Their Little Secret

by Mark Billingham

  The pub was crowded, but, after waiting around for ten minutes, they had managed to bag two stools at one end of the bar. Perera laid down a glass that already contained significantly less beer than Thorne’s. ‘So, she’s still saying nothing about the woman who disappeared?’

  Thorne shook his head. Heather Turnbull had now been missing for ten weeks, without so much as a possible sighting and no trace of the vehicle in which she had last been seen. Michelle Littler had been content to talk in great detail about the part she had played in the murder of Kevin Deane, to confess that she, and not Conrad Simpkin, had bludgeoned Gemma Maxwell to death, but she had blankly refused to make any comment about the missing woman.

  Struck dumb, suddenly, at the mention of her name.

  Along with Nicola Tanner and the rest of those doing the questioning, Thorne tried not to let the woman see how much it bothered him. The gaping wound her silence left in the body of their case. Nobody truly believed that Heather Turnbull was still alive, and they remained confident that Michelle Littler would go down as long for two murders as for three, but that was not the point.

  It would be no sort of justice for Heather Turnbull’s husband and children, for the rest of her family and friends. Sitting there in the pub, laughter from the group on the next table, Thorne could recall every word of his most recent conversation with Brian Turnbull, the sound of the man sobbing at the other end of a phone.

  The platitudes and the protocols, the easy assurances. ‘We’re doing everything that we can …’

  ‘What do I tell the kids, though?’ The man had hardly been able to speak, by the end. ‘They know their mum would never go away on her own and not call them. Not even for a week, never mind …’

  Thorne had struggled for the right words, just as he had with Andrew Ruston, as he usually did.

  ‘What do I tell myself? I’m not an idiot and I know exactly what this woman you’ve arrested is capable of, so should I stop imagining that my wife’s just … gone off to find herself or that she’s lost her memory or something?’ He had broken off for a few seconds to gather himself, to ask the questions that really mattered. ‘Will you be honest with me?’

  Thorne said that he would, because he had no other option.

  ‘You think there’s still hope?’

  ‘There’s always hope,’ Thorne had said.

  Now, he looked at Melita Perera. ‘It’s a power thing, right? Her refusing to tell us?’

  ‘Probably,’ Perera said. ‘Or maybe she thinks that as long as there’s something you still want, you’ll … go easier on her.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Power then, yes. What she thinks of as power, anyway. Same as Shipman, remember? Saying nothing, not explaining.’

  Thorne tapped a nail against the edge of his glass. ‘I still don’t get it.’

  ‘You’ve taken everything else away from her, so that’s all she has left to cling on to. A single piece of information you can’t get anywhere else. She enjoys tormenting you with it and she’ll almost certainly carry on enjoying it, even when she’s lying in a prison cell.’

  ‘Does she care about what it’s doing to Heather Turnbull’s family?’

  ‘I’m not sure care is the right word.’ Perera raised her beer again, thought for a few seconds. ‘She probably doesn’t even think about them very much, at least not in the way you’re talking about. It’s all about her knowing and you being ignorant.’ She took a drink. ‘I don’t think there’s a lot you can do about it.’

  ‘Yeah, I did put in a request to try waterboarding, but the Chief Superintendent’s a bit squeamish.’

  Perera laughed.

  ‘It’s political correctness gone mad,’ Thorne said.

  They said nothing for half a minute or so, looking around at fellow customers, eavesdropping on an argument between two women on a nearby table. They took turns delving into a large packet of crisps sitting between them on the bar.

  ‘What about the baby?’ Perera asked.

  Thorne shrugged. ‘The big question is whether we’ll even get to court, let alone make it through the trial, before she gives birth. Could be touch and go, I reckon.’

  ‘How soon …?’

  ‘Well, she’s about twenty-nine weeks, and we need to get a jury sworn in within the next four months or so. But even after that’s done, the judge could decide to extend the custody time limit, if she’s ready to pop. Could be interesting, otherwise … her waters breaking halfway through the trial.’

  Perera pulled a face.

  ‘Much as I want to get her in court as soon as possible, I’m hoping she’s already had it by then. Because I think she’d love that, you know? Standing there in the dock, as big as a house … all the attention, the press.’

  ‘The baby, though,’ Perera said. ‘What’s going to happen to it?’

  ‘It’ll be the standard process,’ Thorne said. ‘Whether she has it before the trial or once she’s in prison. She’ll apply for a Mother and Baby Unit, but there’s not very many of those anyway and they don’t tend to allocate places to women who are inside for murder.’

  ‘So, then what? The child gets handed over to Social Services?’

  Thorne nodded, stared down at the bar. ‘Not the greatest start in life, I grant you. I can’t help thinking, though, that whatever happens after that, the child’s going to be better off.’

  ‘You could always try telling her that you can get her a place,’ Perera said. ‘On one of those units. If she tells you about Heather Turnbull.’

  ‘I don’t think we could swing that,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I know.’ Perera reached for crisps. ‘But there’s nothing to stop you saying you can.’

  Thorne looked at her. ‘You’re very devious.’

  ‘I work with some very devious people,’ she said. ‘It rubs off.’

  It was a tactic Thorne had already considered, that he might well have a crack at later on, if he was out of options. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘Who knows, she might get religion or something before then, decide to come clean.’

  They fell silent again for a while, polished off the crisps and downed what little was left of their drinks. They had finished with shop talk for the time being.

  ‘I was thinking about your mother,’ Perera said. ‘Those dreams you were having.’

  ‘Right.’ Of late, Thorne had been thinking about them a good deal himself, making connections that were almost certainly tenuous, but which were never pleasant.

  Mothers and sons.

  A woman whose son had never existed.

  Thorne’s mother, a remembrance that had been growing sketchy.

  ‘Actually, I haven’t had one in a while.’ He told her about his mother’s paintings, the memory coming back. He told her that they now had pride of place in his flat.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘So, maybe that’s all the dreams were. The flicker of a memory you couldn’t quite recall.’

  ‘Is that how it works?’

  ‘It’s an explanation.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Thorne looked at her. ‘I had an … interesting dream about me and Harry Kane the other night. I really don’t think I could have forgotten that.’

  Perera smiled. ‘Back then … you didn’t say as much, but it seemed to me that you were a bit … conflicted? Maybe about stuff that was going on outside your job. I don’t want to pry or anything—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I don’t know … as if you were trying to work something out in your personal life.’

  ‘You’re pretty good at this,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, there was a situation … domestically. I didn’t know whether to stick or twist, put it that way. Actually, I didn’t even know if I was bust already, but …’

  ‘Well, like I said, this isn’t really my area, and this might sound a bit like something I’ve read inside a Christmas cracker … but I wondered if there was another way of l
ooking at those dreams about your mum. She was someone you trusted, right?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  She inched her stool a little closer to his, allowing a man who was waiting to be served room to squeeze in. ‘So, perhaps she was popping up in your subconscious to tell you it was OK to move on.’

  Thorne considered what the psychiatrist was suggesting, then reached for their empty glasses. He said, ‘Well, in that case … shall we have another drink?’

  Copy to: Ball & Hooper Solicitors.

  Michelle Littler,

  info@ballhooper.co.uk

  HMP Bronzefield, TW15 3JZ

  January 12th

  My Darling Connie,

  Happy new year, precious!!

  Here’s another one for your collection. God knows how many of these you’ll have to read when you’re old enough, but I can’t stop writing, because I need you to know how VERY much you’re loved and how horrible it is for me that we can’t be together just yet. Of course, I can’t be sure that my letters are even getting to you, because they won’t let me know where you are and those creatures in Social Services who are all DEAD INSIDE have SAID they’ll send them, but I’ve only got their word for it. They bang on about your ‘welfare’ being the most important thing, which of course it is, but they seem to think that in the long term you might be better off not hearing from me at all, which is completely ridiculous.

  Why would you not want to hear from the person who gave birth to you? The person who loves you more than anyone.

  Of course you do. I KNOW you do, that you always will, whatever they say.

  Sometimes, I think they sent me to this particular place just to torture me, because there’s a special unit in here where mothers and babies can be together, at least when the babies are still very young. Now and again, I run into one of the girls who are lucky enough to be living in there, the ones who are not being punished like me. Punished more than is fair, I mean. They have a special glow which makes me very upset and they smell of milk, and once I managed to steal a blanket which I keep under my pillow. So I can have a bit of that smell too. If I’m nearby, I sometimes hear the babies crying and that’s enough to finish me off for the rest of the week. Silly, I know, but I can’t help it and if I didn’t have your pictures to look at, I don’t know what I would do.

  Well, I DO, and if these letters stop, you’ll know I’ve done it! I know that right now you’re not actually thinking about anything much apart from wanting to eat and sleep, but I hope that when the time comes, you’ll spend at least some time thinking about your daddy and me. He would have loved you so much, darling girl, and it cheers me up to know how thrilled he would be that you’ve sort of got his name. Oh, and looking at that picture, I can see that you’ve got his eyes, too. God, I always LOVED those eyes and seeing them in your face makes me happy and sad at the same time.

  I’m sorry if I’ve said this before (it’s a mum’s job to nag a bit), but you must always remember that even if I can’t be there with you, you’ve always got your big brother. I know Jamie loves you every bit as much as I do and he will take good care of you, so the pair of you must ALWAYS stick together, no matter what happens and no matter what anybody says to you about me or your daddy.

  We are a FAMILY.

  I wanted so much to send you something really nice for Christmas. There’s not much choice in here though, only chocolate really, and it would certainly have gone mouldy by the time you’re old enough to eat it! It was not an easy time for me, because the only thing I wanted for Christmas was you and that’s probably not going to happen very soon. I’m still TRYING though, sweetheart, I need you to know that, and I won’t ever give up.

  I hope the nasty cough they told me you had a few weeks ago is getting better and I’m still furious that the people you’re staying with let that happen. How could they, when they’re supposed to be taking care of you for me? It’s obvious that they don’t deserve to have you at all. Just remember that even if they seem kind and nice and whatever they might tell you, they are NOT your mummy and daddy and never will be.

  Blood is what counts.

  For ever …

  Mummy xxxx

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  OK, so I’m the show-off with the twisted imagination, but producing a new book each year is a team effort and I remain hugely fortunate that the team at Little, Brown is the best in the business. As always, I owe a huge debt to my wonderful editor, Ed Wood, and to a great many others at LB/Sphere, notably: Catherine Burke, Charlie King, Sean Garrehy, Thalia Proctor, Tamsin Kitson, Gemma Shelley, Robert Manser, Sarah Shrubb and the publicity marvel that is Laura Sherlock. I am equally in debt to their counterparts across the pond at Grove Atlantic, US: Brenna McDuffie, Morgan Entrekin, Deb Seager and Justine Batchelor. I would also like to thank Nancy Webber for a hugely sensitive and creative copy edit and I hope she forgives me for the handbag …

  After so many books, I should probably know a lot more about police procedure than I do (or perhaps I just keep forgetting) so I am grateful for the enormous help and forbearance of Lisa Cutts and Graham Bartlett. Thanks also to Angela Clarke for much needed info and advice about prison facilities for those with babies. Wendy Lee’s input was as invaluable as always, as was that of my fab agent Sarah Lutyens and all those with whom she works at Lutyens & Rubinstein: Juliet Mahony, Francesca Davies and Hana Grisenthwaite.

  I am very grateful to Dr Frank Tallis for allowing me to quote from his wonderful book, The Incurable Romantic, and to Elvis Costello for kind permission to use lyrics from one of his greatest songs, ‘I Want You’. While I’m about it, thank you EC for an aim that’s always true and for four decades of peerless entertainment and inspiration.

  And thank you most of all to Claire, Katie and Jack; this happy author’s little secret.