'I think he's one of those that likes to feel part of the team, you know?'
'Oh fuck…'
Norman was on his way towards the office. There was nowhere to hide.
'Hi, guys. Just stopped in to say well done for last night. More work for me… but that's the nature of the beast, I suppose. Right… I'll no doubt see you for a quick one at lunch-time, but I'd better be off. On the move a lot today, loads to do…'
He patted his shoulder bag as he turned to leave. Thorne realised that it contained a laptop computer. Norman was clearly one of those that liked to remind others just how important he was. Just how very busy. He probably used it a lot on the train.
'Tosser,' Thorne muttered as Norman closed the door behind him.
'I think DCI Lickwood said he might stick his head in later on, just to say hello and have one on our team's tab.' Brigstocke grinned at Thorne's expression. 'Thought you'd be pleased.'
'So no chance of trying to catch any murderers today, then?'
'Come on, Tom. People will be coming and going all day, and we had a good result last night. It's the first one for a while.'
Thorne didn't need reminding.
'Business as usual, of course,' Brigstocke said. 'But with a good feeling round the place for a change. A positive atmosphere. Don't you remember what it was like, last day of term?'
Thorne knew what Brigstocke meant, but it still felt wrong somehow. He walked out of the door, grumbling.
'I'll fetch the party hats…'
Then the desk got him.
Thorne swore loudly and kicked at the offending corner – the ball of screwed-up paper he'd taped to it long gone. As he rubbed his thigh, he decided that while the rest of the place was celebrating the end of term, he was going to do something useful. He shouted to no-one in particular:
'Right, get me a fucking saw…'
A couple of regulars sat up at the bar, nursing grudges and pints, moaning to the landlord and throwing dirty looks over their shoulders, but the place belonged to Serious Crime. There were a hundred or more officers and civilian staff crammed in to the back bar. Though it was officially just a lunch-time thing, Thorne was pretty sure, based on the morning, that there wasn't going to be a fat lot of work done in the afternoon.
'Fancy a drink, big boy?'
Thorne actually started slightly. Despite the noise and the crush, he'd actually drifted away for a moment, thinking about the generations either side of himself. Young boy and old men…
'Only you've been stood here with that half for twenty minutes,'
Hendricks said. 'Wishing you were somewhere else.'
'That obvious, is it?'
'I was going to say you've got a face like a smacked arse, but, looking at it, kicked arse would be a bit more accurate.'
Thorne raised his glass, took a sip and then gestured with it, pointing at nothing in particular. 'This is fucking nonsense though, isn't it?'
Hendricks shook his head, leaned on the bar. 'Don't agree, mate. We all need to let our hair down, this lot more than most. You as much as anybody…'
'A copper with a pint pot in his hand is not my idea of a good time. Christ, it's rough enough working with them.'
'Not been flattened in the rush for a matey chinwag then?'
Thorne finally smiled. 'Most of them stay away…'
'Are you having another one?' Thorne shook his head. Hendricks turned to the bar and raised his hand to attract the attention of a barmaid.
Most of them. Steve Norman had marched straight up and bent Thorne's ear for ten long minutes. Keen to impress upon him just how hard he was working. Delighted that after the depressing weeks on Nicklin and Palmer, he finally had some positive material to work with – the McMahon discovery and the hotel murders. He'd drunk two tomato juices before rushing away, as he told Thorne excitedly, to prepare a press release detailing the brilliant operation that had resulted in the arrest of Jason Alderton.
Hendricks was back at Thorne's elbow with a pint of Guinness and a disgruntled expression. 'We've got to pay for these now. How much did Brigstocke put behind the bar?'
'Two hundred and fifty. It lasted about fifteen minutes.'
The two of them said nothing for a minute or two. They stood and watched as police officers of all ranks and ages enjoyed a momentary triumph. Battered bomber jackets and fleeces with bottles of lager. Shirts with grimy collars and Christmas ties, spilling pints of bitter. Sharp suits on spritzers. Women who were harder than they looked and men who were a damn sight younger. Old stagers from the squads, a squeak away from their pensions, and West End wannabes with Audis on double yellows and dialogue from a Guy Ritchie movie. A couple of hours to pretend, to forget. Then back to it. The Met was hemorrhaging. It was losing officers at the rate of five a day. Thorne was surprised it wasn't ten times that number. He was amazed he was too stubborn, or stupid, or scared, to be one of them.
'It'll all still be there tomorrow, Tom,' Hendricks said. 'A couple of hours on the piss isn't going to make a blind bit of difference. Have a drink, catch the fucker another day…'
Thorne smiled and finished his drink, thinking: Tomorrow is another day nearer the next body. A couple of hours might make all the difference in the world.
Lunch-time was excruciating. Talking to people, and eating and smiling. Looking like he was interested in their pointless drivel. It was so hard today, when such excitement was so close. He managed it every other day of course, but that was just routine. And didn't everyone dissemble to some degree or other? Saying you're not bothered about getting the stupid job when you'd happily kill for it. Saying that you just want to be friends when actually you're already fucking somebody else. Wearing a mask. Pretending to care. On the days he killed, though, it was always like this to some extent. He remembered the tedious meeting at work on the day he'd killed the Chinese girl; the expression of concentration stuck on to his face when all he could think about was what she might look like, how it was going to feel. He could still feel Caroline's mouth against his freshly shaved cheek as she kissed him goodbye on the morning he'd paid his visit to Ken Bowles. He'd smiled and kissed her back, they'd talked about what they might have for dinner later, and all the time he could feel the wonderful weight of the bat in his bag… This one was going to be even better. This time, he was having trouble keeping himself from grabbing people and shouting into their faces. Telling them exactly what he was planning to do, how brilliantly he'd arranged everything, how superb it was going to feel. The buzz was already building. He could almost feel the mask beginning to slip. Somebody spoke to him. He said something back. He stuck something tasteless into his mouth, glanced at his watch. He needed a little time on his own. Just half an hour or so, for a coffee and a bar of chocolate. To gather himself before the adventure started.
Thorne looked up to see Holland pushing through the tables towards him. He could see by his face that Holland was having about as good a time as he was. The fact that he'd been stuck in a corner with Derek Lickwood couldn't have helped.
'Thanks for that,' Holland said, squeezing in between Thorne and Hendricks.
'Privilege of rank, Holland. I get to inform the next of kin, you have to talk to DCI Lickwood. Did he do that thing of looking over your head while he's talking to you?'
Holland smiled and shook his head. 'He's such a wanker. Kept having little digs about Palmer escaping. Asked if you'd ever worked for Group 4.'
Hendricks snorted into his Guinness. Thorne turned to him. 'Shut it.'
'He's off,' Holland said. Thorne looked across in time to see Lickwood at the door on the far side of the room. Just before stepping through it on to the street, he turned and cocked his head towards Thorne. It was a hard expression to read, but Thorne would have put good money on smug.
'I've got a good idea why he was here, though,' Holland said. 'He seemed very disappointed that DS McEvoy wasn't around. A bit confused…'
Hendricks enjoyed this sort of intrigue hugely. 'What? Lickwood has the hots for McEvoy?'
