'Sir…?'
Moving across the cramped office, talking quickly. 'Two women, both stabbed on the same day. July, I think you said.' Thorne nodded towards the computer, trying to stay calm. 'Call them up.'
Holland spun the chair round and began to type, trying to recall the details. 'One in Finchley, I think. The other one… much further south if I remember…'
The relevant documents appeared on his screen and Holland studied them for a second or two. 'Forest Hill, that's right…' He scrolled slowly through the document, shaking his head. 'No… no… it's not possible. He couldn't have done them both.'
Thorne nodded and glanced out of the window. His eye was taken by the sparks flying up from beneath a tube train passing below on its way south from Colindale; lolling heads in the brightly lit carriages, snaking away from him as the track curved round and out of sight.
'He didn't.'
Holland stared at him, waiting. Thorne stood stock still and spoke slowly, but Holland could see his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 'The knives used might have been similar, might not, I don't know.., not sure it matters. The pattern and depth of the wounds though.., in all probability the number of wounds, on each of the victims, will be at odds with each other. The… character of the two attacks will be completely different.'
Holland turned back to his screen and typed again, calling up SOC and pathology reports as Thorne continued. 'One of the women will have died from multiple stab wounds. Vicious… indiscriminate… savage. The other, probably one single wound, to the heart, I would guess, or…
Holland spun round again. The look on his face told Thorne all he needed to know…
Brigstocke answered his mobile on the first ring.
'Russell Brigstocke…' The voice low, betraying annoyance.
'It's Tom…'
'DI Thorne…' Spoken for somebody else's benefit. The meeting with Detective Superintendent Jesmond had probably turned into dinner. So much the easier.
'We're onto something. Tell Jesmond. Call it a breakthrough, he'll like that.' He turned to share the moment with Holland but the DC was studying the documents on his screen intently. Trying to make sense of it all. 'Tell him it's one hell of a good news-bad news routine…'
'I'm listening,' Brigstocke said.
'I don't think we're looking for one man.'
Thorne expected a pause, and he got one. Then: 'Are you saying that these murders might not actually be connected?'
'No I'm not. They are connected, I'm certain of that.' Thorne knew the look that Brigstocke would be wearing. Contained excitement, like trying to hold a shit inside. He wondered what Jesmond, no doubt holding a large glass of red wine and studying his DCI's strange expression, would be making of it.
Brigstocke was starting to sound a little impatient. 'So, what is it? A new lead on the killer?'
Thorne kept it nice and simple. 'Killers, Russell. Plural. There's two of them.'
1985
It was a moment he would always remember. Karen sitting on the bank, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and Smart smiling, mouth full of chocolate as always, his dark eyes focusing on something in the distance, searching for it, seeking out the source of their next adventure.
And him, looking from one to the other, nervous but happy, the sun in his eyes and a small cloud of gnats swirling in front of his face… It was a moment that took him back to a day two summers earlier. That day with the cricket bat. The day when he saw Karen for the first time. That was when he and Smart were at the same school of course. Before the business with the air pistol…
The two of them weren't really supposed to see each other after the Bardsley incident. Following the expulsion, efforts had been made to keep them apart, and for a while Palmer had been happy enough to go along with that. After all, the police had told their parents that it would be better for everybody if they were not allowed to be together. There had been talk of 'influence' and of 'geeing up'. He missed the excitement though, he missed the unpredictability, and he was delighted when Smart, once they'd started hanging around together again, told him that he'd missed it too. Plus, he always felt better about being around Karen, if Smart was close by.
Karen was older than he was, closer to Smart's age, but Stuart couldn't make her laugh the way he could. He'd always been the one that got her giggling, ever since that day when she'd crawled through the hole in the fence and seen the business with the frog. There were times, when he saw the two of them whispering, or smoking, or watched them walking ahead of him along by the railway line, that he would start to feel like he shouldn't be there. Then Karen would stop and smile that smile at him and ask him to pull some stupid face, or put on a silly voice or something and he would soon have her in fits. Sometimes he thought that perhaps she was teasing him a little, but he didn't really mind. He could see how important he was to her, and to Stuart. He could see the three of them together, friends for good, the long grass of the railway embankment becoming the carefully tended lawn of a college quadrangle and the back garden of one of the big houses that each of them owned.., and finally, the rambling parkland of that Heath in London his mum had taken him to once, where the three of them would sit together on a park bench, with dogs, and perhaps children. Palmer knew, as much as he knew anything at barely fourteen, that he was in love.
Karen stood up and looked around for a few seconds before half running, half-tumbling down the bank. She pretended that she was going to crash into Nicklin, and he pretended to be frightened. At the last minute, she jumped and Nicklin staggered back as he caught her, shouting and laughing, one hand holding tight to her arse. Palmer laughed too and swatting the swarm of gnats aside, followed them as they each lit a cigarette and began walking slowly towards the small group of blackened, broken-down railway buildings in the distance.
Once inside the main building – a disused equipment shed – they did the usual quick sweep, searching for signs of habitation. Tramps slept here sometimes. The place still smelt of stale piss and strong lager. They'd found the remains of a fire a few times before now, and empty tins and syringes, and once, a used condom which Nicklin had picked up and chased Karen around with for a while. Today the place seemed even more deserted than usual. The usual fixtures and fittings. A mountain of fag ends, some old newspapers, a soggy, mouldering roll of carpet that had once been a dosser's bed. Huge bluebottles flew around their heads as Palmer threw stones at the remaining slivers of glass in the rotting window frames. Nicklin stubbed out his fag and looked around for something, anything, to spark him off, and Karen wandered around singing the latest Duran Duran single, her light, high voice echoing off the grimy Artex walls.
'Let's go. Fuck-all in here.' Nicklin aimed a kick at an empty bottle. It skittered across the concrete floor and into the far wall where it smashed.
Palmer cheered. 'We could start a fire or something…'
'Let's all have a dump,' Karen said, ignoring him and leering at Nicklin. She began to laugh and Palmer turned away, blushing. He hated it when she talked like that. She would squat down in the long grass sometimes and he couldn't bear it.
'Boring,' Nicklin said. 'Fucking eggs for lunch anyway. Couldn't squeeze one out even if I wanted to.' He lit another cigarette from a packet of ten Silk Cut. Karen took a loose one from the top pocket of her denim jacket and moved over to join him. She took the cigarette from Nicklin's mouth and used it to light her own.
When Palmer turned round, Karen and Nicklin had gone. For a moment he was frightened, but then he heard them just outside, murmuring. He looked out through the broken window towards the embankment opposite. There was a housing estate at the top, where Smart lived, and he'd seen people emptying their bins down there, using the grassy, green bank as a rubbish tip. Shitting in it, every bit as much as Karen or Nicklin did.
He still loved the place though. He knew where there was a foxes' earth hidden in the roots of a large oak tree. He'd once found a baby jay at the foot of the very same tree, bri
ght blue and puffed-up, meowing like a cat, calling for its mother. He knew where to find massive blackberries and which species of butterfly were attracted by the bud that flourished all over the place, and he knew where he could find slow worms and grass snakes nesting beneath rusting sheets of corrugated iron…
He was startled by a footstep next to him, the sound of broken glass being ground into concrete. He turned quickly to see Nicklin at his shoulder, smiling like he'd finally found something.
'Karen wants to do it with you.' His tone, matter of fact. Palmer said nothing. Nicklin took a drag on his cigarette, waited, and shrugged. 'I'll tell her you're not up for it then, shall I?'
'Everything?' Palmer's voice, helium-high, his breathing ragged.
'That's what she said. She's had it with loads of blokes, done all sorts, it's not a big deal really. Probably suck you off as well…' He ran a hand across his head. His normally thick black hair had been cut suede head-short for the summer.
'What does she want me to do?'
'Just fuck her, mate.' Then a snort and a laugh. Nicklin's voice high too, his movements jerky. Excited…
Palmer turned to look at him, his palm already pressing against the front of his trousers. 'No… I want to. I just mean, does she want me to go outside or will she…? Come on, Stu… what?' Trying to force a smile. Mates together. Not scared.
'Just get it out. She's probably got her pants off already. I'll go and get her.' Nicklin flicked his cigarette into the corner and strolled outside.
After a few seconds, Palmer could hear him round the side of the building, whispering to Karen. He strained to hear the noise of clothing being removed, listened for the sounds that he always imagined he would hear before sex – a moan in the throat, a catch in the breath. The only breathing he could hear was his own; rapid, desperate, unsexy, as he loosened his belt and reached for his zip. He turned away from the doorway and stared at the wall, trying to calm down. Trying not to think of the things she was going to do to him. Someone had scrawled a cock on the dusty grey breezeblocks. He looked down at his own, far less impressive member and began to rub at the red marks around his belly where his waistband had pinched. He heard movement in the doorway behind him. Her voice was almost enough to end it before it had even begun.
'Ready then, Martin?'
His hand had moved to his cock without him even realising it. He was moaning softly and stroking himself even as he was turning round to look at her, smiling…
Karen and Nicklin stood in the doorway, their mouths open, clutching on to one another, waiting for the best moment to let the laughter out. Karen was the first to crack, but the laugh died almost as soon as it came out of her mouth and she looked quickly away. Nicklin began to howl, slapping his sides as Palmer had seen people do in films. Nicklin saw the look on his victim's face and spat out his scorn in between the laughs. 'Fuck, Palmer, it was a joke. I was joking…'
Karen glanced back. 'Jesus…'
Nicklin pointed at Palmer's crotch with a groan of disgust and Palmer's fist tightened instinctively around his soft, shriveled penis. Karen leaned against the doorframe. 'Jesus, Martin…'
'You've upset her now,' Nicklin said. Karen began to cry softly and the amusement vanished from Nicklin's voice in an instant. 'You really have upset her, you stupid bastard. Because you don't know a fucking joke when you hear one, you pervert…'
There was nothing left to do then but run, as he should have done that day in the park, and the summer before that, and a dozen or more times in between.
He ran without stopping to dress himself, clutching his trousers to his waist, bolting through the doorway, between the boy with the short black hair who was tugging with his teeth at the wrapper of a chocolate bar, and the girl in the blue dress who was sobbing. He ran away towards the grassy, green embankment. He ran, his head down, towards the housing estate. Wiping the tears away as he charged through the long couch grass and clattered across a rusting sheet of corrugated iron.
He ran far away from the nest of snakes.
FIVE
'How are they working together?'
It was the first question Brigstocke had asked him the previous night on the phone, and it was the first question he put to them now as a group. They were gathered in the bigger of the two offices. Brigstocke, Thorne, Holland and McEvoy. The core of an investigation that had been sizeable before and overnight had become the biggest that London had seen in a long time. Thorne's answer now, was the same as it had been a few hours earlier. He had no idea, but he hoped that together, they might come up with something, anything, that might point the hundreds of officers and civilians working on the case in the right direction. The hundreds working in the industry of killing…
'It seems likely that they kill alternate victims.' Brigstocke looked as though he hadn't had a lot of sleep the night before. Thorne hadn't had a great deal himself, but he hadn't had Jesmond giving him grief at the same time. Thorne looked at his DCI and saw, as if he needed another one, an object lesson in the benefits of avoiding promotion. He didn't need a lecture from a desk jockey like Jesmond. He knew full well that those wondrous, imaginary places where the buck stopped and where credit, if any, would be due, were a long way apart.
Brigstocke leaned forward, his fingers interlocked in front of him on the desk, his voice a little hoarse but crackling with urgency all the same. 'The evidence suggests that they are different types, psychologically as well as physically, but we need to know how they.., interact. Do they attack their victims together and simply carry out the actual killing individually? Maybe one kills while the other keeps a lookout…
'I don't think that's likely.' Holland was the first to speak up. Thorne was as impressed as always at the confidence, at how far he'd come in a year.
Brigstocke nodded. 'Go on, Holland…'
'Margie Knight's statement made no mention of a second man… of anybody else at all in the immediate vicinity as far as I can remember, and nothing that Charlie Garner has said would indicate that there was more than one man.'
'Have another word with Margie Knight,' Brigstocke said. His eyes met Thorne's.
'I'll give the Enrights a ring.' Thorne was already hoping that he would not need to speak to them again in person. At least not until he had good news. 'Holland's right though, sir, the boy's said nothing at any time about two men…'
One was bad enough wasn't it, Charlie?
'I think we're forgetting about the time element here.' McEvoy sounded as tired as Brigstocke. Thorne looked across at her and thought that she didn't look a whole lot better.. 'They could have killed Carol Garner and Ruth Murray together, or at least both have been present when she was killed, but the stabbings in July almost overlap time wise and they were miles apart. Each of them has got to be working on their own.'
'I agree,' Thorne said. It was about as much as he was sure of.
'OK, so the chances are that, even though they kill on the same day, they kill separately, but we have to presume that they plan these murders carefully. For Christ's sake, they must get together to work everything out, discuss dates…'
Thorne shook his head. 'I don't think we can presume anything.'
It was possible that the men they were after might never even have met. Thorne had read about a pair of killers in the United States who did their butchering separately but who got their kicks out of communicating with each other. They discussed the selection of potential victims by phone and over the Internet. They egged each other on and then compared notes after the event. They shared the experience but never actually clapped eyes on one another. Thorne shivered as he recalled reading that one of the murderous pair had used his last breath to send best wishes to his partner in crime, seconds before they'd administered the lethal injection. If it was true, at least financially, that when the USA sneezed, the UK caught a cold, might it not also be the case when it came to one of the biggest growth industries of all?
McEvoy took out a cigarette and lit it. 'You said that the
killers were probably different psychologically. What about bringing a profiler in?'
Brigstocke nodded first towards the cigarette and then the window. McEvoy sighed, stood up and strode across to the window while Brigstocke answered her question. 'I've already been on to the National Crime Faculty…' McEvoy opened the window and winced. Third floor, December, it was a little bit more than fresh air.
'Jesus…' Holland turned and grimaced at McEvoy. She took another drag, mouthed 'sorry' at him and blew the smoke out of the window.
Brigstocke continued. 'Both the profilers on the current recommended list are busy on other cases…'
Shivering, Thorne reached for the leather jacket he had slung across the back of his chair. 'Which kills you quicker, passive smoking or pneumonia? This is ridiculous…'
McEvoy took a last drag, flicked the butt out into the wind and closed the window. 'Bunch of girls,' she scoffed, moving back to the desk. As soon as she'd sat down again, she locked eyes with Brigstocke and carried on as if nothing had happened. 'Both the profilers, you said. Are you telling me that there are only two of them in the whole country? Two?'
'Two that are actually recommended, yes.'
'That is fucking ridiculous.' Brigstocke shrugged. McEvoy shook her head in disbelief. 'Oh come on… profilers aren't like psychics, you know. It's a recognised science. Sir?'
She looked at Thorne for support. She'd picked the wrong man. 'I don't think now's the time to discuss the pros and cons of profiling, Sarah. Whatever any of us think, there isn't one available anyway.'
'Couldn't we find our own?'
Holland grinned at her. 'I'll grab the Yellow Pages shall I?'
Brigstocke brought the discussion to a close. 'Listen, if we find somebody ourselves, if we use someone who's not on the NCF list and we fuck it up, we'll all be ironing uniforms again the next day. Nobody wants that kind of bad publicity.'
Thorne looked up from the notepad in front of him. He'd been doodling.
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