Lazybones

'Thank Christ for that,' Thorne said.

Kitson's smile got a little warmer. 'Oh, sorry. Was I starting to intimidate you?'

'Well, not me, obviously. But I think one or two of the younger ones were a bit scared.' Kitson laughed, and Thorne saw that she was still carrying her bag across one shoulder. 'Have you not even been in yet?' he asked. She shook her head, blowing out smoke from the side of her mouth. 'Bloody hell, how stressed out can you possibly be then?' Kitson raised her eyebrows, looked at him like he didn't know the' half of it.

They stood for a few seconds, looking in different directions, saying nothing. Thorne decided to make a move before they were forced to start discussing the hot weather. He put one hand on the glass doors…

'I'll see you upstairs…' he said.

'Oh shit.' Like she'd just remembered. 'Sorry to hear about the burglary…'

Thorne nodded, shrugged and pushed through the doors. He trudged up the stairs, marveling at the incredible speed and efficiency of the Met's jungle drum system.

A desk sergeant in Kentish Town, who knows a DC in Islington, who calls somebody at Colindale…

Throw a few Chinese whispers into the mix and you had a culturally diverse ensemble of rumour, gossip and bullshit that outperformed any of the systems they actually used to fight crime… It took Thorne almost five minutes to get from one side of the Incident Room to the other. Running the gauntlet of digs and wisecracks. A cup of coffee from the reconditioned machine in the corner the prize that awaited him.

'Sorry, mate…'

'You look a bit rough, sir. Sleep on the sofa?'

'Never done a crime prevention seminar, then, Tom?'

'Many happy returns…' This was Holland.

Thorne had wanted to keep it quiet. He'd deliberately said nothing in the pub the night before. He must have mentioned the date to Holland some time. 'Thanks.'

'Not a very nice present to come home to. I mean the burglary, not…'

'No. It wasn't.'

'Somebody said they took your car…'

'Is that a smirk, Holland?'

'No, sir…'

The night before. Thorne, hauling the mattress out through the front door when he remembered that he hadn't seen the Mondeo outside when he'd arrived home. He didn't recall seeing his car keys on the table as he'd come in either. He had been worrying about other things at the time…

He dropped the mattress and stepped out into the street. Maybe he'd parked the car somewhere else.

He hadn't. Fuckers…

'Birthday drink in the Oak later, then?' Holland said. Thorne stepped past him, almost within reach of the coffee machine now. He turned and spoke quietly, reaching into his pocket for change. 'Just a quiet one, all right?'

'Whatever…'

'Not like last night. Just you and Phil, maybe.'

'Fine…'

'I might ask Russell if he fancies it…' I.

'We can do it another day if you're not up for it.' '

Thorne slammed his coins into the coffee machine. 'Listen, after dealing with the fallout from our second body, and spending luck knows how long I'm going to have to spend on the phone to house insurance companies and car insurance companies and whichever council department is responsible for taking shitty mattresses away, I think I might need a drink…'

After Holland had gone, Thorne stood, sipping his coffee and staring at the large, white write-on/wipe-off board that dominated one wall of the room. Crooked lines scrawled in black felt-tip, marking out the columns and rows. Arrows leading away to addresses and phone numbers. The Actions for the day, each team member's duties allocated by the office manager. The names of those peripheral to the investigation. The names of those central to it: REMFRY, GRIBBIN, DODD…

In a column all of its own: JANE FOLEY??

And now a second name added beneath Dougie Remfry's, with plenty of empty space for more names below that one. The heading at the top of the column hadn't been altered yet. Nobody had thought to add an S to VICTIM, but they would.

Thorne heard a sniff and turned to find Sam Karim at his shoulder.

'How's the head?'

Thorne glanced at him. 'What?'

'After last night. I feel like shit warmed up…'

'I'm fine,' Thorne said.

Samir Karim was a large, gregarious Indian with a shock of thick silver hair and a broad London accent that was delivered at a hundred miles per hour. He planted half of his sizeable backside on to the edge of a desk. 'Fuck all off those tapes, by the way…'

'Which tapes?'

'CCTV tapes from the Greenwood.'

Thorne shrugged, unsurprised.

'Couple of possibles,' Karim said. 'But only from the back. The cameras only really cover the bar add the area around the desk and the lifts. You can walk in and go straight up the stairs without being seen at all, if you know where the cameras are…'

'He knew where they were,' Thorne said.

They stared at the board together for a moment or two. 'That's the difference between our team and all the others, isn't it?' Karim said.

'They have a victim. We have a list…'

There's a moment in film and TV shows, a particular shot, a cliche to signify that moment when the penny drops. For real people this means remembering where they've left their car keys, or the title of a song that's been annoying them. For the screen copper, it's usually a darker revelation. The instant that provides the break in the case. Then, when that pure and brilliant comprehension dawns, the camera zooms towards the face of the hero, crashing in quickly or sometimes creeping slowly up on them. Either way, it goes in close and it stays there, showing the light of realisation growing in the eyes…

Thorne was not an actor. There was no nod of steely determination, no enigmatic stare. He stood holding his coffee cup, his mouth gaping, like a half-wit.

A list…

The certainty hit him like a cricket ball. He felt a bead of sweat surface momentarily from every pore in his body before retreating again. Tingling; hot, then cold.

'Feeling OK, Tom?' Karim asked.

Zoom in close and hold…

Thorne didn't feel the hot coffee splashing across his wrist as he marched across the room, up the corridor and into Brigstocke's office. Brigstocke looked up, saw the expression on Thorne's face, put down his pen.

'What…?'

'I know how he finds them,' Thorne said. 'How he finds out where the rapists are…'

'How?'

'This could all be very simple. Our man might work for the prison service, or hang about in pubs around Pentonville and the Scrubs, hoping to get matey with prison officers, but I doubt it. At the end of the day, finding out where rapists are banged up isn't that hard. Families, court records… he could just go to newspaper archives and sift through the local rags if he felt like it…'

'Tom…'

Thorne stepped quickly forward, put his coffee cup down on Brigstocke's desk and began to pace around the small office. 'It's about what happens afterwards. It's about release dates and addresses. I had thought that maybe there was some connection with the families, but Welch was NFA. His family disowned him and moved away years ago.' He glanced across at Brigstocke as if he were making everything very obvious. Brigstocke nodded, still waiting. 'Release details are fluid, right? Prisoners move around, parole dates change, extra days get tagged on to sentences. The killer has to have access to up-to-date, accurate information…'

'Do I have to phone a friend?' Brigstocke said. 'Or are you going to sodding well tell me? How does he find them?'

Thorne allowed himself the tiniest flicker of a smile. 'The same way we do.'

Behind his glasses Brigstocke blinked twice, slowly. The confusion on his face became something that might have been regret. Or the anticipation of it. 'The Sex Offenders Register.'

Thorne nodded, picked up his coffee. 'Jesus, we need shooting