much anyway but he knew that he'd never be able to hear it again without thinking about her, about her body, before and after. Her face and how it must have looked, Franklin pushing her down among the cardboard boxes… She stood with her back to him, washing up at the sink. He sat at the table and looked at the Daily Mirror. The newsprint, the soapsuds, the absurdly cheery DJ-things to look at and listen to as, separately, they both went over and over it. Remembering what had happened at the station that morning. Thinking about the police officer, pacing around the Interview Room, winking at the WPC in the corner, leaning down on the desk and shouting. He thought about the copper's face. The smile that felt like a slap.
She was thinking about the way he'd smelled.
'Right,' the officer had said. 'Let's go over it again.', and then, afterwards, he'd said it again, and again. Shaking his head indulgently when she'd finally broken down, beckoning the WPC who strolled across, pulling a tissue from the sleeve of her uniform, a minute or two, a glass of water and then they were back into it. The detective sergeant marching around the place, as if in all his years of training he'd never learned the difference between victim and criminal.
He'd done nothing, said nothing. Wanted to, but thought better of it. Instead, he'd sat and watched and listened to his wife crying and thought stupid thoughts, like why, when it was so cold, when he was buttoned up in his heaviest coat, was the bastard detective sergeant in shirtsleeves? Rings of sweat beneath both beefy arms.
Now there was a choir singing on the radio… He stood up and walked slowly towards the sink, stopping when he was within touching distance of her. He could see something stiffen around her shoulders as he drew close.
'You need to forget everything he said, OK? That sergeant. He was just going over it to get everything straight. Making sure. Doing his job. He knows it'll be worse than that on the day. He knows how hard the defence lawyer's going to be. I suppose he's just preparing us for it, you know? If we go through it now, maybe it won't be so hard in court.' He took another step and he was standing right behind her. Her head was perfectly still. He couldn't tell what she was looking at, but all the while her hands remained busy in the white plastic washing-up bowl…
'Tell you what,' he said. 'Let's just get through Christmas shall we, love?
It's not just for us after all, is it? New year soon, and then we can just keep our heads down, and get on with it, and wait for the trial. We could go away for a bit. Try and get back on an even keel maybe…'
Her voice was a whisper. He couldn't make it out.
'Say again, love.'
'That policeman's aftershave,' she said. 'I thought at first it was the same as Franklin's. I thought I was going to be sick. It was so strong…'
She began to scream the second his hand touched the back of her neck and it grew louder as she spun around, the water flying everywhere, her arm moving hard and fast, striking out instinctively, the mug in her hand smashing across his nose.
Then she screamed at what she had done and she reached out for him and they sank down on to the linoleum, which quickly grew slippery with blood and suds.
While the voices of young boys filled the kitchen, singing about holly and ivy.
FOUR
Back when the Peel Centre had been a centre for cadet training, Becke House had been a dormitory block. To Thorne it still felt utilitarian, dead. He swore, on occasion, that rounding a corner, or pushing open an office door, he could catch a whiff of sweat and homesickness.:. No surprise when, a month or so earlier, everyone on Team 3 had got very excited at news of improved facilities and extra working space. In reality, it amounted to little more than an increased stationery budget, a reconditioned coffee machine and one more airless cubbyhole which Brigstocke had immediately commandeered. There were now three offices in the narrow corridor that ran off the major incident room. Brigstocke had the new one while Thorne shared his with Yvonne Kitson. Holland and Stone were left with the smallest of the lot, negotiating rights to the wastepaper basket and arguing about who got the chair with the cushion.
Thorne hated Becke House. Actually it depressed him, sapped his energy to the point where he hadn't enough left to hate it properly. He'd heard somebody once joking about Sick Building Syndrome, but to him the place wasn't so much sick as terminally ill.
He'd spent the morning catching up. Sitting at his gunmetal-grey desk, sweating like a pig and reading every scrap of paperwork there was on the case. He read the post-mortem report, the forensic report, his own report on the visit to Derby Prison. He read Holland's notes on the search of Remfry's house, the interviews with relatives of the women Remfry had raped and the statements from some of the men he'd shared cells with in three different prisons. Inches thick already and only one promising lead. An ex-cellmate of Remfry's had mentioned a prisoner named Gribbin, who Remfry had talked about falling out with, back when the pair of them were on remand in Brixton. Gribbin had been released from prison himself only four months before Remfry and had skipped parole. There was a warrant out…
When Thorne had finished reading, he spent some time fanning his face with an empty folder. He stared at the mysterious scorch marks on the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Then he read everything again. When Yvonne Kitson came in, he looked up, dropped the notes down on to his desk arid gazed towards the open window.
'I've been thinking about jumping,' he said. 'Suicide seems like quite an attractive option, and at least I'd get a breeze on the way down. What d'you reckon?'
She laughed. 'We're only on the third floor.' Thorne shrugged.
'Where's the fan?'
'Brigstocke's got it.'
'Typical…' She sat down on a chair against the wall and reached into a large handbag. Thorne laughed when she pulled out the familiar Tupperware container.
'Wednesday, so it must be tuna,' he said.
She peeled the lid off and took out a sandwich. 'Tuna salad, actually, smartarse. My old man went a bit mad this morning and stuck a slice of lettuce on…'
Thorne leaned back in his chair, tapped a plastic ruler along its arm.
'How do you do it, Yvonne?'
She looked up, her mouth full. 'What?'
Still holding the ruler, Thorne spread his arms wide, waved them around. 'This. All of it. As well as three young kids…'
'The DCI's got kids…'
'Yeah, and he's a fucking mess like the rest of us. You seem to manage it all without breaking a sweat. Work, home, kids, dogs and your sodding lunch in a box.' He held out the ruler towards her, as if it was a microphone. 'Tell us, DI Kitson, how do you manage it?
What's your secret?'
She cleared her throat, playing along. Truth be known, they were both glad of a laugh. 'Natural talent, an old man who's a pushover and ruthless organisational skills. Plus, I never take the job home.'
Thorne blinked.
'Right, any more questions?'
Thorne shook his head, put the ruler down on his desk.
'Good. I'm going to get a cup of tea. Want one…?'
They walked along the corridor, past the other offices, towards the Major Incident Room.
'Seriously, though,' Thorne said, 'you do amaze me sometimes.' He meant it. Nobody on the team had known Yvonne Kitson for very long, but bar the odd comment from older, less efficient male colleagues, nobody had a bad word to say about her. At thirty-three, she would almost certainly have been furious about the fact that many of them, Thorne included, found her comfortingly mumsy. This was more to do with her personality and style than with her face or figure, both of which were more than attractive. Her clothes were never flashy, her ash-blond hair was always sensible. She had no sharp edges, she did her job and she never seemed to get rattled. Thorne found it easy
