The question hung, unanswered. Tanner looked at her feet, the awkward silence cut short by the conversation of colleagues walking past the door, laughter fading as they moved away down the corridor.
‘She killed herself, Russell.’ Thorne said it as though Brigstocke did not already know, as though it might change everything, when he was almost sure that it would not. He did not have a lot else left.
‘Yeah, it’s horrible.’ Brigstocke leaned across the desk. ‘But aside from the fraud—’
‘Because of him. Because of what he did and how that made her feel. He took everything she had; he humiliated her.’ Thorne glanced at Tanner. She was nodding, casting her own doubts aside to provide the support she’d promised. ‘He as good as pushed her under that train.’
‘I think that’s stretching it a bit.’
‘I don’t agree.’
‘Actually, it’s stretching it a lot, and “as good as” doesn’t cut much ice in court.’
Thorne wheeled around, took a few seconds to swallow down some seriously industrial language, then turned slowly back to the DCI. ‘They prosecuted a case in Birmingham a few months back. Another one up north at the end of last year.’
‘Newcastle,’ Tanner said.
‘Right. Two morons from these suicide chat rooms, and both got sent down for encouraging others who went on to kill themselves. Goading them, telling them which were the most efficient methods or whatever, daring them to do it.’
‘Right,’ Brigstocke said. ‘But as far as we know, this man wasn’t doing any of those things.’
‘I talked to a woman I know in the CPS.’
‘Oh, did you?’
Thorne raised a hand to ward off the dressing-down he could rightly sense coming. ‘It was just over a drink, all right? Nothing official. Anyway, she reckons that if we can catch him, there might be a case for looking at what Patrick Jennings did in a different way. She says we’d need to prove premeditation, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Different how?’
‘So, not just as a fraud, but as a campaign of carefully planned out and systematic psychological abuse. We get a couple of friendly experts in court to testify that the abuse played a significant role in Philippa Goodwin’s decision to kill herself and … we’re in with a chance.’
‘A chance of what? Whatever the CPS conjure up, it won’t be murder.’
‘No. Manslaughter, maybe? I don’t know …’ Thorne turned to Tanner again, but did not like the look on her face, so turned away. ‘This woman I was talking to was getting pretty fired up about it, though.’
Now Brigstocke was wearing another expression Thorne knew very well. Annoyance, exhaustion and something – happily – like resignation. He sighed and said, ‘What is it you’re after?’
‘For now, just a forensic team to go over Philippa Goodwin’s flat, that’s all. Jennings will have been pretty good at making himself invisible, wiping away all the official traces, but there’s not a fat lot he’ll have been able to do about prints and DNA. We’ll see if that takes us anywhere.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘No harm done. Like you said, we give the fraud team everything we’ve got and let them get on with it.’ Thorne waited. ‘Look, we’ve not got too much on the books at the moment—’
‘At the moment.’
‘… and it goes without saying, if we catch something big, that takes priority.’
‘Which we will,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Or maybe you’re too busy hobnobbing with our friends from the Crown Prosecution Service to read the murder figures.’
‘I prefer something with a happy ending,’ Thorne said. ‘A nice romance or what have you.’ There were more voices, right outside the office door. ‘So, what about this forensic team, then?’
The DCI made no effort whatsoever to disguise his own pithy but industrial language; muttered, but still audible above the conversation outside.
Thorne knew Brigstocke well enough to take it as a yes.
Back in the incident room, Tanner said, ‘So, who’s this woman from the CPS?’
‘Didn’t I mention her?’
‘No.’
‘Probably because I made her up,’ Thorne said.
‘For God’s sake.’
‘I was thinking on my feet. Well, actually, I thought about it in bed last night, but you know what I mean.’
‘Right.’ Tanner folded her arms. ‘So, if, by some miracle, this actually comes to anything, what happens when Brigstocke asks you to liaise with your imaginary lady friend from the CPS?’
‘I’ll tell him she was fired or retired. Or dead.’ Thorne shrugged. ‘I’ll think of something.’ He was smiling, but it quickly became clear that Tanner was not impressed. ‘Come on, Nic, it’ll be fine.’
Tanner turned and walked away and Thorne took a few halfhearted steps after her, before giving up. From a desk nearby, Dipak Chall caught his eye, having witnessed the exchange. Thorne shook his head.
Move along, nothing to see.
He would catch up with her later.
When Thorne had first met DI Nicola Tanner, she had been just about as Job-pissed as any officer he’d ever encountered. It felt as if she’d written the book she set such store in working by and would no more have dreamed about pulling the wool over a senior officer’s eyes than she would of taking a bribe or having sex with someone in possession of a penis.
Now though, they had been working together for the best part of a year, and things were a little different. Sometimes, Thorne liked to believe that Tanner’s rather more laissez-faire attitude when it came to procedure was down to him; that he had been a bad influence for the better. On occasion she would even suggest it herself, but both of them knew it was simply a convenient explanation.
More palatable than the truth.
The killing of Tanner’s partner, Susan, had changed her in ways Thorne had only fully come to understand at the climax of a case seven months before. A gore-spattered crime scene and an incident rarely spoken about since, but one which had bound them together for good or ill.
Lies and illegality, blood, which charged every moment between them and which had made Nicola Tanner a little more willing than she might otherwise have been to do Tom Thorne favours.
Thorne had sensed her doubts about this particular favour back in Brigstocke’s office, even as she was doing as he’d asked and playing her part to perfection. The sensible one, the officer the bosses could have faith in. The truth was that Thorne had been thinking on his feet and was no more convinced than Tanner that they could ever put Patrick Jennings away for anything other than his financial misdemeanours.
He knew that he wanted to catch him, though.
He walked back towards his office, thinking about that body-bag, sagging as it was lifted from the tracks, and Mary Fulton plucking nervously at the chain around her neck.
Not that it was an accident, of course …
Yes, catching him would be enough.
He wanted to be there when Patrick Jennings, or whoever he really was, got sent down. To watch, then wave goodbye as the man he truly believed to be responsible for Philippa Goodwin’s death was escorted from the dock, to disappear from view for as long as possible.
Now, that was Thorne’s idea of ghosting.
SEVEN
Margate
It isn’t a seaside town she’s been to before and Michelle’s first thought is that, even if it smells every bit as fishy, it’s nothing like the places she remembers visiting as a kid. A fancy art gallery and a tarted-up amusement park. A decent smattering of trendy types. You don’t have to look too hard though, for the grubby arcades, the burger joints and the shops stuffed with cheap and tacky souvenirs, and it doesn’t take long to find a crowded bar knocking out jugs of Sex On The Beach or Porn Star Martinis for less than a tenner a pop.
She doesn’t think that any of it will take long.
She’s smoking on the pavement, her head bobbing to the awful music from insid
e, when the boy pushes out through the crowd in the doorway and lights a cigarette of his own. They exchange a nod as he swigs from a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. She tosses her butt into the gutter, waits half a minute, then steps across.
‘You got another one of those?’
‘You’ve just put one out,’ the boy says. He leans from foot to foot. He’s seventeen or thereabouts, cute enough in a denim jacket, a Fred Perry buttoned to the neck.
Not that cute has anything to do with it.
Michelle shrugs, says, ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ then smiles, watching as it dawns on him. The realisation that she doesn’t want a cigarette at all, that it had just been an excuse to start a conversation.
A glamorous woman, old enough to be his mother.
A MILF …
A living, breathing female who doesn’t use WhatsApp or own a selfie stick and probably knows exactly what she’s doing in the bedroom.
The colour rising in his face when the penny drops. A sniff and a deep drag on his cigarette to cover it. A half-turn away and another swig, like something more interesting might come along.
‘You here with your mates, then?’
He nods rather more times than he needs to. ‘Yeah. Friday night, you know?’ He has a nice smile, she has to give him that. ‘You?’
‘Girls’ night out,’ she says. ‘Boring, though.’
‘Yeah?’
She mimes an exaggerated yawn. ‘Talking about their husbands and their kids, making one glass of wine last an hour.’
‘You not talking about your husband, then?’
Michelle looks at the boy as if she’s impressed at his cheek, as if she hasn’t already clocked him checking out her left hand. She says, ‘Well, he’s not here, is he?’
They both look up at the roar of a souped-up something-or-other as it drives past. A bass-beat that must surely be deafening anyone inside pumping from the open windows, and a neon strip beneath the chassis, as though its driver is casually cruising along the seafront in Miami or Rio.
‘Look at that twat,’ the boy says. ‘What a—’
‘Do you fancy going for a walk?’
EIGHT
Their cars are in different areas of the huge car park, so they linger for a minute or two outside the multiplex, neither one appearing keen to move as they button up coats against the cold and reach into pockets for keys.
He asks Sarah what she thought of the film.
It was a decent enough thriller, scary even, once or twice, but she thinks the ending was completely ridiculous and tells him so. He says they usually are, that endings are tricky things to get right. Twists that come from nowhere, all that. It doesn’t have to get quite that stupid though, she says, and he laughs, like he agrees with her.
‘A quick drink?’
Sarah knows that it’s still early, but she looks at her watch anyway.
‘Super quick?’
‘Just one,’ she says. ‘Childcare …’
The place he’s talking about isn’t far away, they can actually see it, but walking would mean trying to cross six lanes of busy traffic on Southbury Road. They take her car, because it’s nearest, and within five minutes they’re sitting with drinks at a corner table in a busy bar/restaurant that’s serving cheap and cheerful Thai food.
He raises his pint glass and she touches her bottle to it.
‘Making me hungry.’ Sarah nods towards the plates of satay and spare ribs on an adjacent table, at a waitress passing with something sizzling.
‘We could eat something, if you fancy it. Wouldn’t take long.’
‘Like I said.’
‘Right.’ He sits back. ‘Babysitting’s pricey, I know.’
She looks at him. ‘You got kids, then?’
‘No.’ He says it like he’s relieved and lifts the glass to his mouth. ‘I mean, it just is, though, isn’t it?’
She nods. ‘Eight quid an hour I pay this girl. And I’ve got to get her an Uber home afterwards.’
‘Bloody hell, I’d do it for that,’ he says.
They look around at the other customers, at each other. She’d noticed when he arrived at the cinema that he was wearing the same baggy cap that she’d seen in the coffee shop and been pleased to see, when he’d taken it off inside, that he had a decent head of hair. Silver, cut very short, but certainly not thin. He’s wearing jeans that she guesses are pricey – maybe those stupidly expensive Japanese ones she’s read about – and a long-sleeved polo shirt she thinks looks … soft. She likes his shoes, too; gleaming brown brogues.
Not that Sarah hasn’t made an effort herself. She likes to dress up and she knows how good she is at doing it when she gets the chance, at tailoring her outfit to any given situation. To the people she’s likely to be spending time with. It had been a little harder than usual, deciding what to wear for this evening, because she wasn’t altogether certain how much of herself she was ready to put on show.
She still isn’t.
It’s exciting though. The dance. This feeling each other out.
‘So, you live in Enfield, too?’ She waits. Where Brooklands Hill is, and HazBeanz. The Cineworld he’d suggested when he’d called.
‘Well, home home is actually in the Midlands.’
‘Oh.’
He pulls a face, as though revealing a dirty secret. ‘I’m only down here on business really and I had a few meetings in Enfield the other day, just round the corner from that coffee shop.’
‘Right.’
‘Lucky for me I happened to fancy a coffee.’
She tries to hold his stare but can only manage a few seconds.
‘I mean, probably not that lucky for you …’
He smiles, and she notices again what great teeth he has. Like in a toothpaste advert. She wonders, just for a few moments, if they might even be false, then dismisses the idea. ‘What kind of meetings?’
He waves her question away. ‘Oh … just with investors.’
She nods, to make it clear she’s impressed.
‘No, just … trying to raise some more money for this thing I’m putting together. Massively tedious as it happens. No, seriously. I mean, like “wanting-to-scoop-your-own-eyeballs-out-with-a-spoon” tedious.’
She laughs, takes a swig of beer.
‘I mean, actually you might find it mildly interesting, but trust me, I’ve had it for days, so I’d much rather talk about something else. About anything else.’
‘Like …?’
‘Like, you?’
She laughs again, enjoying herself. ‘I’m good with that.’
A waitress stops at their table and asks if they’ve had a chance to look at the menus. He tells her that everything sounds great but that they’re not stopping, so she quickly moves on.
‘So … what were you writing the other day? In the coffee shop.’
She takes a few seconds, decides that it’s way too early to let her guard down, not even a little. ‘Well, put it this way, I don’t think you’d guess.’
‘No?’
‘Not a chance.’ She likes to throw a nugget of truth in there sometimes, to give her little lie … substance.
‘You are some sort of writer, though, yeah?’ He cocks his head and moves fingers across silvery stubble. ‘I know a lot of people sit in places like that with laptops, making out like they’re working on some masterpiece when they’re actually doing bugger all, and yeah, I know I was taking the mickey a bit the other day … but I looked at you and I swear I thought you were probably a proper writer.’
‘I’m … trying to be,’ she says.
‘OK. So, does it pay the bills?’ He shakes his head and stares down into his glass. ‘Sorry, that’s way too pushy for a first date.’
Sarah studies what little remains in her bottle. She’s thinking it would probably be a good idea to leave soon. She’s thinking that he’s got that look about him, that if she let him shag her, she’d probably stay shagged.
She says, ‘Well, I probably make less than my babysitter, so
it’s a good job I’m not relying on it.’
‘Other strings to your bow.’
‘Something like that.’
‘You enjoy it, though?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
He raises his glass again. ‘Main thing, right?’ He sees her glance at her watch and quickly downs what’s left of his drink. ‘OK, best let you get home.’
She pushes her chair back, but in truth she’s not really in any hurry to leave. Then, she thinks about Jamie; snuggled up in bed at home, knees pulled up to his skinny chest and his thumb in his mouth like he’s still a baby. ‘I better had …’
‘Do this again though, right?’
‘If you ever need a break from your boring meetings.’
‘Always,’ he says.
‘Well, you’ve got my number.’ She reaches across the table to briefly touch his hand. ‘And I’ve got yours.’
They stand up to gather bags and jackets. They check their phones. A man with a drink in his hand is waiting to pounce on their table, but they’re in no great hurry.
‘I’ll drive you back to your car,’ she says.
‘There’s no need.’
‘You’ll kill yourself trying to get across that road.’
‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’ Conrad ties his scarf, carefully. It’s silk, Sarah thinks, watching the material glide through his fingers. ‘It’s good to take a few risks now and again,’ he says. ‘Don’t you reckon?’
NINE
Tom Thorne and Phil Hendricks stepped out of the Bengal Lancer and began walking south down Kentish Town Road. It was cold but, thankfully, dry. Thorne was humming some tune that had been stuck in his head all day and carefully carrying a brown paper bag containing the remains of the Dhaba Lamb he hadn’t been able to finish.
‘God, I’ve missed that place.’
Hendricks belched Kingfisher and grinned. ‘Well, you don’t have to miss it, do you, mate?’ He punched Thorne on the shoulder. ‘Not now you’re living back up here.’
‘For now.’
‘Really?’ Hendricks’s Mancunian drawl stretched the word out, the sarcasm screamingly obvious.
Their Little Secret Page 4
