'Martin? Are you feeling all right, mate?' The second man now, the concerned colleague, pushing back his chair, looking around. Palmer, eyes wide, mouth dropping, yes.., actually dropping open. Skin the colour of old newspaper.
Nicklin nodded, showed his teeth. 'Hello, Mart. This is great, isn't it?'
Palmer, struck dumb, his face frozen. Drool running from the corner of his slack mouth and running gently down onto the immaculate white tablecloth.
Staring, terrified, at his past.
NINE
Nearly three weeks since Charlie Garner had watched his mother die. A fortnight to the day since the case had officially begun. Eight days before Christmas.
An office full of people waiting…
Thorne watched as they moved around him, heads down mostly, exchanging smiles of resignation when pressed. Carrying files, answering phones, tapping at keyboards a little harder than was necessary. Frustrated, bored, some of them pissed-off for reasons of their own, others wiped out by the weekend, but all aware, to some degree, that they were doing no more than going through the motions. The e-fit of the man seen by Margie Knight and Michael Murrell, the suspect in both the Jane Lovell and Ruth Murray murders, was on the front page of most of the papers today. But Thorne wasn't waiting for the phones to start ringing. He wasn't waiting for helpful punters, eager to pass on the news that the man in the picture might be the brother of a friend, or was like a workmate's husband, or looked a little bit like the man in the flat upstairs.
Thorne was waiting for the bodies.
Since it had become clear that they were looking for two killers, violent crime against women was being carefully monitored right across the city. Monitored and sifted. They were looking for the murder, the attempted murder, the assault perhaps.., then waiting for its hideous mirror image to appear. Looking for both halves. Thorne remembered a kids' card game: the object was to collect as many pairs as possible.
I've got two stabbings, two stranglings… what have you got?
It hadn't been a particularly busy Sunday night, thank god. A lot of stuff had come in, but almost all of it was quickly dismissed. Of those cases that raised even a modicum of interest, none looked very promising. A woman attacked by another woman with a bottle outside a pub in Canning Town. A stabbing in Willesden, almost certainly a domestic. A woman threatened with a gun in Clapham, probably a botched robbery or an attempted rape…
The picture was also being shown on every news bulletin and it quickly began generating results. The calls came in. By midmorning there was a list of names. None of them appeared more than once. Brigstocke did his best to rally the troops and stop sweating. Thorne tried to stay busy. All of them, wading through treacle. Over two pints and a tomato juice at lunchtime, Holland tried, a little clumsily, to articulate the frustration they were feeling.
'It's like having sex, without ever coming…'
Thorne puffed out his cheeks. It was an… interesting analogy. McEvoy grinned. 'Yeah, well now you know what it's like then.' She laughed, and Thorne joined in. Holland blushed, took a sip of his tomato juice. 'I'm talking generally of course, Dave,' McEvoy added,
'I'm sure Sophie has no complaints.'
Holland said nothing. Thorne heard him say it.
'Sorry. Have I…?' She looked from Thorne to Holland and back again. 'What, am I not talking like a proper lady?' She emphasised the last word comically, as if it were spelt with a 'y' in the middle and two e's on the end.
Thorne smiled. 'Well at least you're in a better mood than you were on Saturday. Good weekend?'
It was McEvoy's turn to redden. 'Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Just woke up feeling arsey. Weekend was.., fine. Great, actually. Thanks.'
Before the silence had a chance to make itself uncomfortable, Thorne caught sight of Brigstocke in the pub doorway, scanning the crowd, looking for them. Thorne waved and the DCI came over. Before he arrived at the table, Thorne could tell from his face that there was news.
Simply a question of how bad…
'Got a fax through ten minutes ago. The description of a man who threatened a woman with a gun near Clapham South tube station last night…'
Thorne's shoulders lifted. A reflex as the jolt ran through him. The tingle. Not bad news at all…
McEvoy could see where Brigstocke was going. 'Not attempted robbery or rape then?'
Thorne answered her, quietly. 'Attempted murder.'
Brigstocke nodded. 'Sounds like our man. Tall, thickset, sandy hair, glasses. Better add bleeding as well. Woman he pulled a gun on says she beat the shit out of him with a high-heeled shoe.'
McEvoy swallowed a mouthful of beer. 'Fucking good.'
'When can we talk to her?' Holland asked.
'I'm trying to arrange it. She's being looked after by her family obviously she's still upset.' Brigstocke moved to sit down. Thorne shuffled along to make room for him. 'Hopefully by the end of the day
…' Brigstocke sighed and allowed himself the first smile that Thorne had seen for a few days.
Thorne stood up and reached for his jacket. If the man with the gun was one of the men they were looking for, then thankfully, one killer had failed. Thorne felt certain that the other one would not have done…
The object: to collect pairs.
Thorne disliked being the one to remove the smile from Brigstocke's face, but didn't hesitate to do so.
In his head it was a scream. It came out like a whisper.
'Somewhere, there's a woman who's been shot to death. I want to find her.'
London was a city of ghosts, some deader than others. Thorne knew that in this respect, it wasn't unlike any other major city – New York or Paris or Sydney – but he felt instinctively that London was.., at the extreme. It was probably down to the history of the place. The darker side of that history, as opposed to the parks, palaces and pearly kings' side that made busloads of Japanese and American tourists gawk and jabber. The hidden history of a city where the lonely, the dispossessed, the homeless, wandered the streets, brushing shoulders with the shadows of those that had come before them. A city in which the poor and the plague-ridden, those long-since hanged for stealing a loaf or murdered for a shilling, jostled for position with those seeking a meal, or a score, or a bed for the night. A city where the dead could stay lost a long time. Thorne had known about London's skill at concealing its cadavers for as long as he had been a police officer, but it still disturbed him. Those that died peacefully at home, could lie rotting in their front rooms for weeks and months, attracting the rats and the flies, and eventually the attention of the neighbour with the well-developed sense of smell.
Those that died violently, those whose killers did not want them found, could lie alone and out of sight for far longer. Buried, burned or bricked up, dismembered, dumped or weighted down in water, until those that looked for them were only memories themselves. Until the dead were no more than a page in a yellowing file, or a name on a set of dental records.
Of course, such things happened in small towns and in villages, in places where they were still remarkable, but there was something about London which, Thorne felt, suited anonymous death. There were those that bleated on about how their particular area of the city was a little community, no really it was, friendly and welcoming… Thorne knew that, in reality, this meant little more than the newsagent calling you by your first name and the barman in your local maybe knowing what your tipple was. When it came down to it, you could still lose touch with your best friend if he lived more than two streets away, and the reaction of many Londoners to a woman being raped on their train would be to raise their newspapers a little higher. Thorne's depressing reflections on the city where he had been born, where he lived and worked, were prompted by the simple and not unexpected fact, that by the end of the day, they had still not found the body they knew was out there. They had of course been monitoring missing persons' reports but nothing had come in. The victim had not been missed yet. There could be a hundred reasons why. Now, as he a
nd Holland drove towards Wandsworth to question the woman who had survived the attempted murder the night before, Thorne tried to stop thinking about the woman who hadn't. Her body, wherever it lay, might hold vital clues that even now were disappearing as the corpse changed shape, texture, consistency; popping and sighing gently.
The city would give it up when it was ready. In the meantime, Thorne had a whole list of things to worry about. A real cause for concern was the fact that the killings were speeding up. It had been nineteen days since Carol Garner and Ruth Murray. Jane Lovell and Katie Choi died over four months before that. A shortening of the intervals between killings was a predictable pattern, but this was dramatic. Unless of course there were murders in between the two sets that they'd missed… Thorne quickly dismissed this chilling thought, setting for the slightly less disturbing one that for the killers, the hunger was really starting to take hold. The killers…
Thorne's other major worry. Two killers but one of them was, as yet, no more than theoretical. A shadow. They were on their way to talk to a woman who'd come face to face with one of them. The same one seen by Margie Knight and Michael Murrell. The one whose face was all over every newspaper and TV screen. Was he the careless one?
The sloppy one? Or was his partner just so much better at covering his tracks, at killing and killing, and staying invisible?
The killer who had given them their only leads, the one whose blank, bespectacled face now stared out from a hundred thousand posters, was the one who killed quickly and efficiently; the single stab wound, the sustained pressure on the neck.., the killer that wept. He was not the one who butchered and walked unseen into the darkness covered in blood. He was not the one that throttled the life out of Carol Garner, smashing and squeezing while her little boy watched. He was not the one…
Thorne wanted the killer on those posters. He wanted him very badly. But he wanted his partner more.
Sean Bracher glanced at his watch as he stood at the bar waiting for the useless wanker behind it to bring his drink. She was late.
He wasn't worried that she wouldn't come, just slightly annoyed that he'd have to get up again to fetch her a drink when she finally deigned to arrive. He handed over the money for his beer without a word, grabbed a huge handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar and strolled across to a table.
He wasn't planning on sleeping with her tonight. Obviously he wasn't going to say no if he turned out to be wrong, but he guessed that Jo, for all her flirting, was the type to make him wait for it. Jane had made him wait too, only the one more night mind you, and it had certainly been worth waiting for. It was only ever going to be a fling of course – he'd made that clear from the word go and she was cool about it. He didn't want to be tied down to anybody, least of all a receptionist, but it certainly made the working day, not to mention the odd weekend business trip, a damn sight more interesting. She'd turned out to be kinky as fuck…
He stuffed a fistful of peanuts into his mouth and looked around. The place was starting to fill up with those grateful to have got another Monday over with, desperate for a quick one before the struggle home on the train or the bus. Somebody had left a rolled-up copy of the Standard on the next table. He reached across for it and began idly flicking through the sports pages.
Yeah, it was a nice pub. They would grab a couple here and then head off for an Italian or something. Nothing with too much garlic. He'd done exactly the same thing with Jane on their first date, over six months before.
Jo was actually better looking than Jane, but not as much of a laugh. He missed the piss-taking with Jane, the wind-ups, the crack. He'd encouraged her to flirt with that freak in the overseas section. That had been hysterical. The pillock had fallen for it one hundred per cent. Stammering and blushing. Went fucking ballistic when he found out he'd been had. Christ though, if you couldn't have a laugh at work… He looked at his watch again. Checked his mobile for messages. Why the hell were women always so fucking late? She had been keen enough when he'd suggested meeting. He typed in a quick text message and sent it. Where r u? Probably still in the ladies back at the office, tarring herself up. On second thoughts, maybe he would end up giving her one later. Her place preferably, no reason to stay the night then…
He smiled, mentally in bed with her already, as he flipped the Standard over. He glanced down at the front page and almost choked on his peanuts.
The young student got off the bus on Kingsland High Street. From there it was only a two-minute walk up the Dalston Road to her flat. The evening was surprisingly mild. He took off his jacket as he went along and threw it across his arm. Walking quickly, looking through the windows of second-hand record shops and Greek cafes, thinking about the way she'd looked at him the night before. She'd smiled a lot, raising her eyebrows, the tip of her tongue just visible against her top teeth. She had a laugh that made people on the other side of the pub stare. They'd all been a bit the worse for wear, celebrating their team's quiz win by drinking the first prize. Then the pair of them had stood at the bus stop at Highbury Corner, talking, letting three or four buses come and go before walking home – her off towards Dalston and him, in the other direction, towards the small, damp cupboard he rented in Tufnell Park.
They'd agreed to meet for lunch today at Pizza Express. He'd slept until really late and in the end he'd had to rush to get there on time, arrived out of breath and sweating. He'd waited for over an hour. It had been a casual sort of arrangement, maybe far more casual than he remembered – he had drunk an awful lot of Guinness – but he had expected her to come. She didn't have a phone at her flat so he'd rung her mobile a couple of times during the afternoon, left messages. He was halfway through dialing her number again when he'd decided to go round. It was only ten minutes away and the bus was virtually door to door. He was sure she'd be glad to see him. Yes, they'd both had a lot of Guinness, but he was pretty sure she would be. It was a dirty white door between a shoe shop and a cut-price travel agency. Three bells, her name underneath the top one. He rang.
He put his jacket back on; she'd said she liked it last night. Looked up at the windows above him. An old man peered down at him from the first floor. Maybe they could go and have a pizza now – there were loads of places in Islington. Or they could just sit around, smoke a bit maybe, order something later. Whatever, it would just be really nice to see her.
He rang again…
'Don't let Bracher go anywhere. Just keep him there…'
Thorne and Holland had been heading south towards Blackfriars Bridge when Thorne's mobile had rung and he was informed that Sean Bracher was currently annoying the duty officers at Charing Cross, shouting about how he was one hundred and ten per cent certain, that the man in the e-fit was someone he worked with, someone from Baynham amp; Smout…
Thorne had all but yanked the wheel out of Holland's hands. The woman in Wandsworth, Jacqueline Kaye, could wait until tomorrow. This was someone who they needed to talk to right now. They'd been to the office… Jesus, even Lickwood had been to the office, and the fucker had been there all the time…
Now, Thorne was talking to a DI at Chafing Cross as well as trying to give Holland instructions on the new route they were taking.
'What's the name?' Thorne nodded solemnly as he was told, then began waving his arm in front of Holland's nose. 'Go right, we'll cut through Lincoln's Inn Fields.'
Holland smacked a palm angrily on the wheel and did as he was told, keeping one eye on Thorne, watching his reactions, desperate to be told the details.
'Has Bracher told anybody else? Anybody at work? Good…'
Thorne pointed some more, grunting into the phone, meeting Holland's sidelong glance and nodding. This was major. As the unmarked Rover roared along the Strand, Thorne began to shout into the phone, as if he was losing the signal. 'We'll be there in about ten minutes.., yes, ten.'
He punched the button to end the call and turned to Holland. 'Sean Bracher…'
Holland's phone began to ring.
'Fuc
k..;' Holland groped inside his jacket for the mobile.
'Bet you it's for me,' Thorne said, 'I could hear the call-waiting signal on mine…'
'River?' Holland asked, pulling out the phone. Thorne nodded. Holland answered. 'Hello? Right…' He handed the phone across.
'McEvoy.'
Five pounds to the good, a smiling Thorne took the phone. Sarah McEvoy was out of breath. She'd run to make the call.
'We've got a man fitting our description, a man named Martin Palmer…' The smile froze on Thorne's face. It was the same name he had heard a few moments before; the name Bracher had given.
'Palmer walked into West Hampstead nick half an hour ago, dropped a gun on to the desk and confessed to two murders.'
'OK, we're on our way.'
Holland grimaced, unsure which direction to head in now. Thorne pointed north. Keep going.
'Slight problem,' McEvoy said. 'West Hampstead doesn't have a custody suite.'
'Fuck.' Thorne thought fast. 'Right, Kentish Town's about the nearest. Get somebody to run him over.'
'I'll call them and get straight down there.'
'Good. We should be with you in about fifteen minutes.'
McEvoy was already there by the time Thorne and Holland arrived. The three of them stood outside the room where Martin Palmer was being held. McEvoy filled them in on the details. He had walked calmly into the station to give himself up at around about the same time that Bracher had barged into Chafing Cross, shouting his name out. Palmer hadn't been cautioned. He was there of his own volition.
Holland sat down on one of the green plastic chairs that were bolted in a row along the wall. 'He saw the picture too, must have. Knew somebody was going to recognise it. Thought he'd be doing himself a favour.' McEvoy looked across at him, nodded her agreement. Thorne stared at the door. 'Maybe…'
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