She saw the face of Jeremy Bishop and the dark sadness that had settled around his eyes as he'd whispered to her.
'People have secrets, Anne.
They sat at a table towards the back of the room, not in total darkness but close to it. It seemed to be the way he wanted it. He'd led her to the table, avoiding the empty seats near the stage. It was probably a good idea considering that they didn't want to get picked on and she was underage.
Rachel looked around. She wasn't the only one. Actually she had had no trouble in getting away with it. The club was dimly lit and the woman on the door had barely looked up from her cashbox when the two of them had come in. She'd spent a long time on her makeup. She'd even stood beneath the lights at the bar and bought them both a drink, staring at herself in the mirror that ran along the back wall behind the optics. She looked eighteen easily. Twenty, probably.
This small comedy club below a pub in Crouch End was, he'd told her, one of his favourite places. It was a mixed audience. Nobody cared what you looked like or how old you were. It wasn't exactly the Comedy Store, but you could see some of the same comedians that you were likely to see at the bigger clubs without having to struggle into the West End.
Rachel had liked the sound of it straight away and asked him if he'd take her. He told her about another night at the same club when they did what were called try-out shows or open spots. He came to those as often as he could, if he wasn't working. A dozen or more hopefuls would get up and do a couple of minutes. None of them was any good. It was clearly just therapy for most of them, but it was riveting to watch. Like a car accident. Watching them struggle, watching them 'die', was an amazing experience, he assured her. The comedian on the tiny stage was a sneering Scotsman with red hair and a loud suit who shouted a lot and swore too much. He talked about sex in graphic detail and Rachel sat blushing in the darkness. She looked out of the corner of her eye at the man next to her so that she could laugh when he did. She didn't want to seem young, or stupid, or unsophisticated.
He was enjoying himself, she could tell. He'd seemed a little tense when he'd picked her up outside the Green Man, but now he looked more relaxed. She watched him far more than she watched what was happening on stage. He stared, engrossed, at the comedian, or at other members of the audience. He was a ferocious watcher, critical and unblinking. She loved that about him. She loved how he lived every moment to its fullest, taking everything in and savouring it. She loved his intensity, his refusal to compromise. The comedian was telling some joke about his parents and Rachel thought about her mother. Anne had been in a strange mood when she'd come home – from the policeman's place, Rachel guessed. It had definitely been him who'd phoned that morning. Probably at it all day, the pair of them.
She thought quite a lot about Thorne fucking her mother.
She thought quite a lot about fucking.
There had been a bit of an atmosphere when she'd announced that she was going out, but her mother had hardly been in a position to say anything after the way she'd changed their plans earlier.
Around her people started to applaud and she joined in. The compare was coming back on again to introduce another act. He said that there'd be an interval afterwards. She wondered if they'd go out for a meal when the show had finished; there were loads of great, restaurants within walking distance. Then they could sit in his car for a while before he drove her home.
The next comedian was a woman. She was gentler and did a really funny song about men being crap in bed to start off.
Rachel took a sip from her half of lager and smiled at him, feeling a little light-headed. He smiled back and squeezed her hand. When he'd let go she slid her arm between his back and the chair.
She was as happy as she could ever remember being. She rested her hand on his waist.., the audience laughed.., he had on a really nice linen shirt which he wore out of his trousers.., the audience groaned at a corny line.., he always wore gorgeous clothes.., the woman on stage started another song… Rachel wanted to touch his skin.., a drunk at the other side of the room started to cheer and clap.., she moved her hand under his shirt and her fingers crept round to stroke the flesh of his stomach… Then he screamed.
In that split second when everything fell apart, and he was standing up, and her drink was in her lap, and the woman on the stage was pointing at them, it seemed to Rachel that he had screamed. Christ, he had. He'd bellowed. As if he'd been scalded…
His face was a mask and she reached up to grab his arm, but he called her a stupid little bitch and grabbed for his coat and he was away, moving quickly away, pushing between the tables and knocking over empty chairs. And the woman on the stage was laughing and saying something to him as he marched out, and he turned and shouted and told her to fuck off, and people in the audience started to boo, and he looked like he wanted to hurt them.
He crashed out through the door, and she could feel the beer soaking through her thin skirt, and the eyes of everyone in the room burning into her. The door slammed shut with a bang, and the woman on the stage leaned in close to her microphone and put a hand over her eyes to stare into the lights and beyond, to where Rachel was sitting arid wishing she was 'dead.
'Bit of a domestic, love?'
A few people in the audience laughed. And Rachel began to cry.
Holland was listening to the sports round-up on Radio 5 Live for the third time in as many hours, when headlights swept across his rear-view mirror and he turned to see Jeremy Bishop pulling up outside his house.
Thorne had called at around six and Sophie was not best pleased. She'd known immediately that it was Thorne. She knew everything immediately. She'd have been pissed off at his having to go out anyway but Thorne, as far as she was concerned, represented an unhealthy future for him in the force. A future he should run from at all costs. A future without promotion, without stability, without certainty. By implication, without her.
He couldn't argue with her. Everything she said made complete sense. But they were words from beyond the grave. His father's words. Sophie was mouthing the sentiments of a man he had loved but had never admired. It was hard not to admire Tom Thorne.
He couldn't argue with Sophie, so he didn't bother. He left the house in silence and conducted the argument with her in his head as he drove to Battersea and sat waiting. In truth, he was arguing with himself as well. Thorne was clutching at straws, of course he was. Jeremy Bishop, who, Holland knew, had been at work in the Royal London hospital at the time, had dropped a ring in Maggie Byrne's bedroom as he was murdering her.
Right. Looked at rationally, these were the ravings of a man popularly thought by many of his colleagues to have gone over the edge. But there'd been something in Thorne's voice. Yes, desperation possibly, but more than that. An excitement, a zeal, a passion that had Holland reaching for his coat and wondering what he was going to say to Sophie before he'd put down the phone. He stepped out of the car and crossed the road. Bishop, who had just locked the Volvo and was about to head towards his front door, saw Holland coming. He sighed theatrically and leaned back against the car, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. Holland was ready with an apologetic shrug and all the appropriate phrases. Just a few more questions. Investigating a fresh lead. Grateful for all your help and co-operation. As he approached he could see that Bishop remembered him. He didn't care. He had his badge in his right hand with the other politely outstretched. 'Detective Constable Holland, sir.'
Bishop pushed himself away from the car and took a step towards him. 'Yes, I know. How's your girlfriend's hand?' The tone impatient, the smile saying he knew it was bollocks.
Holland was thrown, but only for a second. 'Fine.'