over with, Palmer? You're not someone who escapes. You're not even someone who runs. You're just a luck-up, you're just weak.'
There was a pause long enough for Thorne to get up and move through to the bedroom. He lay down on the bed. Then Palmer spoke again.
'I know…'
'So what do you think you're doing?'
'I'm not sure.'
He wasn't the only one. Thorne stared up at the ceiling and asked himself why an escaped killer was the only person he could think of ringing at half past midnight. There was no need to answer the question of course – it was bollocks. He was tired and thinking all sorts of strange shit. Holland wouldn't have minded, he was probably still up anyway. Hendricks as well. He could have called Hendricks…
'Is there any news on Smart?' Palmer asked.
'Worried he might find you before we do, Martin?'
'No… just, you know, any news?'
Thorne grunted. 'Only if you've got some.'
'Sorry… I don't know anything about him.'
'Except that he might be a policeman.'
'I did say, before, that it was just a feeling. It was nothing I can back up with anything. I've never lied to you, Inspector Thorne.'
'I'm supposed to be impressed with that, am I? Supposed to think that counts for something?'
'I never said that.'
'You've stabbed one young woman, strangled another…'
'But deep down you're pretty honest!'
'I'm sorry if I don't fit into a convenient pigeonhole for you.'
'Bollocks… shut up. That's crap.'
Thorne could hear the distant rhythms of an argument from somewhere down the street. A man and a woman. He couldn't tell if they were getting closer or moving further away.
'You aren't the only one who would like to know,' Palmer said.
'What I am.'
'Don't make any mistake about this, Palmer, I know what you are…
'I'm sorry if I got you into any trouble…'
'And stop fucking apologising. It's pathetic.'
Thorne needed more of his painkillers. He took a deep breath and swung his legs off the bed, the undigested chicken rising up his throat.
'Inspector Thorne…?'
He stood and walked slowly across to the wardrobe. He kicked open the door, stared at himself in the full- length mirror on the back of it.
'Jesus Christ…' He hadn't meant to say it out loud.
'Inspector Thorne…?'
The swollen distorted face looked back at him and reminded him of what he was supposed to be. It asked him, politely but firmly, what the fuck he thought he was doing.
'Are you all right, Inspector Thorne?'
Then the explosion of rage. The one that ran in the family.
'Don't talk to me. Not like that, do you understand? Not are you all right? Not sorry…'
'Talk to me like a murderer.'
TWENTY-SIX
Thorne arrived at work feeling hollow, certain that little would happen during the day that could fill the empty space. The sleep following his conversation with Martin Palmer had been surprisingly deep – a welcome side effect of the painkillers. This time, the animal had worked longer and harder at the space beneath the door. Digging down, forcing its snout into the gap. This time, behind the door, Karen McMahon had not been there to take Charlie Garner's hand.
The day ahead would, Thorne knew, be almost surreal considering the state of the case.
The hunt for Palmer was going nowhere.
The hunt for Nicklin was going backwards.
Thorne and the team would probably spend the day celebrating… A bottle or two and a backslap or three to put the lid on last night's result at the hotel. A session of whistling in the dark that would only be interrupted – right after lunch, according to his Regulation 7 notice by Thorne's initial meeting with officers from the DPS. A day when nothing was going to happen. A day when everything was going to be settled…
Tom Thorne was not the only one arriving at work, and in the head of the man who used to be Smart Nicklin, a clock was ticking. Thorne's assessment of how the day would pan out was pretty much bang on. The only thing he hadn't foreseen was quite how early the party was going to start. The word had gone out: a bit of a drink at lunchtime to toast a job well done. Morale, however, was not exactly through the roof anywhere in Serious Crime. Not among Team 3, not among team that had taken over the hotel killings, nowhere. A couple of pints in the pub at lunch-time would certainly be welcomed, but there was always going to be a need to push the boat out a little further than that. The first bottle of scotch had appeared before the morning cups of tea and coffee were finished.
Thorne and Brigstocke watched from their office as paper cups were filled and the stories that had filtered back about the events the previous night were exaggerated and passed around.
'It's a bit early isn't it?' Thorne asked.
Brigstocke raised his eyebrows theatrically. 'Bugger me, are you feeling all right, Tom? Maybe that smack in the face did more damage than we realised.'
Thorne said nothing. Looking out, he noticed that Holland was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't joining in the celebrations. Brigstocke shrugged. 'I think we need this to tell you the truth. As long as it stays controlled, it's no problem. As long as nobody's too shit-faced when Jesmond pops over to bask in his bit of reflected glory…'
The volume of noise from the incident room dropped. It was clear which bit of the hotel story was being repeated.
'I spoke to McEvoy first thing this morning,' Brigstocke said.
'How did she sound?'
'Half-asleep. Embarrassed about what happened. Said she was fine to come in, but I've told her to leave it until the end of the week. What do you think?'
Thorne nodded; that sounded about right. 'She's got some personal stuff to sort out.'
'With Holland?'
Thorne wasn't surprised that Brigstocke had noticed something he always had a good handle on the relationships between the members of his team. 'Holland says not,' Thorne said.
'It's not the end of the world. Shift one of them across to Belgravia or the West End…'
'Make it McEvoy.'
'Problems?'
'No, not really.' Not really. Nothing beyond a loyalty to Dave Holland, and a slight unease about Sarah McEvoy. Nothing he could even name, beyond a vague suspicion he had no intention of voicing.
'Anyway,' Brigstocke said, 'if Holland says not…'
'Right.'
'Hello… your best mate's here.'
Thorne watched as Steve Norman strolled into the incident room, a slim leather bag slung across one shoulder. He greeted the officers like old friends and held up a hand to gently turn down the offer of a drink.
'What's he doing here? Doesn't he have his own office?'
