'What the hell does that mean?' Holland put his finger against the screen and pressed hard, as if he was trying to push through it, rub out the words floating on the other side.
'What about McEvoy's last mail?'
Holland called it up. 'She sent two, one after the other, just before midday today…'
No idea what that means. Should I? If you want me to come, you'd better spell it out.
'Let's see the second one.' Thorne dared not hope. He already knew there was no reply from the killer, nothing that spelled anything out. Would McEvoy's final message be to cry off, to suggest they rearrange? She would have no choice, surely. She didn't know the place he was suggesting…
Going out now. Not sure when I'll be back. Need to know where to meet.
Then, two words that jumped off the screen, sent the guts shooting up towards the throat.
Text me.
Holland's body spasmed. 'Shit. He's sent a text message telling her where to meet him.'
'We don't know if he contacted her at all,' Thorne said. 'We don't know anything. She might come breezing back in here any second, off her tits with a bag full of Charlie.' Holland's look told Thorne that he didn't believe it any more than he did.
Thorne grabbed at the phone on the corner of the desk, thrust it at Holland. 'Call her mobile.'
He walked away, across to the window and stared out into the garden. The wind was coming up. He watched the overgrown grass sway slightly, and the long, rusty mirror bump gently against the fence post. Watching, hoping to hear Holland's concern translate into anger when he got through. Where the fuck are you? Hearing instead a long, frustrated breath, the crack of the phone going down, two more words he could really have done without.
'Switched off…'
Thorne turned around, walked back to the desk and picked up the phone himself. He dialed, waited, then hung up.
'Who are you calling?'
Thorne said nothing, his hand never leaving the receiver. He snatched it up again and dialed the number. He looked away from Holland, waiting for an answer…
'It's me. Tell me about the Jungle Story… never mind that, just tell me! Listen, Palmer, there isn't time for this, tell me what it is. No… forget that, just tell me where. Where was it…?'
Holland couldn't believe what he was hearing. Palmer? What the hell was Thorne playing at…? He stopped thinking about anything at all when Thorne's face changed. Even the bruises on his face seemed to grow momentarily pale. He thought that perhaps Thorne let out a long, low moan, though it might actually have come from him… Thorne hung up with his finger. Gently but quickly he passed the receiver to Holland.
'It's at the school. He's meeting her at King Edward's.'
'Where are you…?'
Thorne was on his way to the front door, his voice getting louder as he moved further away. 'Get on the phone and get it organised, right now. Tell Brigstocke I want an armed response unit. Keep trying McEvoy's mobile, or get somebody else to.'
'Sir…'
By now Thorne was shouting:
'And get a message through to the school…'
TWENTY-EIGHT
McEvoy walked into the playground in slow motion.
Stop. Just move backwards. Out of here the way you've come. Only he will ever know you bottled out. You don't have anything to prove, Sarah… It was that strange time between darkness and light, the half an hour or so that can't quite make its mind up. As McEvoy pushed herself through the air, she felt like she was wading through a sticky, viscous liquid.
Adults and children milling around. Their movements impossibly fast. Their voices ringing through her, setting her teeth on edge. The squeals of the younger children, the honking voices of those a year or two older, the shouting of teachers. A braying cacophony fighting for space in her head with the voice.
The voice was back with a vengeance.
She thought about turning round, getting away to somewhere she could do a line and shut herself up. Getting away was just what the voice was telling her to do, though, so she kept moving forward. Maybe, if she just dived inside the school, found the toilet… She couldn't do it out here, not with children around. It would only take a minute. The teachers had to have their own toilet, surely… What the fuck do you think you're doing? Think why you've come here. Worrying about where you do your next line is neither here nor there, considering.
She just kept walking. She'd decided that when she reached the far side of the huge playground she would turn around, walk slowly back again. They hadn't agreed on anywhere more specific. His text message hadn't narrowed the location down.
Silly bitch. Hard-faced bitch. Hard-faced as you like.., not going to do you any good now. What's he going to do to you?
Her bag was over her shoulder. She pulled it in close to her body. Was there anything in there she could use against him if it came to it? Run. Get out. Call Thorne…
Most of the boys smiled as they walked or ran past her on their way out. In a hurry to get home, but still polite as they had been taught to be. Deferential to adults, well-mannered, especially with ladies.
He was a pupil here, wasn't he? He isn't very well-mannered with ladies.
She raised her head and looked up at the school building on one side of her, the trees in the park high up in the distance on the other. Was he watching her from somewhere? Would there be some sort of signal? The weight of all the things she didn't know felt suddenly unmanageable. She felt stupid. Trapped and stupid. Even fifteen minutes before, she was so in control, so ready for this. Now she walked across a playground, her grip loosening with every step.
He could see that she was scared.
Probably nobody else who saw her would have spotted it. She looked like she was out for a stroll. Adjusting her route to avoid collision with a burly sixth-former, turning side-on to miss a gaggle of first-years. She looked like she was in control. He knew what to look for, though., He recognised fear. He would have seen it even if he'd been a long way away. He could see it coming off McEvoy like a heat-haze.
Her being scared was good, but it was less important than the fact that she was here. And that she'd come alone. That had been the gamble all along, and it was one he couldn't really lose. He'd been able to watch her arrive. From his vantage point he'd been able to verify absolutely that she'd done as he'd asked. If she hadn't, if at the last moment she'd double-crossed him, gone to Thorne, he'd have known it. Even if they'd sent her in as if she'd come alone, using her as bait, he'd have seen it. He'd have spotted them, however well hidden they were.
They would never have recognised him.
Even if she'd stood him up he would have coped, taken her to task over it later.
But she was here, as ready for him as she was ever going to be. He felt a surge of pure excitement that, but for these moments just before he killed, he hadn't felt since he was a child. He grinned. He could still taste the chocolate. Was that what all this was about? Getting in touch with his inner child? cu O 4 @ plygrnd: o)
The text message had been simple. The childish shorthand was proof, if she needed it, of his sense of fun. Now it was time for the real fun to start.
Driving like an idiot through Wembley Park, horn blaring, lights flashing; one eye on the dashboard clock, and a speech forming itself in his mind. The words tumbling into sentences with each busy junction, every queue at traffic lights. The speech he would 5e giving to Sarah McEvoy's parents if he was too late…
Why had the killer targeted McEvoy? How had he targeted her?
Thorne leaned on the horn, swerved inside to accelerate noisily past a Transit van. He knew he wouldn't get the answers to these questions, not yet. Not until the fucker was in a chair opposite him, shitting himself in an
