in the blackness of the window, the bruises dark shadows across his face. For half a second he forgot that he was chatting to a murderer. He felt like a character in some noir-ish pop video, his mouth miming these disconnected sentences strange snippets of conversation dropped into a dark ballad about loss or the impossibility of forgiveness.
'What did you mean in the car? What did you mean about Nicklin being a policeman?'
'I didn't mean anything. I was just saying it. I needed to distract you…
'That's bollocks, Martin. You could have done anything, said anything. Why did you say that?'
'I had a feeling, that's all. It was just an impression, like he was used to people doing what he told them…'
'Wasn't he always like that?'
'I told you, it was just a feeling. Something about him that day in the restaurant. It's nothing I could put into words. I have to go now…'
'Wait. I want you to think about stopping this. Wherever you are, we'll find you. What's the point of it?'
'I really can't talk to you any more…'
'Wait a minute. I'll call again. I'll let it ring three times first, and then hang up, so you'll know it's me. Three times, Palmer. OK?'
The line was dead.
McEvoy lay on her back, holding her breath, staring up at the mirrors. Her heart was going bonkers in her chest. Her face was tingling, the gorgeous numbness spreading across her mouth and teeth, the buzz dancing its way up into her skull.
She froze as she heard a car pull up outside. Every muscle tensed, waiting for the footfall outside the door.
