From the Dead

'Everyone reacts differently,' Thorne said.

'Yeah, right, for sure.'

Thorne had seen sudden death affect people in more ways than he could count. He had known people laugh their way through the bad news, as though Thorne and whichever officer he had been with at the time were playing some elaborate practical joke. It took time to sink in with most people, but none he could remember were quite as calm as Pat Cook. Her denial was almost childlike, a game of pretend.

'It knocks you for six, even when you know it's coming,' Boyle said.

Thorne nodded, sensing where Boyle was going.

'Like with my Anne. I mean, for those last couple of months we were talking about it all the time… planning for it, because Annie didn't like loose ends, you know? But then, at the very end, it was still… bad.' He took another drink. 'You think you're prepared for it but you're not, that's all I'm saying. It's still like the world stops.'

'It must have been rough,' Thorne said.

'I can't tell you, mate.'

'How old was…?'

'She was forty-two.' His fingers busied themselves on the arm of the chair, picking at a loose thread, a speck of dirt, or nothing at all. 'No bloody age, is it?'

'You seem to be doing OK, though, Andy,' Thorne said. 'I'm sure she'd be proud of you.'

'She'd be bloody amazed, mate.'

'I mean it.'

Boyle drained the can and crushed it. 'You get on with it, don't you? Nothing else you can do.'

Thorne wondered how it would be for Pat Cook in the coming weeks and months. For some, it was helpful to focus all their energy into a simple hatred for whomever they deemed responsible. For others, it was easier to blame themselves.

I should never have let him go out

I should have picked her up.

If only, if only, if only…

He wondered, too, which way Andrea Keane's family would go, now the justice system had decreed that Adam Chambers should be free to walk around, to breathe fresh air and talk to anyone he liked about the young woman they had lost. At least the law had given them a target; perhaps, for some of them, that would help.

'Do you want another?' Boyle asked, brandishing the distorted can.

'I've not finished this one.'

'You don't mind if I do?'

'It's your house,' Thorne said. He watched Boyle head towards the kitchen, still thinking about Andrea Keane's parents. Hoping that what had happened in that courtroom did not slowly destroy what little was left of them.

It was probably a vain hope, he knew that.

A single murder cost many lives.

Having flown in the face of all her instincts and been extra nice to Frank, she had still not been allowed to leave the office a minute before five-thirty, so Anna had hit the rush hour full on. It had taken almost an hour and a half to drive the eight miles from Victoria to her parents' place in Wimbledon. Plenty of time to ask herself why she was bothering.

And to build up her courage.

Even so, having pulled up outside the house, she needed another five minutes before she felt ready to go inside. She sat in the car and stared at what had once been her home: a four-bedroom house with a decent garden and views over the common, no more than a ten-minute walk from the All England Club.

'That'll all be yours one day,' her friend Rob had said.

'I think I've been written out of the will,' Anna had said.

Neither of them had really been joking.

Now, her father turned from the fridge and carried the milk across to where Anna was sitting at the kitchen table.

'Must be some weird, primal thing,' Anna said. 'Every time I come back here I get this urge to eat cereal.'

Her father smiled. 'I always make sure I've got some in.'

'Thanks.'

'I only ever have a slice of toast, and your mum…'

'Right, I know. If she was having Rice Krispies, it wouldn't be milk she'd be pouring over them.' Anna glanced up and saw the look on her father's face. 'Stupid joke. Sorry…'

She started eating.

'She'll be glad you've come, you know.'

'What?'

'I told her you were coming over and she will ask me all about it later, when you've gone.'

'When she's sober.'

'She'll ask me what we talked about.'

'If I said anything about her, you mean.'

Her father searched for the words but gave up and turned away. He picked up a cloth that was draped over the sink and began wiping the work surfaces. Anna watched him, thinking: This nonsense is making him older. It's ridiculous…

Robert Carpenter was still a year or two the right side of sixty, and until recently had worked full time at one of the city's largest accounting firms. But he had been going into the office less and less since his wife had begun drinking heavily again, and Anna knew that his firm's tolerance would last only so long. She felt guilty about it every day, although she knew very well that it was not her fault.

'She does talk about you, you know.'

Anna dropped her spoon and sat back hard in her chair. She saw that her father was startled, but she was too irritated with him to care a great deal. 'You've really got to stop doing that.'

'Doing what?'

'Talking about her in those ridiculous hushed tones, like she's the mad woman in the attic or something.'

'I didn't realise I was.'

'She hasn't lost her marbles… yet. She's just a stupid, stubborn old cow.'

'Don't get all worked up-'

'A stubborn, pissed old cow.'

'Please stop shouting.'

'I don't care if she hears me. She's probably listening anyway, if she's still conscious, that is.'

Her father turned back to his cleaning, but gave up after half a minute or so. He tossed the cloth into the sink and sat down opposite Anna.

'Sorry,' she said.

'It's fine.' He was wearing a smart shirt tucked into jeans, as though, Anna thought, he could not quite allow himself to relax. Or afford to.

'How's she doing?'

'A little better, I think. We had a couple of days up in the Lakes last week. A nice hotel. She really seemed to enjoy it.'

'Did she stay sober?'

A half-smile. 'More or less.'

'Is she taking all her tablets?'

'I think so, but I can't watch her all the time, you know?'

'I know.' Anna leaned across and patted her father's arm. 'And you can't blame yourself if she pours half a bottle of vodka down her neck while you're busy trying to make a living. To have a life.'

He watched her eat for a while. She had almost finished. 'You mustn't blame yourself, either… for any of this. It's not your fault.'

Anna tried to answer too quickly, dribbled milk down her chin. They both laughed and she had another go. 'It feels like it sometimes.'

'You were an excuse, that's all,' he said. 'The excuse she was waiting for. It's what addicts do.'

Anna looked at him.

'I got a couple of books on it. It's always better if they can make out that somebody's driven them to the drink or whatever it is. It's easier to hate somebody else rather than yourself.'

'You think she hates me?'

'No, course not, that came out wrong…'

Anna nodded and took the last couple of mouthfuls. 'She's not going to come down, is she?'

'I can go and ask again,' her father said. 'Try and persuade her.'

'She shouldn't need persuading, for God's sake, I'm her daughter.' She leaned back, the chair tipping on to two legs. 'And I'm happy, do you know that?'

'I know,' he said. 'And whatever's going on inside your mum's head, however bad all this gets, I'm pleased it's working out for you.'

'Well, I wouldn't go that far. I can barely pay my rent.'

'Do you need some-?'

'God, no, I just meant… I'm still learning the ropes, that's all. But this case I'm working on now is brilliant. The people are interesting, and fun. Back at the bank… Well, you know.'