Their Little Secret

by Mark Billingham

  Hatter shook his head. ‘Just the DNA we got from the blood on the rock. The DNA that matches the sample you uploaded to the database. We’ve got casts of footprints, too. The most likely ones, anyway. There’d been people walking around there all day. Like I said, we can’t be sure exactly what happened after they had sex, but it looks very much like Deane followed this woman down to the beach—’

  ‘Looked to me like she picked him up,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Well … maybe.’

  ‘Followed her because she asked him to.’

  ‘Either way, they get down there, he shags her and then … I don’t know, her boyfriend turns up?’

  ‘What, her boyfriend just happens to be wandering along the beach minding his own business and comes across somebody else shagging his girlfriend?’

  ‘Maybe they’d had a row or whatever, and she was doing it to get back at him.’

  ‘Having told him exactly where she’d be when she was doing it?’

  The DI smiled as though conceding that Thorne had made a fair point, but it was a little icy. ‘It’s one explanation, that’s all. Could be that it was just random, and whoever killed Kevin Deane was nothing to do with either of them.’

  Thorne nodded, acknowledging the possibility, but he was still thinking about the man he knew only as Patrick Jennings. Asking himself how a run-of-the-mill con-artist could possibly be the same man who had used a rock to bludgeon a seventeen-year-old boy to death.

  The evidence suggests he’s moved up in the world …

  ‘You know, just some mental case who was mooching around looking for someone to kill, and Kevin and this woman were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘So, why just kill Kevin? And if that’s how it played out, what happened to the woman? Why hasn’t she come forward?’

  Hatter nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s what’s bothering me, too. Like I said, as of now, we’ve got no way of knowing what really went on.’

  It was easy, of course, to look at a piece of CCTV footage and see what suited you, the interpretation that fitted your theory. Thorne had done as much himself, many times. Watching the last known footage of their victim, though, it had seemed clear enough to Thorne that for those few minutes outside the bar, it had been the woman setting the pace. That she had been the one making the arrangements.

  ‘You considered the possibility that the woman was in on it?’ He turned to look at Hatter. ‘Her and the killer together?’

  The DI leaned back in his chair. ‘Yeah, considered it.’

  ‘There are couples who get off on all sorts of weird shit.’

  Hatter considered it again. ‘OK, swapping and threesomes and whatever, maybe. Men who get turned on watching their partners with someone else, and women who like it when their other half watches them with someone else. I know stuff like that goes on, because, well … I’ve seen some of the films.’ He flashed a theatrically lascivious grin, then held up a hand. ‘So, look, it’s a fair enough suggestion, but not when it comes to something like … this.’

  ‘Like murder.’

  ‘Yeah, like murder. I mean, who in their right mind …?’

  Thorne had to admit that the twisted scenario that had suddenly begun to take shape in his mind was rather more disturbing than even he was accustomed to. Rather more frightening too, because whatever it was that people got off on tended to be something they would want to do more than once.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ he said.

  Smiling, Hatter got to his feet. ‘I can certainly think of easier ways to spice up your relationship, put it that way.’

  With another click or two, the DI opened up the Kevin Deane case file and told Thorne that, although all the information would obviously be shared digitally with the Met, he was welcome to take a look through it while he was there. ‘I’ll leave you to it for a bit,’ he said.

  Once Hatter had disappeared, Thorne went in search of the tea he had not been offered. Perhaps Hatter had simply been keen to crack on with things, but Thorne could not help but wonder if the DI’s lack of hospitality was really about making a point. That this was a Kent inquiry, that Thorne’s involvement was strictly down to the coincidence of the DNA match, that he was only there as a favour.

  If that was the case, Thorne was happy enough to go toe to toe.

  After all, there wouldn’t be a DNA match if he hadn’t decided to go after Patrick Jennings.

  Either way, he wanted tea.

  He eventually located a fancy drinks machine in a corridor and, while he was waiting for his premium-quality hot beverage to brew, he fell into conversation with a DC who had just stepped out of the Ladies, tucking something into her handbag.

  She saw Thorne clock it. Said, ‘Sneaky vape.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘So … what do you reckon to the Kevin Deane murder, then?’

  The woman snuck a second look at the ID around Thorne’s neck. ‘God knows,’ she said. ‘All just guesswork at the minute, deciding on one likely explanation today, changing our minds tomorrow. I think the guvnor’s leaning towards the jealous boyfriend, but I know he’s not really convinced.’

  ‘You think the woman knew the killer?’

  She nodded. ‘Doesn’t make sense, otherwise. I mean, none of it makes sense, but …’

  ‘How old do you think she is?’

  The DC thought about it. ‘Older than Kevin Deane, definitely. Quite a bit older, I reckon.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know … hard to be certain, baggy clothes and the cap and whatever. Just a feeling I got the minute I saw it. She seemed … confident, you know?’

  Taking what you thought you’d seen in a piece of CCTV footage and tying it conveniently to a prevailing theory was rarely a wise move, but Thorne believed that often snap judgements made without overthinking things could turn out to be the right ones. He’d read something about it once, the unconscious drawing on past experience to make the right decision almost immediately.

  Something like that …

  Back at the desk, he read though the witness statements: the woman who’d found Kevin Deane’s body on the beach; the friends he had been with that night in the bar; a man who remembered seeing Deane following a woman down from the promenade. He saw the text that Deane had sent to one of his friends as he was walking away from the bar.

  pulled mate!! laterz

  He studied printouts of the CCTV footage he had just watched, then, last of all, he looked at the crime scene photographs.

  The boy lay twisted, one arm thrown back above his head and the other across his chest. His shirt was crusted with blood and his trousers and underpants were down around his ankles. A shot of his face showed no more than raw pulp and teeth, like the close-up of a half-eaten peach tossed away and covered in sand.

  Thorne’s tea did not taste quite so premium-quality any more; did not taste of anything.

  Hard though it still was to believe that the person responsible for this was the same one who had skilfully charmed then fleeced Philippa Goodwin, the DNA suggested Thorne was mistaken. It was the only real evidence of any sort they had, and it was probably time for him to stop arguing with it.

  However much it went against the grain.

  If he was sure about one thing, though, it was that the man he and the Fultons knew only as Patrick Jennings took great care to stay elusive and keep his real identity hidden. If Thorne was going to catch him, he might well be better served by looking for whoever he was with.

  He would need to find the woman first.

  When Thorne was ready to leave, he went in search of Colin Hatter and eventually found him at a meeting in one of the offices; sleeves rolled up, all business.

  ‘What do I do about a lift to the station?’

  Hatter held his arms out in a gesture of helplessness and looked at the others around the table. ‘I would, mate, but I’m a bit tied up now. I could try and find someone
who’s not doing anything …’

  Thorne waited.

  ‘Actually, it’s only a fifteen-minute walk. If you’re feeling fit.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Thorne said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Before now, Sarah would have been hard pressed to say whether she had actually enjoyed the pick-ups and the drop-offs. Certainly, they had never been easy. She had done it so often that they weren’t shit-herself scary any more, but that didn’t mean there weren’t jitters every single time, and countless trips to the bathroom, before she steeled herself to leave the house and drive to Brooklands Hill. It didn’t mean that when she got home she wouldn’t still be shaking just a little, or that she wouldn’t need to reach for a bottle before collapsing on to her sofa, drained by the effort and aching with relief.

  No, enjoyed would not have been the obvious word for it.

  Now, though, aside from the time she spent with Conrad, these were the high points of her day. She woke thinking about the journey to school and her hands were no longer tight around the wheel as she sat in traffic singing along with the radio. If Conrad wasn’t there, the thought of pick-up in only a few hours … one hour … twenty minutes … would be what got her through the empty afternoon. When he was at home, and those were red-letter days obviously, he could see it too; watching from the hallway as she ran upstairs to get changed.

  ‘No need to ask what you’re so happy about, is there?’

  She thought she’d been doing a pretty good job up to now, had been starting to fit in with the group and find a place for herself. Yeah, she’d been bowling along quite nicely BC (Before Conrad), making decent progress, but now they were all over her like a rash. Heather, Savita and the others. Even Caroline, the Queen Bee herself, was keen to get in on the act, nice as pie all of a sudden and twice as sickly.

  If she’d been made to choose, Sarah would have said that pick-ups were probably the best, that they just edged it. When it came to the coffee shop after drop-off, there was always the issue of where you’d end up sitting, who you’d be next to. Milling around outside the gates every afternoon, though, she could move around as she chose and pick her moments.

  She could wander over and chat to Savita if she felt like it or drift across and pull Heather away for a quiet word and a giggle. Caroline, maybe, or Eve or that simpering idiot David …

  Any of them, whenever she wanted to.

  It was her choice and, best of all, every one of them was desperate to talk to her.

  They were all there when she wandered up, waiting for the gates to open and their precious little darlings to come charging out. She saw them glance towards her as she approached. Just a nod from Caroline – trying to look cool like always – and a smile from a couple of the others, like they weren’t stupidly excited to see her and gagging to hear the latest.

  She raised a hand and casually said ‘Hi’ when she joined the group. The tail-end of a tedious conversation about sports day. Caroline yammering about how unfair it was that Jacob wasn’t allowed to enter some race or other, because for heaven’s sake he was actually the fastest and it was all part of this ridiculous ‘everyone needs to win something’ attitude that so got on her nerves.

  ‘Because that’s not how life is, is it?’ She looked to Savita, who could usually be relied upon to back her up.

  ‘I suppose not,’ Savita said.

  ‘Of course it isn’t. No harm in kids learning that lesson, is there?’

  ‘They’re just trying to spread it around a bit,’ Heather said. ‘That’s all.’

  David nodded. ‘Losing can be tough on them at this age.’

  ‘Well, it’s pretty tough on Jacob, too,’ Caroline said. ‘On any child who’s quicker or stronger or brighter than some of the others. Teaches them that trying to be the best doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘I get what you’re saying,’ Savita said.

  Heather turned to Sarah, evidently unable to wait any longer. ‘So, come on then … how’s Conrad?’

  Sarah blinked. She could not remember actually telling Heather Conrad’s name. Then she realised that, obviously, Heather must have heard it from one of the others she had told. It was a little pathetic, she thought, just how much time and energy these people expended on gossip and rumour, how empty their lives would otherwise be.

  Pathetic and fabulous.

  ‘Conrad is fine, thank you very much.’

  Savita nudged Heather. ‘You know he’s moved in with her, right?’

  ‘Wow,’ Heather said. ‘Really?’

  ‘Already?’ Caroline pretended to look shocked.

  Sarah smiled. Like the woman wasn’t green with envy.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit previous?’ Heather laughed, nervously. ‘I mean it’s none of my business, but … blimey.’

  ‘We were ready for it.’ Sarah shrugged. ‘It just felt right.’

  ‘But you barely know him.’ Heather glanced around and reddened, aware that everyone was looking at her. ‘Like I said, none of my business.’

  ‘What can I say?’

  Heather shrugged. ‘OK. Well … if it feels like the right thing to do, I’m happy for you.’

  Sarah laid a hand on Heather’s arm and mouthed a ‘thank you’, though she didn’t think the woman looked particularly happy.

  ‘How does Jamie feel about all this?’ David asked.

  ‘Oh, he’s chuffed to bits.’ Sarah fought the urge to step over and slap the studied expression of concern off the man’s face. As if she wouldn’t have considered her son’s feelings, as if that wouldn’t have been her primary concern. ‘Jamie thinks Conrad’s fantastic. Well, we both do, obviously.’

  ‘Young love, eh?’ Savita said.

  Sarah laughed. ‘I don’t know about young.’

  ‘I thought you were looking a bit knackered.’ Savita laughed, dirty. ‘I bet you hardly leave the house, do you?’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Caroline said.

  ‘Only if we absolutely have to,’ Sarah said.

  It wasn’t too much of an exaggeration, because unless Conrad needed to go out, and she understood that sometimes he did, Sarah was happiest keeping him all to herself. She thought a lot about that annoying woman she’d met in the park, the one who’d seemed so mortified at the idea of inviting a single woman for dinner. Now, even though she wasn’t single any more and was tempted to show that fact off – to show him off – she could not think of anything she would rather do less. Annoyingly, she had not seen the woman since, so had not yet seized the chance to tell her where she could stick her invitation.

  Conrad’s work aside, she didn’t want to share him with anyone.

  At the sound of the bell, the gaggle of parents shuffled forward, craned their necks as the children began to emerge.

  Sarah watched Heather’s son, Ollie, come out, closely followed by the obnoxious Jacob. Heather, who still looked as though something was worrying her, mumbled a goodbye as she led her child away. Caroline left without bothering. David waved at the sight of his daughter, as if he hadn’t seen her in months.

  ‘God, I just remembered.’ Sarah turned to Savita, sighed and shook her head. ‘Jamie needs to bring a ton of painting stuff home with him today. I said I’d help him …’ She pushed through the gates and began walking across the playground.

  Savita shouted after her. ‘HazBeanz in the morning?’

  Sarah raised a thumb without turning round and kept on walking.

  If I can be bothered …

  Stepping through the main doors to the school, she saw one of the teachers walking towards her. Short blonde hair, dark trousers and a nice, bright cardigan; one of the younger ones. Sarah smiled, heading towards the toilets, where she knew she could linger for ten minutes or so, but the teacher stopped in front of her.

  ‘Can I have a quick word?’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m in a bit of a rush.’ Sarah felt her chest tighten as she looked at her watch.

  The teacher leaned across to open a classroom door. ‘In h
ere …?’

  Sarah stepped into the room and heard the door close behind her. Her mind was racing as she looked quickly around: the map of the world on a rug; the colourful drawings pinned to the back wall; the open window she could climb through if things went really pear-shaped.

  She felt a small shiver of relief at not seeing a police officer standing in the corner or the word LIAR scrawled on the whiteboard.

  She tried to damp down the panic.

  The teacher pulled two plastic chairs from behind the nearest of the low round tables. She lowered herself on to one and pointed towards the other. Sarah sat, desperately looking for something, anything in the woman’s face that might allow her to relax a little. Instead, she watched the woman take a deep breath, and when she eventually opened her tight little mouth, it was as though the speech was something she’d thought about for a while; that she’d rehearsed.

  ‘I know exactly what you’re doing here every day and even if I haven’t got the first idea why, I’m afraid that it needs to stop. You don’t have a child at this school, you don’t have any connection with this school, so the fact is you simply can’t be here. Do you understand?’

  Sarah stared at the floor for a while, breathing in that smell that she’d loved so very much until this moment. She looked up, slowly. ‘Are you going to call the police?’

  ‘I should,’ the woman said. ‘But I’ve been thinking about all the reasons anyone might do something like this and … look, as long as you stop coming to the school, there’s probably no need to take this any further.’

  ‘Have you ever lost a child?’ Sarah asked.

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘I’ve lost three of them, all right? One after the other.’ Sarah’s voice cracked and she clutched at the edges of the chair. ‘Every time it seems like it’s going to be fine, but something always goes wrong inside …’ The tears came nice and easily; pricking, brimming then starting to fall.

  The young teacher looked embarrassed and she reached quickly into the pocket of her cardigan for a used tissue. Sarah shook her head and waved it away. She pressed a sleeve across her eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the teacher said.