Martin Palmer. He stood no more than a few feet from them, his head bowed, the hand that held the gun twitching spastically.
'What the fuck are you doing, Palmer?' Thorne said. Palmer looked up. His eyes seemed huge behind his glasses. The gun was smacking against his leg. 'I'm sorry.'
Behind Palmer, McEvoy cried out. Th0rne couldn't make out whether it was pain or anger.
'Sorry?' Thorne shouted. 'Fucking sorry…?'
'You're full of surprises, Martin,' Cookson said. 'I tell you to shoot someone, you throw a wobbly and run to the police…'
Palmer shook his head. 'Shut up, Stuart…'
Cookson didn't even draw breath. 'Then up you pop out of the blue, and fuck me if you don't put a bullet in one of them.'
Palmer raised the gun and pointed it at Cookson's chest. 'I told you to shut up.'
'Not deliberately, of course. I think we know who the bullets were meant for.' He nodded his head towards McEvoy. 'She was just a lucky accident.'
Thorne looked at Cookson, no more than two paces away, and promised himself that whatever else happened, he was going to hurt him.
A noise came up from Palmer's throat, a low growl which erupted out of his mouth as a roar. His knuckles were white against the grip of the gun, his finger twitching against the trigger. He nodded once, twice. Those little nods. Urging himself to do it, telling himself to shoot. Cookson looked unconcerned. 'I always had to get you riled up, didn't I?' he said. 'Do you remember? There was a small window of opportunity if I was going to get you to do something, because you never held it together for very long. So, what's got you so excited now? Specifically?' He asked the question casually, as if checking some trivial fact. 'Was it Karen?'
Palmer swallowed hard. He brought his left hand up to steady the gun.
'Yes, of course it was.' Cookson smiled. 'Was is right, isn't it, Martin? You've lost it already. You want to kill me, but whatever made you brave enough to actually try has vanished, hasn't it? Run out of you like watery shit. Now you're just scared again…'
Thorne looked at McEvoy. She was getting harder to make out clearly. The clouds were lower now, and blacker. The light was dirty, diffuse. The whole scene seemed lit by a thousand dusty, forty-watt light bulbs.
He had to make a move. 'I need to get to my officer,' he said. Palmer didn't appear to be listening. Thorne took a step forwards, and in a second the gun was leveled at him.
'No!' Palmer shouted.
Thorne was genuinely surprised. 'What are you playing at, Martin?'
Palmer said nothing. He looked lost. Lost, confused, and with a gun pointing at Thorne's belly.
Thorne tried to keep his voice low and even. 'There are armed officers watching us right now. They're slightly better at this than you are. Do you understand, Martin?'
Palmer nodded slowly.
Thorne knew damn well that there was nobody watching them – not yet. If the Armed Response team had been there, then Palmer would not be standing and pointing a gun. He would almost certainly be dead by now.
'Throw the gun away and let me get across to my sergeant. Martin…?'
A light came on to Thorne's right. His eyes flicked across and he saw that there were children at the windows of the gymnasium, watching.
The sleet started to get a little heavier.
'Martin?' Thorne said.
Cookson shrugged. 'It's a toughy, Mart…'
Thorne's head whipped round and he spat gobbets of spittle and hatred into Cookson's face. 'Shut your fucking stupid cunt's mouth. I will kill you, is that clear? I'm not afraid, certainly not of you. I don't care what happens. He can shoot the pair of us, I don't give a fuck. But if I hear so much as a breath coming out of you before this is finished, a single poisonous whisper, I'll rip your face off with my bare hands. I'll take it clean off, Nicklin. I'll make you another nice, new identity…'
Cookson's face was blank. He was very still. Thorne thought he'd shaken him, but he couldn't be sure whether the stillness was that of the prey that seeks to protect itself, or the predator that is-conserving its energy, preparing to strike.
Palmer spoke and the thought was gone.
'I'm sorry about your officer.' His voice was lower than usual, certainly calmer than it had been a few minutes before. 'I need to tell you something,' he said. 'I got the gun from a man in a pub. The first gun I mean.' He pointed with the gun to Cookson. 'He knows, he can tell you. It's a pub in Kilburn, I'm sure you could find it…'
Thorne stared at him. What the hell was he on about? 'We don't have to do this now, Martin…'
'I got this gun from the same man. I followed him from the pub. He's got a lock-up garage in Neasden, near the railway works, just across from the tube station.'
Thorne was confused, but his mind raced, made connections. Neasden, four or five stops from where they were on the tube. Fifteen minutes, no more. Palmer, easily able to get here quicker than he had. 'Martin, this isn't important…'
'Please, you have to listen. I took the gun, and there was a great deal of cash…'
Cookson snorted. 'He'll fucking kill you.'
'He's dead.' Cookson's eyes widened. Palmer's looked like they were ready to bulge out of his head as he craned his neck towards Thorne. 'He was a bad man, though, so maybe I did a good thing. I had no choice anyway.' He glanced at the gun in his hand. 'I needed.., this. I needed somewhere to stay for a while. I stayed in the garage. With the body. It was starting to really smell in there…'
Palmer blinked slowly, his eyes closing almost, but not for quite long enough for Thorne to think about lunging…
'We can sort all this out later, Martin. There'll be loads of time. Just get rid of the gun. You must get rid of it…'
Palmer lowered his arm.
'That's good, Martin, but you have to drop it. Let it go.'
Palmer shook his head. Thorne sensed movement away to his right, and turned his head to see the children in the gym being led away from the windows. One by one the faces disappeared. Thorne blinked. The last face pressed up against the window, eyes wide and full of doubt, belonged to Charlie Garner… There was other movement, indistinct and fleeting, somewhere above and to the right of him. Finally, Thorne knew that back-up had arrived. Positions were being taken up, targets identified, sights fixed. A momentary glance told him that Cookson had seen it too.
'I don't want you to be afraid,' Palmer said suddenly. Thorne looked away from the rooftop. As he brought his gaze back round to Palmer, he checked out Cookson, who was standing stock still, arms by his sides, eyes narrowed.
Palmer's expression was bizarrely earnest. 'Really. You don't have to be afraid.'
'Guns make me afraid, Martin. Throw it away.'
'You know fear has a taste, don't you? It's actually the taste of your adrenal gland. That's what you can taste, that's the flavour of it…'
Thorne saw Palmer's fingers moving. He watched, afraid to breathe, as the finger moved away from the trigger.
Should he move now? Go for the gun…?
'It's a very strange taste. Like chewing on a bit of tinfoil. That suggestion of metal in your mouth. It's actually the chemical that's in adrenaline…'
Palmer slipped his finger out of the trigger guard. Rested it against the outside. Safe.
He needed to do it now. He wasn't sure he'd seen McEvoy move for a while…
'It's called adrenochrome. Did you know that?'
Thorne shook his head. He didn't know the name, but he knew the taste very well.
As Palmer screamed and raised his arm, Thorne saw what was happening. As Palmer leveled the gun at
