When Thorne arrived Hendricks was already there, nursing a cup of tea and looking somewhat less than pleased to see him. Thorne had news that he knew would cheer the miserable bugger up. He signaled to the woman behind the counter for a tea and slid into the booth, picked up a menu and started to read it. Wanting to make it sound casual.
'I think we've got him.' Hendricks looked up but without real interest. Thorne went on, 'I know we have, and as soon as we get the forensic tests done I can get a warrant and-'
'Save it, will you?'
Thorne put down the menu. What little appetite he had was vanishing rapidly.
'Well?' Thorne stared at Hendricks. The pathologist looked at his tea, carried on stirring it. 'You've obviously got something to say?'
Hendricks cleared his throat. He'd been rehearsing it.
'Did it not occur to you, even for a second, that when that slimy gobsworth in the forensics lab called up your boss to tell him that a pathologist had just happened to stroll in carrying a plastic bag with carpet fibres in it -'
'Phil, I was going to-'
'-that he might also be calling my boss as well? Did that not occur to you?'
'What happened?'
'Deep shit is what happened. Because I was stupid enough to do you a favour. And you didn't even have the courtesy to pick up the fucking phone to see what was going on.'
He'd meant to, more than once, and hadn't. 'I'm sorry, Phil, there was another killing and-'
'I know there was. I aid the PM, remember? And considering what the two of us do for a living I hardly think a body is much of a fucking excuse, do you?'
It wasn't, and Thorne knew it. Hendricks had every right to be angry, but to try to explain to him exactly what he'd been thinking.., feeling.., after Margaret Byrne's murder wouldn't have been easy.
'So what happened?'
'The wanker of a clinical director, who's been looking for an excuse anyway, 'cos I don't look like his idea of a pathologist, hauled me up in front of the chief executive and the personnel director.'
'Fuck…'
'Yeah, fuck is right. I was given a verbal warning about inappropriate behaviour and they're still talking about the fucking General Medical Council so don't try asking for any more favours, all right?'
Thorne's tea arrived and he took it gratefully, but Hendricks had no intention of letting him off the hook.
'You're completely self-obsessed, do you know that?'
Thorne tried to laugh but nothing came out. 'I'm not talking about this case, I mean all the time. You've got no fucking idea what's going on around you, have you?'
Thorne fixed a defiant smile on his face. 'Am I supposed to be answering these questions or is this a lecture?'
'I couldn't give a toss, I'm just telling you. I'm probably the nearest thing to a friend you've got and we talk about luck all.' Thorne started to speak but Hendricks cut him off. 'Football and work. That's it. Talking shop or talking shit. We play pool and eat pizza and have a joke and talk about sweet fuck all.'
Thorne decided he should fight his corner. 'Hang on a second. What about you? I spoke to you about Jan when we were splitting up, I know I did. You never confide in me about anything.'
'What would be the point?'
'You've never said a word about family, or girlfriends.'
Hendricks laughed harshly. Thorne looked at him. 'What?'
'I'm gay, you dickhead. Queer as fuck. OK?'
For reasons he couldn't quite explain, Thorne blushed deeply.
Half a minute passed. He looked up from his tea. 'Why the hell not tell me then? Worried I'd think you fancied me?'
Hendricks laughed again but neither of them was finding anything funny. 'I couldn't tell you. Not… you. Everybody else knows.'
'What? Why didn't they say something, then?'
'Not at work: Hendricks's voice was raised. Thorne stared past him, ashamed, to the woman behind the counter who smiled at nothing in particular. 'I mean everybody I care about. My family, my real friends… Christ, it's fairly obvious to most people. What do I look like, for fuck's sake? You're so… shielded. You couldn't see it because it doesn't affect you. You've got blinkers on and I'm fucking sick of it!'
Anne had slammed down the phone and smoked three cigarettes, one after the other. Now she felt nauseous as well as furious. She marched towards the coffee machine in main reception, going over and over it…
She'd called Thorne on his mobile, and although she had no idea where he was or what he was doing, it was obviously putting him in an awful mood.
Now he'd passed it on to her.
They hadn't spoken since Sunday. She'd known then that something important was happening on the case and this feeling had distilled into something else when she'd seen him on the televised press conference. Something like dread.
She could sense something coming. She could feel the chill, as if a vast shadow were beginning to creep over them. Over all of them – herself Thorne, Jeremy. She'd reached for the phone needing some reassurance, a tender word. She'd wanted to give those things to him too, knowing that he might need them.
And all she'd got was a diatribe. He'd told her, no… he'd ordered her to stay away from Jeremy Bishop. He assured her it was for her own protection, not that he really believed that she'd be in any physical danger. It was just… best. Best, he'd said. He explained how he'd tried to keep off the whole subject until now to spare her feelings and to avoid a possible conflict of interests, but now things were coming to a head so he'd decided to get everything out in the open.
Bollocks!
He'd avoided the subject until he'd got into her knickers and now he was laying down the law. She was having none of it and had told him so in no uncertain terms. The coffee machine was repeatedly rejecting a twenty pence piece. She carried on putting in the coin, picking it out and putting it in again.
Things had got pretty heated, especially when she'd heard the tell-tale sound of a can being opened. Wherever he was, he was drinking. This, bearing in mind the supposed gravity of what he was telling her – the seriousness of the situation he was trying to make her aware of annoyed her beyond belief. How fucking dare he?
Then he'd asked her if she could come over tonight. She smashed the heel of her hand against the front of the coffee machine…
It was then that she'd hung up.
Giving up on the coffee, Anne turned and walked back towards the ITU. She had a good mind to go round to Jeremy's tonight. She wouldn't, of course. She'd spend the evening at home with Rachel, if she was in, and drink too much wine and watch something mind-numbing on television, and wonder what Tom Thorne was doing.
And try to keep warm as the shadow grew larger. The last time he'd stood on this spot, his face had been hidden and his fist wrapped around the end of an iron bar. Today he had an altogether more subtle message to deliver. He'd rung several times to ensure that the flat was empty, having taken care to withhold his number. He'd smiled each time he'd punched in 141. It was, of course, a trick that Thorne must himself have been familiar with. Things could not have been going better. The excitement of the procedure, the surge he felt rushing through him, had been replaced by something else, now that he'd admitted to himself that he might never enjoy another success. A different kind of enjoyment, fuelled by a very different purpose.
The enjoyment of the game with Thorne.
The game had been a part of it all from the beginning. A vital part of it. It had gone cheek by jowl with – he smiled – his more hands-on work. It had complemented it, cast a light upon it, put it beautifully into context. And he had played the game extremely well.
As he moved towards the front door, he wondered if, secretly, Thorne was enjoying it too. He suspected he probably was. There was something in the man's eyes. He looked around casually and knocked on the door. Just a man of the world paying a visit to a friend. Nobody in? A note would do the trick…