Their Little Secret

by Mark Billingham

  ‘There’s no need to be. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I’d wondered if it might be something like that.’

  ‘It’s stupid, I know,’ Sarah said. Her voice caught again, and she lowered her head. ‘So stupid, but … I just can’t stop thinking about what should have happened, that this is what I was supposed to be doing every day.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like.’

  Sarah looked up and tried to smile. She said, ‘I wouldn’t even wish that on you.’ From the corner of her eye, she watched fifteen seconds tick past on the large plastic clock above the whiteboard and listened to the gabble of children in the corridor outside.

  The teacher cleared her throat, then stood up and carefully replaced her chair behind the table. ‘OK, well, then …’

  Sarah got slowly to her feet, making use of her sleeve again.

  ‘What you’ve been through sounds truly horrible, and like I said, I can’t … but my main concern has to be the welfare of the children I teach, so I’m sure you can understand why I needed to say something.’

  Sarah nodded and stepped towards the door.

  ‘So, you know … as long as you promise to stop, I hope we can leave it there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah whispered. ‘I’m really sorry …’

  Marching back across the playground, children pointing and stepping aside for her, she knew it was possible that Savita or David or one of the others could still be there at the gates. That there might be questions to answer, that they would be confused as to why there wasn’t a child clinging to her hand – her fist – but she knew she would come up with something, because she always did.

  Thinking that perhaps Jamie had an after-school club he’d neglected to tell her about, or that he’d already gone to play at a friend’s house, or that there was something he needed which she had stupidly forgotten to bring in and would now have to nip home and fetch.

  Thinking that it didn’t much matter any more, thinking that the story about the miscarriages worked like a charm every time.

  Thinking, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch. …

  TWENTY-SIX

  By the time Thorne had got off the train at St Pancras, there was little more than an hour of his shift left and by far the most sensible thing he could have done would have been to head straight home. The idea was seriously tempting. From King’s Cross, it was only two stops on the Northern line to Kentish Town and, after all, he could easily do what he needed to by phone or email, but instead he took the other branch all the way to Colindale.

  He finally walked into Becke House barely fifteen minutes before close of play, but he felt sure the effort would be worth it.

  He’d wanted to get there before Russell Brigstocke left for the day.

  ‘Come to gloat?’ The DCI didn’t bother looking up from his desk.

  ‘Don’t be soft, Russell. I just wanted to fill you in on my meeting with the team from Kent. You’ll obviously be liaising with your opposite number down there, so I thought you’d want to know exactly what the lie of the land was.’

  ‘Course you did.’

  ‘Gloating would be childish,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Yes, it would.’

  ‘A more insecure officer than yourself might even say it was insubordinate … but as I’m here, I might as well remind you that the individual you thought it was a waste of time looking at has now popped up as the prime suspect in a murder.’

  Now, Brigstocke looked at him, his expression making it fairly clear that he wished he’d knocked off a little early. ‘I’m well aware of that.’ He reached for a sheaf of papers and waved it at Thorne, as though it were a lethal weapon. ‘I’ve already started liaising.’

  ‘Well, great,’ Thorne said. ‘All on the same page, then.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not off the top of my head.’

  ‘Sod off then, Tom.’

  As Brigstocke had already gone back to whatever he was doing before being interrupted, Thorne allowed himself a smirk. The opportunity didn’t come along very often and he could ill afford to waste it.

  He said, ‘Will do, sir …’

  In the incident room, Tanner was still hard at work and did not look as though she would be ready to hand over her desk to her opposite number on the late team any time soon. It was tempting to believe that this was because she now had rather less to go home to than some of the others, but Thorne knew she’d been like this before.

  ‘So, how was the seaside?’

  ‘Oh, bollocks,’ Thorne said. ‘I meant to get some candyfloss.’ He waited, but Tanner was clearly too busy for idle chat. ‘Yeah, it was all right.’

  ‘They OK with you?’

  ‘Well, they caught the case, so I wasn’t expecting a red carpet.’

  Tanner grunted, continued to type.

  ‘A bit of pissing about with tea and travel arrangements, but no worse than we would have been.’

  ‘Than you would have been, maybe.’

  Thorne leaned against the edge of Tanner’s desk, as others were being vacated around him. He checked his phone for messages while he waited for Tanner to finish, then sent one to Phil Hendricks reminding him of their teams’ relative positions in the league. He nodded a goodbye to those heading home, or to somewhere better equipped to take the day’s rough edges off, then mumbled a greeting to a few familiar faces as the room began to fill with those settling in for the late turn.

  When he finally had Tanner’s full attention, he told her what had happened in Margate. The crime scene and the CCTV. What he’d seen and what he’d begun to suspect.

  ‘You think it was a couple?’

  ‘Only thing that fits,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Just because there’s no sign of the woman?’

  ‘What do you mean just because? I think it’s fairly bloody significant, don’t you? Yeah, it’s always possible that this bloke killed Kevin Deane and the woman, then slung her body over his shoulder and wandered away into the night with it, without a single person seeing anything. I think it’s unlikely though.’

  ‘Could have put her in the sea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bodies don’t come back as often as people think.’

  ‘He didn’t kill her,’ Thorne said. ‘She was part of it.’

  Tanner thought about it. She picked her handbag up from the floor next to her chair and laid it on the desk, as though finishing for the day had begun to look like a possibility. ‘Hard to fathom,’ she said, quietly. ‘But it’s not like we haven’t seen it before.’

  Thorne hadn’t, not up close, anyway, but he knew what, and who, Tanner was talking about. A man and a woman whose union created something far more terrible than either would have become separately. A couple for whom hunting and killing was as much a part of their relationship, as crucial to it, as laughing together or good conversation was for others.

  There was, of course, one infamous example. Before their time and both halves of the couple now dead, but their names remained, for many, a simple definition of evil. If such a thing existed.

  Thorne was grateful that his ringing phone spared him too much further thought about it, and, when he saw who was calling, he walked away from Tanner’s desk without saying any more and carried the phone out into the corridor.

  ‘Are you at work?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m done for the day,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I was just wondering if you fancied coming over tonight, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Look, I know it’s late notice, so it’s really not a problem if you can’t. I just thought it might be a nice idea …’

  Five minutes later, when Thorne walked back into the incident room, Tanner was standing near the door with her coat on. She waited for him to say something and, when he didn’t, she said, ‘I was thinking we could grab a quick drink in the Oak.’

  Thorne smiled, shaking his head. ‘This must be how people feel when they win the lottery.’


  ‘What?’

  ‘Popular, all of a sudden.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sarah had a good deal on her mind – most notably the oh-so-earnest, pitying expression on the face of that teacher – so, when the call came, she was more than happy to be distracted for a few minutes. The voice at the other end of the phone was almost as solemn as the teacher’s had been, to begin with anyway, but it was always nice to hear from one of her fellow parents.

  Sarah thought it was sweet, if a little ironic, all things considered. She thought it was funny.

  ‘I wanted to apologise,’ Heather said. ‘For earlier, outside school.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘It was none of my business, like I said. You and Conrad. But, we’re friends, so …’

  ‘You were concerned,’ Sarah said. ‘I get that.’

  ‘I should have kept my big mouth shut.’

  ‘You still are, right? Concerned.’

  Heather laughed. Sarah laughed, too. ‘Well, a bit, I suppose. I have been thinking about it. I mean, it’s just so quick.’

  ‘Three weeks,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Bloody hell is right. I’m pretty gobsmacked myself.’

  ‘I mean, yeah … he’s clearly great and everything … it’s just the moving in thing that worries me.’

  ‘He hasn’t stolen the cutlery as yet.’

  Another giggle. ‘Well, that’s good. All the same, I wonder how well you can really know anyone after such a short space of time.’

  ‘I know enough,’ Sarah said. ‘Everything I need to know.’

  ‘It’s … a mistake I’ve made myself,’ Heather said. ‘More than once. Not that I’m saying you’ve made a mistake—’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘My big mouth again.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly.’

  ‘Anyway, I wanted to say sorry, that’s all, for sticking my nose in.’

  ‘Like you said, we’re friends. I’m sure I’d be exactly the same.’

  ‘Is he …?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘God, I’m being an idiot. I was going to say is he nice to you. But he’s obviously nice to you or you wouldn’t be with him, would you? You wouldn’t want him living there … with you and Jamie.’

  ‘He’s everything I want,’ Sarah said.

  ‘There you go, then.’

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘Time for me to shut up.’

  ‘Thanks, though.’ Sarah walked across to the living-room window, stared out in the hope of seeing Conrad’s car pull up. ‘I do appreciate it.’

  ‘Right, I’ll leave you in peace,’ Heather said. ‘I’m sure you’ve got stuff to do.’

  ‘I’ve got loads to do,’ Sarah said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It seemed a little odd to be ringing the bell when he still had a set of keys, but it felt like the appropriate thing to do. Thorne was still wondering what the appropriate thing to say might be when the door was opened and, after a second or two of staring at one another, Helen beckoned him in and together they moved into a somewhat tentative embrace.

  She stepped away and said, ‘All right?’

  ‘Yeah, not bad.’ Thorne looked around as though taking in somewhere he’d never been before. ‘Alfie in bed?’

  ‘He’s at Jenny’s,’ Helen said.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘When I knew you were coming, I called and asked if she’d take him for a couple of hours.’

  Thorne tried not to look too disappointed. By the time he’d got home, changed and showered then driven down to Tulse Hill, he’d known there was little chance of seeing Helen’s son before bedtime, but had hoped he might at least be able to put his head round the bedroom door.

  ‘Gives us more opportunity to talk.’

  While Thorne walked across to the sofa, Helen went to the fridge. ‘I’ve got some beers if you want one. I know you’re driving, but …’

  Thorne still had no real idea why he was there. He wondered if Helen had asked him over to tell him that she was being stupid, that she’d changed her mind about everything and it didn’t really matter how many beers he drank because he wouldn’t be going back to Kentish Town tonight anyway.

  Was that what he wanted to happen?

  ‘Yeah, I can have one.’

  He also found himself wondering if she’d gone out to fetch the beers because she knew he was coming or if they’d been sitting in the fridge already. And, if so, who had they been for?

  Helen got a glass of wine for herself and joined him on the sofa. ‘All good at work?’

  He told her about his trip to Margate, said much the same as he’d said to Tanner a few hours before.

  ‘Doesn’t seem like that much of a stretch to me,’ Helen said. ‘Not when you’ve seen what some couples can do to their kids.’ She told him about the case her own Child Abuse Investigation Team was currently working on; details that made them both glad they had drinks in their hands.

  She said, ‘Nothing much surprises me any more.’

  Work had not usually been something they’d talked about in any depth at home. A good story maybe, when there was one, but rarely the nuts and bolts. Both had decided that the Job was something best left at the door with bags and coats, even if sometimes that proved to be impossible.

  This was a conversation to be endured because it put off another that might be rather more difficult. To dispel some of the awkwardness that had bloomed between them almost overnight, like a clutch of stinging nettles.

  Murder and child abuse, to break the ice.

  ‘Alfie’s missing you,’ she said.

  ‘Why would you tell me that?’

  She looked at him.

  ‘I mean, yeah, that’s nice to hear and obviously I miss seeing him too. But at the end of the day, it’s just … one more reason to feel shit about everything. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t feel great about it either,’ Helen said. ‘He asks where you are and I just feel guilty, like it’s all my fault.’

  ‘It was your idea.’

  The speed with which Helen opened her mouth to speak suggested that her response might not have been one Thorne wanted to hear, but she stopped herself. Took a breath. ‘I didn’t ask you to come over so we could argue, Tom.’

  ‘So, why did you ask me?’

  ‘I wanted to see how you were, that’s all, how you were getting on. Back in the flat and everything.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Thorne shrugged and took a swig of beer. ‘It’s just … my flat.’

  ‘That’s good. Easier for work as well, right?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘Another half an hour in bed every morning.’

  ‘Every cloud, right?’

  She angled her body towards him. ‘So, anyway … I was wondering whether you might fancy taking some of the stuff you’ve still got here back with you.’

  Thorne stared at her. ‘Suddenly pushed for space, are you?’

  ‘No. I thought you might need it, that’s all.’

  ‘This how a trial separation usually works, is it?’

  ‘I know there’s still some CDs lying around you must be missing. Come on, it’s not like there’s a ton of it, is there? Probably get the whole lot in one suitcase.’

  ‘So, what? You got a few beers in and went out and bought a nice new suitcase at the same time, get it all out of the way?’

  ‘I’m not trying to get anything out of the way,’ Helen said.

  ‘Yeah, makes sense, seeing as I’m here. Might as well get me to clear all my shit out. I mean, that way I don’t ever have to come back, do I?’

  ‘You’re being stupid.’

  ‘Do you want the keys back?’ Thorne began rummaging in his jacket pockets. ‘Save messing about later.’

  ‘That’s not what’s going on.’

  ‘Right, well, I wish you’d tell me what is going on. Because I’m … clueless.’

  Helen sat back and close
d her eyes for a few seconds. She said, ‘Were you happy with how everything was? Properly happy?’

  Thorne had thought he was; content, certainly. Yes, there had been occasions in the months leading up to this when his eyes had wandered a little and he had … considered possibilities. That was only natural though, wasn’t it? No harm in it, because thinking wasn’t doing.

  ‘I was happy enough,’ he said.

  ‘Enough?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Helen drank.

  ‘So, what about you?’

  She stared at her glass, leaned forward. ‘The same, I suppose.’

  ‘So …?’ He waited, but Helen had no answer for him, no easy one, at least. ‘Look, I know this is probably going to piss you off, but … is all this about anyone else?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, just tell me—’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ She stood up fast, stomped across to the chair opposite and dropped into it. It was another half a minute before she looked across at him, her smile a little wobbly. ‘Fair enough question, I suppose. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t got form, is it?’

  The affair just before the death of her former partner. The uncertainty as to exactly who Alfie’s father was.

  Thorne said nothing. It might have been Helen who had brought the subject up, alluded to it at any rate, but he knew better than to dig in.

  ‘The honest truth is, I really don’t know what was going on,’ she said. ‘It felt like you were a bit distant, that’s all. Last six months or so.’

  ‘OK.’ Thorne felt a worm of guilt, of shame, as it woke suddenly in his guts and began to stretch out.

  ‘Maybe I was imagining it …’

  She was a month or so out, and though Thorne couldn’t really deny it, there was no way he would ever be able to explain. To confess. How could he tell her what had happened in that flat with Nicola Tanner, ask her to live with the lies he and Phil had told?

  Sometimes, keeping a secret meant building a wall.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be.’ It was the best he could do.

  ‘I just started to feel … like I didn’t know where I was. Like, this was it and everything was sorted, you and me and Alfie into the sunset. Or … it wasn’t. I was waking up every day with no idea which one it was, and eventually it felt like I had to decide one way or the other.’