Thorne cocked his head, said nothing.
Cornish stared just long enough to make it clear that a line was being drawn. He dropped his e-cig into the top pocket of his jacket and said, ‘Right then.’ He picked up his case and fastened it as he moved towards the door. ‘Look, it’s all extra. Stuff like his dodgy browsing history. It’s icing on the cake, right? We’ve got a body, we’ve got his DNA, we know he lied about the girls being in his car. A jury is not going to take very long, put it that way.’
‘So, he’s stuffed.’
‘Comprehensively.’
‘You’ve done a good job,’ Thorne said. ‘Wish they were all that easy.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have said it was “easy”, but it’s definitely not a case we need any help with. See what I’m saying?’ Cornish opened the door and waited for Thorne to leave ahead of him. ‘How’s your other half doing with Bates’ wife?’
Thorne looked at him. At that moment, Helen was on her way to the magistrates’ court too, with Linda Bates. She and Thorne had arranged to meet for lunch in the centre of Nuneaton as soon as they were both free.
‘She’s doing OK.’
‘That’s good.’
‘A shoulder to cry on, you know?’
‘Poor cow.’ Cornish blinked at Thorne. ‘Linda Bates.’
‘Listen, would you mind if I had a quick look at the file?’
Cornish pulled the door to his office closed and studied Thorne for a second or two. He patted his top pocket. ‘Like I said, we don’t really need any … input, so is there a good reason why you’d want to do that?’
Thorne watched a young woman walking towards them. ‘Not really.’
‘Just as a professional courtesy, kind of thing, right?’ Cornish spoke calmly enough, but made it obvious that he believed both ‘professional’ and ‘courtesy’ to be words that Thorne was, at best, no more than dimly acquainted with.
The woman, who was wearing jeans and a tailored leather jacket touched Cornish on the shoulder and said, ‘Have fun, boss.’
‘Holiday reading,’ Thorne said.
He dragged the contents of two thick manila folders out and laid them on the empty desk Cornish had pointed him towards. As he organised them, Thorne was aware that he was being watched by several of Cornish’s team, who made no attempt to disguise the fact.
He looked up and caught the eye of the woman he had seen ten minutes earlier outside Cornish’s office. He smiled at her. An older man at a desk opposite was staring; nose like an old spud, twisting an elastic band around his fingers. Thorne gave him a smile too. He said, ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of some tea?’ and the man slowly turned back to whatever it was he should have been doing.
Any information pertaining to the Bates investigation would have been entered immediately it had been gathered on to HOLMES – the home office large computer system – but Thorne still preferred hard copy. The feel of documents, a picture you could hold up to the light. You could miss things, scrolling through pages on a screen.
A creature of habit, like Helen had suggested.
His eyes were drawn immediately to the photographs of Jessica Toms’ body.
Mush in a bin-bag …
Cornish had been right; the body had only been partially burned, was not blackened except where it had putrefied. The heat had been enough to open the skin, but had left enough muscle and fat to attract the insects. Thorne had seen all this before: the remains more liquid by now than solid; tissue all but gone from the head and around the natural orifices; the creamy strips of bone beginning to show through the sludge.
A couple of weeks at least.
He set the photographs aside to read through the initial reports following the abductions of Jessica Toms and Poppy Johnston. The bald facts: dates, times last seen, witness statements.
He studied the results of the search at Bates’ house and garage. The analysis of data on his mobile phone and computer, including the times he had visited websites such as Barely Legal and Teasing Teens. He looked at the report confirming a DNA match between material found in Stephen Bates’ Vauxhall Nova and samples provided by the parents of both missing girls.
He read through the statements given by Stephen Bates. The transcripts of several interviews. The lies, signed to. Then he looked over the interview that Bates’ wife had given the day before.
Looking at their questions, he could sense the frustration of Cornish and Sophie Carson.
It was impossible to tell if Linda Bates was covering for her husband. If she was, it was equally difficult to tell if that was because she believed him to be wholly innocent. Thorne had watched the partners of plenty of men and women they knew to be guilty as sin, lying through their teeth for no other reason than they loved them.
He would ask Helen what she thought.
Thorne stuffed the papers and printouts back into their folders and stacked them one on top of the other. He looked up and saw that once again he had the undivided attention of the man with the elastic band.
Thorne blanked him, because he didn’t feel much like smiling any more.
Then he picked up the photographs of Jessica Toms’ body again. He laid them in a line and stared at them until it began to feel indecent.
THIRTY-TWO
Stephen Bates was trending on Twitter.
Normally, Charli would have been on it like a shot. She always checked out those topics, the ones everyone was talking about; it was how she got news. Which celeb was sleeping with which other celeb. Who had done or said something stupid. Who had died.
Not this time, obviously, because she knew what it would be like. Why was she even looking? Hadn’t she told Danny not to go anywhere near this stuff?
She checked to see what people who knew her were saying instead, and immediately wished she hadn’t. There were a couple of nice messages, a #staystrong hashtag, but the rest were all about Steve. Making disgusting suggestions, asking questions she did not want to think about. Maybe there were fewer messages from those girls she had really thought of as friends because they’d been told to steer well clear by their parents. At school, there were girls who would be treated like they had the plague if they wore stupid shoes or said something to the wrong boy.
Not really much of a surprise that Charli was being treated like she was a paedo or something.
Danny came in with a bottle of Coke and a large bag of crisps. He took one look at the computer and even though Charli was at the mirror on the other side of the room, he knew that she had been on it. He was the same at home. One glance at his laptop or his phone and he knew if someone had been messing with them. He changed his password every five minutes to stop their mum looking at his messages. Charli had seen him change it once and remembered the code; logged in when he was in the toilet. There was nothing much to see, just the usual teenage boy shit. Such and such a girl was well fit and some boy was gay. School was gay. Everything was fucking gay …
She had told him he needed to stop using that word, that it was offensive. What if one of his friends turned out to be gay? What if he was gay? He had taken the piss, obviously. Told her she was gay.
‘What you been looking at?’ he asked.
‘I just wanted to see what people were saying.’
‘You said to ignore it.’
‘I’m just bored.’
‘Yeah, when are they going to let us go out?’
Charli turned from the mirror, carried on teasing at her hair. ‘You want to go out?’
Danny shrugged. ‘See my mates.’
‘Everyone’s going to give you such a hard time.’
‘Let them try it.’
Charli wanted to run across and hug him right then, but knew that he wouldn’t let her. ‘Whatever happens, we might have to move, you know that, right?’
‘That’s not fair,’ Danny said. ‘I’m not moving anywhere.’
‘We might not have any choice. It’s what’s safest for us.’
‘I can look after myself
.’
‘For Mum, too.’
‘What do you mean, “whatever happens”?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you think is going to happen?’
‘Just saying. Either way.’
‘Is Steve going to prison?’
‘How should I know?’
Danny looked at her for a while, then flopped down on to the bed. He opened his crisps. ‘Remember that time you threw up after you’d been on that rollercoaster?’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, you do.’
‘When?’
‘When he took us to Alton Towers? Remember? When Steve took us.’
Charli shrugged. ‘So?’
‘It was your birthday and Steve said you could go anywhere you wanted, do whatever, and you said you wanted to try that new rollercoaster.’ He shoved a handful of crisps into his mouth, nodded. ‘Steve bought us massive burgers and Cokes before, remember, and then you chucked your lumps when we’d been on it and Steve and me were just pissing ourselves.’ He nodded again, stared up at the ceiling. ‘Yeah, that was ace, that was. That was an ace day …’
Charli said, ‘Yeah.’ Went back to teasing her hair.
‘There’s only one fed left downstairs.’ Danny twisted the cap off the bottle. ‘The one in uniform, you know?’
‘He’s all right,’ Charli said.
‘He’s a dick.’ Danny sat up and took a swig. ‘Kept calling me “mate” and asking me what kind of music I like.’
‘He’s just trying to be nice.’
Danny glared at her. ‘He doesn’t give a shit.’
Charli remembered her brother on his first day at school. Standing in the playground in a blazer that was too big and shoes that he’d somehow managed to scuff within moments of walking through the gates. Their mum had asked her to keep an eye on him, and Charli had promised that she would, but she’d forgotten about it after the first few days. She’d been too busy with her friends, partying and playing up to the sixth-form boys and, before she knew it, Danny had been strutting up and down the corridors; a group of them with their ties undone and hands round their bollocks like a gang of toy-town drug dealers.
He never even acknowledged her if they passed.
So stupid, when she knew him better than anyone. How soft and easily swayed he was. She knew that he just wanted to play computer games with his mates all day, that he loved nothing more than curling up in his onesie to watch Monsters Inc or Frozen with a bag of chocolate éclairs.
No bad thing, she thought, that they’d never be going back to that school again.
She walked across to the window and peered out.
‘A lot less of them today.’
‘I told you,’ Danny said.
‘What?’
‘Said they’d lose interest after a while.’
Charli let the curtain fall back, straightened it. She knew that those who had left would not be away very long. She knew that they had simply gone where the action was.
There were photographers of course, but not as many at the entrance to the public gallery as Linda had expected. Helen explained that a good number would be at the other side of the building, looking for that all-important shot of the police van that was carrying Steve. They would be hoping for a gaggle of angry onlookers and plenty of shouting, and someone might even throw something at the van, which was always a result.
Helen had known reporters to hand out eggs.
These days, it was not so much of a dilemma; the need to be in two places at once. Most of the papers would pay for any half-decent shot taken on a camera-phone. Wasn’t that always the first thing members of the public reached for? In a bombed-out tube train or at the site of a house fire. The smartphones would be aloft well before anyone thought about helping the injured or calling the emergency services.
They waited in silence while visitors produced ID, then walked in; slow and calm.
Helen had already given Linda instructions. ‘Don’t react,’ she had told her. ‘It’s exactly what they want. Don’t smile, because they’ll say “she looked smug” or that “she didn’t seem to care”. Don’t hide your face and whatever happens, try not to get pissed off. They’d love to see you getting angry.’
Linda had said, ‘They want to see me looking guilty.’
There were no empty chairs in the small public gallery. Members of the press were already busy with their phones and a line of court officials stood at the back, ready to step in should anyone shout or try to stand up. Helen sat to one side of Linda and a pair of uniformed police officers sat together on the other, to ensure separation between the accused’s wife and the families of Jessica Toms and Poppy Johnston.
Helen turned to look at them. The two sets of parents were easy enough to spot; hands held, breathing deeply. Based on pictures she had seen of the girls, Helen thought she could tell which set of parents was which. The woman she guessed was Jessica’s mother had the same round face as her daughter, the same colouring. Poppy’s father was tall and skinny, same as she was. The four were sitting together in a line at the front and Helen wondered if they had known each other before, if they had been friends. She wondered how the parents of the dead girl felt about those whose daughter was still only missing.
Only …
Sympathy? Envy? Resentment?
Helen could sense that the two couples knew she was looking at them and that they were choosing not to look back. It felt like a refusal.
For the first time since she had taken the decision to come back, she felt conflicted. Now, a few seats away from the parents of a dead girl, she could well understand the looks she was getting from Polesford residents seated nearby.
She told herself she was here for good reasons, for the right reasons.
She was reminding herself what those reasons were, when the judge entered and the court was told to rise.
It did not take long.
Once the judge was in position, the order was given to bring the defendant in. Bates was led into the dock. Linda watched him the whole time, but his eyes were fixed straight ahead.
The clerk of the court asked Bates to confirm his name and address.
Bates did so and was asked to sit down.
The prosecution counsel announced that the accused was charged with one count of murder and two counts of kidnapping. She asked for a preliminary hearing to be fixed at Warwick crown court in two weeks.
The defence counsel said that there would be no application for bail.
The judge made a note of it.
The defence counsel said that this was out of concern for her client’s safety.
The judge ordered Bates to stand. He announced that the case had been duly listed for a date two weeks from today and told Bates that he was to be remanded in custody until that time.
Then Bates was being led away. He nodded as the officer with him took hold of his arm and walked him out of the dock. Linda said his name, but not loud enough for anyone other than Helen to hear. The police officers stood to escort Linda from the gallery, making sure that she was on her way before the parents or anyone else.
The reporters were busily texting or tweeting as Linda climbed the steps towards the door. A voice hissed behind her.
‘Bitch …’
Linda and Helen turned together. There were several faces turned towards them. Expressions of scorn, disgust, naked hatred.
It could have been any one of them.
THIRTY-THREE
Thorne called from the car park at Nuneaton station.
‘How were the Cotswolds, then?’
‘We didn’t stay long.’
‘Buy yourself a nice pair of pink corduroy trousers?’
‘You got a minute, Phil?’
‘Well, I’ve got an appointment with a banker, but seeing as he chucked himself off a building at Canary Wharf yesterday afternoon, I don’t think he’s going anywhere.’
Thorne was well used to black humour from those who spent their working liv
es dealing with the dead, but his friend’s jokes were usually blacker and funnier than most. Phil Hendricks was the finest pathologist Thorne had ever worked with, despite an appearance that would frighten people coming out of a Slipknot concert. Thorne was always pleased to hear Hendricks in a good mood, even more so since the terrible events on Bardsey Island.
The price for their friendship, paid in blood and skin.
Thorne told Hendricks where he was calling from, and why. Like anyone else who read the newspapers or watched TV, Hendricks knew all about what was happening in Polesford, but was shocked to hear that Helen was so personally involved.
‘She’s not been herself since we got here.’
‘Never easy going home,’ Hendricks said.
Thorne understood. Hendricks had come out early and, though he had never said too much about it, Thorne guessed that life for a gay working-class teenager at a tough northern school had not been altogether easy. Hendricks was proud enough of where he came from, but did not go back to Manchester very often.
‘You know the body they found?’
‘The first girl, right?’
‘Jessica …’
Watching police vehicles come and go, the lightest of drizzles settling like mist on the windscreen, Thorne explained his concerns. He went over the same ground he’d covered with Cornish an hour before, but without the niceties.
‘I’m not sure there’s very much to get worked up about,’ Hendricks said, when Thorne had finished. ‘With all the other evidence.’
‘Yeah, I know how it sounds.’ It was much the same thing that Cornish had said. What anyone would say.
‘Dogs aren’t always that reliable anyway, mate.’
‘They’re usually pretty good at finding bodies.’
‘Mental, a lot of them are. My mate’s golden retriever sits there all day barking at clouds. Eats cat-shit like it’s tapas.’
‘All right, I know it’s not much.’
‘It’s bugger all, is what it is, Tom. They’ve got DNA, witnesses and we already know he lied about the girls.’
‘It’s just the body.’
‘You said.’
TT13 Time of Death Page 16
