Feeling like a kid, answering the question quietly, the sarcasm sounding childish and petulant as he spoke. “Yes. I know that much.. .”
“You know all sorts of things. All sorts. You know who the killer really is, for a kickoff.”
Thorne stared. His father’s face was expressionless. “You’ve got worse since you died.”
“You know his name, son.”
“Tell me…”
“Hold your horses. Let’s have some fun with it.”
Thorne saw where it was going. “Oh, please God, no. Not a fucking quiz.”
“Don’t be so boring. Right, list all the people who it might be.” He leaned over and tapped at the side of his son’s head. “You’ve got all the names up there.”
“I’m tired,” Thorne said.
“Come on, I’ll give you the first couple to start…”
Thorne listened as his father gave him the first name, paused, and then gave him a second. Thorne was impatient. He couldn’t help asking, though he knew his father would say nothing until he was good and ready. “Is either of those the man behind the camera? Is one of them the killer, Dad?”
The old man smiled, enjoying his secret. He began to list more names, and with each one Thorne felt himself drifting further toward sleep…
Then back toward consciousness. And by the time he’d woken up, thickheaded and shivering, Thorne couldn’t remember a single name.
THIRTY
There was nothing like a grisly death or two for putting things into perspective.
Holland sat at his computer, logged on, and cast an eye across the daily bulletin. Each morning he did the same thing: scanning the reports on serious crimes that had come in overnight. It was useful to see what other teams were doing of course; to get a sneak preview at what might be coming his own team’s way. And to get a graphic reminder-good and early in the day-that, all things considered, life could be a hell of a lot worse…
Sometimes, if it had been a slow night, there was little to get excited about. But usually there was something: a body more often than not, or a missing person who would soon become a body. Something to take Dave Holland’s mind off the fact that he was putting on a bit of weight, or to push some imagined slight to the back of his mind, or to make him forget about the row he’d had with Sophie the night before.
Saturday morning’s bulletin was usually the best, or worst, of the week. Depending on whether you wanted to be seriously distracted or were just interested in keeping your breakfast down.
It had been a vintage Friday night…
A man, age and ethnicity impossible to determine: hog-tied and barbecued in the back of a burned-out Nissan Micra in Walthamstow Forest.
Two teenage boys, one white, one Asian: the first killed, the second fighting for his life in a hospital after a stabbing outside a club in Wood Green.
A woman, thirty-four: found at home by her boyfriend after gaffer-taping a twelve-inch Sabatier carving knife to the edge of a table, and pushing her neck against it.
Two murders, perhaps three; possibly even four. The Homicide Assessment Team would already have signed the Walthamstow killing over to an MIT. They would be waiting to see if the boy carved up in Wood Green recovered. They would certainly be taking a good, long look at the man whose girlfriend had supposedly killed herself so inventively
…
DS Samir Karim walked past Holland’s desk and held up a coffee. “Ready to get going as soon as I’ve got this down me…”
Holland nodded. He went back to the computer, pulled up the list of visits he’d been allocated to make later that morning, and printed them out. While he waited for hard copy to appear he looked at the details. He studied the names, addresses, and comments attached; aware all the time of those other details, still there in the bulletin window, inactive and partially hidden on the screen.
While some had spent their Friday night busy with gaffer tape, washing blood from their hands or disposing of petrol cans, others had been safe at home in front of the television, disgusted and entertained by Crimewatch ’s crime-lite version of such events, before picking up the phone-four hundred and twelve of them-to do their bit. ..
“How come we never get any of the overnighters?” Andy Stone was pulling on his jacket and moving toward him.
Holland thought that Stone had good reason to be pissed off. Obviously, a great many of the calls that had come in after the program had been made from outside London, so while those in the office liaised with the relevant local forces, members of the team had been dispatched bright and early. Officers were already on their way to Exeter, Aberdeen, Birmingham, and half a dozen other cities. Such interviews were coveted, and with good reason. Holland was one of those who would not have said no to a night away from home; getting a little time to himself and giving his expenses a hammering in the restaurant of a decent hotel.
“Luck of the draw, mate,” he said.
“Couldn’t you have swung something with the DCI?”
Holland thought that he probably could have. He wondered why, in spite of fancying the time away, he hadn’t even bothered to try. Chances are, Sophie would have offered to pack for him…
“So who are you heading out with?”
“I’ve got Mackillop,” Stone said. He brandished a piece of paper with his own list of names and addresses. “Me and Wonderbollocks are off to waste our time in Hounslow, Lewisham, Finchley. All the glamour locations…”
“We’ve got to check out every possible sighting,
Andy.”
“I know,” Stone said. “I’m kidding. Yourself?” Holland pointed across to Karim, who waved back and dropped what was left of his coffee into a wastepaper bin. “Me and Sam are going slightly more upmarket.”
“Eales hiding out in Mayfair, is he?”
“Well, we’ve got a woman reckons she’s seen him walking a dog on Hampstead High Street.” “Why are so many of these calls always from women?” Stone asked before wandering away. Holland thought it was likely to be something to do with women being more observant, and more likely to respond to appeals for help. More inclined, when it came down to it, to get off their arses and make an effort. They wouldn’t even have Eales’s name if it hadn’t been for that female assistant adjutant going the extra yard.
Seeing Karim heading over, looking ready for the off, Holland began gathering his things together. He guessed that he would be spending much of his day thinking about Lieutenant Sarah Cheshire, and nights away in posh hotels.
“I’ve put him in one of the rooms upstairs,” Maxwell said.
Thorne nodded. “I’ll follow you…”
Maxwell had collared Thorne in the cafe, explained that Lawrence Healey had found Spike passed out on the steps when he’d arrived to open up. “Not that unusual,” Maxwell said as he led Thorne toward the offices. “Their sense of time gets totally screwed. Sometimes they turn up in the middle of the night expecting to get breakfast and just nod off.”
They walked up the winding stone staircase. Thorne stared at the face of the boy on a drugawareness poster; the blackness of the mouth inside the smile. He could see that the resilience he’d described to Hendricks was only as temporary as the high.
“Healey actually thought Spike had OD’d,” Maxwell continued. “He spent twenty minutes walking him around, slapping some life into him.” Maxwell grinned. “Got a decent slap back for his trouble.”
“Sounds like Spike.”
“Looking at the state of him, though, I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time…”
They arrived at a door marked private. counseling in session. Maxwell knocked and pushed it open. “I’ll leave you to it. Give me a shout when you’re done.”
“Thanks, Bren.”
Maxwell took a step away, then turned, smiling. “Oh, I couldn’t get much sense out of Phil this morning. He had a bit of a headache for some strange reason. But he did manage to tell me about the two of us going out on a double date with you and Dave. Sounds like fun.. .”