him, Th0rne saw exactly what he was trying to do.
He saw everything, far, far too late.
The bullet from the marksman's rifle had ripped through Palmer's throat before any of them had even heard the shot. Palmer dropped to his knees with an odd slowness, but then pitched forward fast on to his face. Thorne thought, or perhaps imagined, that he could hear nose, cheekbones and glasses shattering as the face hit the ground.
Thorne went down quickly, put his hands on the gun that was lying a foot or so away from Palmer's corpse. He looked across towards McEvoy, hoping…
'Congratulations on being alive, Thorne.' Cookson smiled, slowly raising his hands into the air. 'Being alive is the easy bit though, isn't it?'
From somewhere behind them, a distorted voice boomed through a loudspeaker. Cookson took a step towards it, his arms high and straight. 'It's feeling alive, that's the hard part…'
In one smooth movement, Thorne stood up and whipped his arm round hard, smashing the butt of the gun across Cookson's mouth. He could feel the lips burst. He saw the teeth shatter and split the gums an instant before the hand moved to stop the gush of blood. Thorne heard the thump of feet behind him. He turned to see officers pouring in through the gate, and Dave Holland sprinting across the playground towards Sarah McEvoy's body.
THIRTY
The pitch was frozen. A lot of mistimed tackles, flare-ups, silly mistakes. All the game needed was a dubious penalty and a sending-off, and Thorne would feel that this month's subscription to Sky had been justified.
He wondered whether his dad would be watching, shouting at the screen as if he were still on the terraces. His dad who had taken him to his first Spurs game over thirty years before, back in the days of Martin Chivers and Alan Gilzean. Thorne wondered how much longer his old man would be able to watch, able to follow the game.
The call had been typical of him. He'd dealt with the situation in a predictable way.
'Remember the joke I told you about the bloke who goes to the doctors?'
Thorne laughed. There had been plenty. 'Which one?'
'The doctor says to him, 'Bad news I'm afraid. You've got cancer and Alzheimer's disease…''
Thorne felt something tighten. 'Dad…'
'So the bloke looks at the doctor…' The voice on the phone, starting to waver a little. 'He looks at the doctor and says, 'well, at least I haven't got cancer.''
'What are you on about, Dad?'
There was a long pause before the old man repeated the punch line, said what he'd called to say.
'At least I haven't got cancer, Tom:
Then Thorne had understood what it was his father did have. The hiss of a ring-pull brought Thorne out of it, and he turned to look at Hendricks. He was stretched out as usual, shoes off, feet up on the sofa.
'You said something interesting once,' Thorne said.
'Only once?'
'You said you thought the smell of formaldehyde put people off. You don't reckon your feet might have anything to do with it?'
'Piss off,' Hendricks said.
Things were pretty much back to normal.
Nearly a month since Thorne had walked away from the playground at King Edward's. Watching the stretchers sliding into ambulances. The arms of teachers wrapped around crying children. The look on Dave Holland's face…
Nearly a month since he'd walked back up that long drive, wondering idly what might have happened to his car.
How long it would take to scrub blood off asphalt… Palmer had known exactly what he was doing, when he'd pointed that gun. Thorne should have seen it coming earlier – when Palmer had been so keen to tell him where the gun had come from. A last attempt at a good gesture, before the most desperate one of all. Was suicide, which is what it was, the act of a coward or a brave man? Thorne thought, in the end, that Palmer had done what he did, not out of self-disgust, but simply because he knew, emotionally at least, that he would never survive prison.
The school's former Head of English, on the other hand, was made of sterner stuff. Of far stranger stuff.
Andrew Cookson would do very nicely. While the true-crime cash ins were being scribbled, he would carve out a niche for himself in Belmarsh or Broadmoor. Number one nutter in the nick. Fear was all important in prison. In a place where getting through a day unscathed was hard enough, robbers and rapists would probably scare just as easily as Martin Palmer had done.
Palmer, scared stiff all his life, whose one act of anything like bravery had gone so tragically wrong.
The words of the speech, the platitudes that had rattled around in his head that day, were close enough to those that were needed. To those that were eventually used.
'All of those who worked with her, of whatever rank, will miss her dedication and good humour…'
The faces of Lionel and Rebecca McEvoy had joined those of Robert and Mary Enright, Rosemary Vincent and Leslie Bowles. The flaking portraits of those that had lived to bury their children. Leslie Bowles had put it simplest, and best. It never stops. Never.
'By the way,' Hendricks said. 'If Brendan rings, I'm not here…'
Thorne turned and stared at the scruffy article sprawled on the sofa, at the open and expectant face of the man who had performed the post-mortem on Sarah McEvoy.
Who afterwards had somehow managed to misplace the toxicology report.
'Oi… I'm not here. If he rings. Is that OK?'
'I see another piercing coming,' Thorne said. 'What's happened now?'
Hendricks swung his feet on to the floor and sat up. 'You remember when I thought he was freaked out by the job, yeah? Well, it turns out he actually quite likes it.'
'So?'
'So, now I'm the one that's a bit freaked out…'
'You're never happy.'
Then what about you?'
Thorne stood and strolled towards the kitchen to get a couple more beers. 'I'm fine.'
Hendricks leaned back grinning, his hands behind his head. 'Yeah, well, so you should be. Fantastic mate like me, beer, Spurs one-nil up away from home. It doesn't get much better than this really, does it?'
With his back to him, Hendricks had no way of knowing if Thorne was smiling as he spoke.
'Christ, I sincerely hope so…'
EPILOGUE
23, Dyer Close
Kings Heath
Birmingham
B14 3EX
West Midlands
28 February 2002
Dear Inspector Thorne,
