check. Ask for DCI Russell Brigstocke. And I'll give you my mobile number…'
'Why do I need your mobile number if you're calling me back?'
The conversation was starting to get faintly ridiculous. Thorne thought he could detect a note of amusement, perhaps even flirtation, creeping into this woman's voice. Pleasing as this was on an otherwise grim morning, he wasn't really in the mood.
'Madam, the phone I'm speaking on, the phone you've called, is located at a crime scene and I need to know why you're calling.'
He got the message across. The woman, though suddenly sounding a little panicky, did as she was asked.
'It was on my answering machine. I got here; I got into work this morning, and checked my messages. This one was the first. The man who called left the name of the hotel and the room number for delivery…'
The man who called. Was that the man on the bed, or…?
'What was the message?'
'He was placing an order. Bloody funny time to be doing it, though. That was why I was a bit.., cautious about calling. I thought it might be a joke, you know, kids messing about, but kids wouldn't give you the right address, would they?'
'Did he leave a name?'
'No, which is one of the reasons I'm calling. And to get a credit card number. I don't do cash on delivery…'
'What do you mean, bloody funny time?'
'The message was left at ten past three this morning. I bought one of those flashy machines that tells you the time, you know?'
Thorne pressed the mouthpiece to his chest, looked across at Hendricks. 'I know the time of death. A tenner says you don't get within half an hour either side…'
'Hello?'
Thorne put the phone back to his ear. 'Sorry, I was conferring with a colleague. Can I ask you to keep the tape from the machine, Miss…?'
'Eve Bloom.'
'You said something about placing an order?'
'Oh sorry, didn't I say? I'm a florist. He was ordering some flowers. That's why I was slightly freaked out, I suppose…'
'I don't understand. Freaked…?'
'Well, to be ordering what he was ordering in the middle of the night…'
'What exactly did the message say?'
'Hang on a minute…'
'No, just…'
She'd already gone. After a few seconds, Thorne heard the click of the button being hit and the noise of the tape rewinding. There was a pause and then a bang as she put the receiver down next to the machine.
'It's coming up,' she shorted.
Then a hiss as the tape began to play.
There was no discernible accent, no real emotion of any sort, in the voice. To Thorne, it sounded as if someone was trying hard to sound characterless, but there was a hint of something like amusement in the voice somewhere. In the voice of the man Thorne had to assume was responsible for the bound and bloodied corpse not three feet away from him.
The message began simply enough.
'I'd like to order a wreath…'
3 DECEMBER, 1975
He inched the Maxi forward until the bumper was almost touching the garage door before yanking up the handbrake and turning off the ignition. He reached across for his briefcase, climbed out of the car, and nudged the door shut with his backside.
Not six o'clock yet and already dark. Cold, as well. He was going to have to start putting his vest on in the mornings. As he walked towards the front door he began whistling it again, that bloody song he couldn't get out of his head. It was on the radio every minute of every day. What the hell was a 'silhouetto' anyway? Do the bloody fandango?
The thing went on for hours as well. Weren't pop songs supposed to be short? '
He shut the front door behind him and stood on the mat for a second, waiting for the smell of his dinner to hit him. He liked this moment every day, the one where he could pretend he was a character in one of those programmes on the TV. He stood and imagined that he was in the Midwest of America somewhere and not stuck in a shitty little estuary suburb. He imagined that he was a rangy executive with a perfectly presented wife who would have a pot-roast in the oven and a cocktail waiting for him. Highballs or something they called them, didn't they?
It wasn't just his little joke, it was theirs. Their silly ritual. He would shout out and she would shout back, then they would sit down and eat the frozen crispy pancakes or maybe one of those curries out of a packet with too many raisins in.
'Honey, I'm home…'
There was no reply. He couldn't smell anything. He dropped his briefcase by the hall table and walked towards the lounge. She probably hadn't had time today. Wouldn't have finished work until gone three and then she would have had shopping to do. There was only a fortnight until Christmas and there was loads of stuff still to get… The look on her face stopped him dead.
She was sitting on the settee, wearing a powder-blue housecoat. Her legs were curled underneath her. Her hair was wet.
'You all right, love?'
She said nothing. As he took a step towards her, his shoe got tangled in something and he looked down and saw the dress.
'What's this doing…?'
He flicked it up and caught it, laughing, looking for a reaction. Then, letting the length of it drop from his fingers he saw the rip, waggled his fingers through the rent in the rayon.
'Christ, what have you done to this? Bloody hell, this was fifteen quid's worth…'
She looked up suddenly and stared at him as if he was mad. Trying not to make it obvious, he began looking around for an empty bottle, making an effort to keep a smile on his face.
'Have you been to work today, love?'
She moaned softly.
'What about school? You did pick up…?'
She nodded violently, her hair tumbling damp across her face. He heard the noise then from upstairs, the crash of a toy car or a pile of bricks coming from the loft they'd turned into a playroom.
He nodded, puffed out his cheeks, relieved.
'Listen, let's get you…'
He had to stop himself taking a step back as she stood up suddenly, her eyes wide and wet, folding herself over slowly, as if she were taking a bow. He said her name then.
And his wife gathered up the hem of the powder-blue housecoat and raised it above her waist to show him the redness, the rawness and the darker blue of the bruising at the top of her legs…
TWO
Thorne lost his bet with Phil Hendricks.
He answered the phone barely four hours after they'd found We body and within a few seconds he was lobbing his half-eaten sandwich across the office, missing the bin by several feet. He chewed what was left in his
