Then he stole the drugs. Something about Bishop stealing the Midazolam still bothered Thorne. It floated about at the back of his head, but he couldn't grasp it. Like a tune he couldn't place.
Keable got to his point. 'Despite the blather in the papers and the earnest faces at the press conferences, we've got nothing, Tom.'
Tughan looked at the floor. Was that the merest glimpse of guilt? Thorne looked back to Keable.
'I just can't understand your refusal to look at this with an open mind. There are no other suspects. So far, this operation has achieved nothing.'
Tughan wasn't having it. 'Every officer on this operation has been working his balls off, Thorne. We've done everything we should have, everything. We found a very credible. witness in Margaret Byrne-'
Thorne cut him off. 'And got her killed.'
The words struck Tughan like hot fat in his face. He marched across the room shouting, the spittle flying on to Thorne's mouth. 'Jeremy Bishop has got nothing to do with it. Nothing. While you've been in Cloud fucking Cuckoo Land we've been doing our jobs. Bishop is not a suspect. The only courtroom he's ever going to see the inside of is the one trying the lawsuit for harassment, which he'll be bringing against you.'
Thorne was out of his chair in a second. He casually took hold of Tughan's wrist and began to squeeze. The blood fled from the Irishman's face. Keable got to his feet and Thorne released his grip.. Tughan stepped quickly back towards the wall, breathing heavily.
Thorne wearily raised an arm and made a lazy, swatting motion at something unseen by anybody else in the room. He lifted his jacket from the back of the chair and slowly pulled it on murmuring, 'No other suspects, Frank…' He took a step towards the door.
Keable screamed, 'Then get me some!'
Even Tughan, rubbing his wrist in the corner, looked shocked.
Detective Chief Inspector Frank Keable was trying to look hard, but Thorne met his eyes and saw only desperation. Holland was working at a computer, unaware that anyone was behind him until he heard the voice.
'It's a nice day, isn't it? I thought I might take a bit of a trip.'
Holland didn't turn round. 'Anywhere in particular?'
'Bristol's nice.'
Holland carried on typing. 'Traffic's a nightmare on the M4 on a Friday.'
'I quite fancied the train anyway. Hour and a half each way. Get the papers, patronise the buffet…'
'Sounds good. I'll buy a copy of Loaded if you buy the tea.'
'You should probably lie about where you're going…'
Holland shut down the computer. 'I'm getting quite good at lying.'
Thorne smiled. Holland was closing the gap.
He glanced inside the newsagent and one headline in particular caught his eye. 'Champagne Charlie', it called him. A day or two after the Margaret Byrne killing the papers had got hold of the whole thin.
The multiple killings.
At first he'd been upset and angry. He was no multiple killer. But he saw that it made sense. Obviously the full story was being held back – the truth of it. He guessed that the police had only agreed to co-operate if the press left out some of the key details to avoid hoax confessions or copycats.
They needn't be worried. When he chose to get in touch again, they'd know it was him.
He was enjoying his daily dose of tabloid speculation and chest-beating. The lack of progress on this 'horrific' case was now a matter of national concern. Making the police look stupid had never been what he wanted, far from it, but the hollow-sounding assurances of assorted commissioners and commanders, in papers and at po-faced press conferences, amused him greatly.
Champagne Charlie. Unimaginative but predictable, and ironic, considering he wouldn't be using the stuff any more. With Leonie, the grab and the jab had done the job nicely. Plus the knife to the throat, of course, to ensure silence while they waited. It was all over very quickly. The champagne had always provided forty minutes or so of small-talk. He'd missed that: it had made what came later that much more interesting. But with the needle, the difference in the speed of everything was fantastic. The adrenaline had fast-tracked the drug through the girl's body so rapidly that she was in the car on the way back to his place within a few minutes of getting off the bus. He hadn't even heard her voice properly.
She'd only said the one word, whispered it really. Please…
And then he'd failed again. The distraction of the Margaret Byrne killing only a few hours earlier, was a convenient excuse but he was beginning to realise that the odds were against him. He had elected to perform a horrendously difficult procedure. He accepted that. The success rate would be small. He'd known that all along. Still, failure was deeply upsetting.
But the results when he got it right made it all worth it.
He had enjoyed killing Margaret Byrne immensely. It had been a jolt of unadulterated shame admitting that to himself, but there was little point in self-delusion. He had imagined being her. He had imagined feeling the cold blade singing on his skin. Holding his breath for the split second between that sweet song finishing and the blood beginning to flow.
It was a feeling he had once known and loved, and had almost forgotten.
The killing had none of the lingering beauty, none of the grace of his normal work. There was some skill needed, of course, but a pale, stiffening cadaver could not compare to what he had achieved with Alison. That was something truly elevated. Something unique.
All the same, the success rate was incomparable. His work was ground-breaking, of that he was certain, but he had only succeeded once and now doubts were beginning to creep into his mind and squat there like bloated black spiders. Might not the quick kill be the next best thing? Would not this euthanasia be a service in itself?. There was no bright, breathing, painless future like the one he'd given to Alison, but it was.., an ending. He tried to dismiss the idea. He could not picture himself stalking the streets with a scalpel in his pocket. That was not who he was.
He carried his newspaper-to the counter and fished around for change. A woman stood next to him. A puzzle magazine, a lottery ticket and a fistful of chocolate. She smiled at him and he remembered how important his work still was. Yes, killing her would be simple and she would be far better off, no question. But nothing worth having was ever achieved easily.
Death was something medieval. He could offer people a future.
During the short taxi ride from Temple Meads station to the hospital, Thorne and Holland had worked out their plan for talking to Dr Rebecca Bishop. Simply put, they didn't have one. Holland had rung ahead and established that she was working today, but beyond that they were making it up as they went along.
A year earlier, Bristol Royal Infirmary had been at the centre of a damaging public inquiry into an alarming number of babies and toddlers who had died during heart surgery. The resulting scandal had cast a long, dark shadow across that hospital in particular and the medical profession in general, which some believed was well deserved. Doctors could no longer be trusted to regulate themselves.
Rather like police officers.
Since he'd begun working on this case, nothing that happened in hospitals could surprise Thorne. He was becoming used to the strategies employed to get through the days by those who worked in them. All the same, the Bristol Royal Infirmary inquiry had been disturbing. There had been some shocking revelations. One ward had been known as 'the departure lounge'.
Susan, Christine, Madeleine, Helen. Thorne knew how insistent were the voices of those whose lives had been snatched away. He pitied those who still heard the screams of twenty-nine dead babies.