‘You and Mum. All those funny looks and not saying anything.’
‘Can’t you find anything else to watch?’ Charli asked. ‘This is shit.’
‘You said you didn’t care what was on.’
‘Yeah, but it’s like I can feel my brain cells dying off.’ Her chin dropped on to the cushion and she let out a theatrical snore. ‘Old people buying rubbish then trying to sell it to other old people.’
‘It’s since yesterday.’ Danny flicked through the channels. ‘Whatever’s going on with you and Mum. After she sent me down here to get her wine or whatever.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Yeah, you do. I knew something was going on. Like she was trying to get rid of me or something.’
‘Why would she be doing that?’
‘You must think I’m stupid.’
‘No, but I think you’re a dick who can’t find anything decent to watch on telly.’
‘It was something about Steve, wasn’t it?’
‘What was?’
‘The row you and Mum had.’
Charli sighed as though her brother was simply being too ridiculous to engage with any further. The same way she did whenever he tried to talk to her about music or how slaggy her friends were, or when he commented on what she was wearing. She waited for him to turn back to the television, then shouted, ‘Oi!’ When he turned round, she laughed and threw the cushion at him, but he raised an arm to swat it away, in no mood to mess around.
Charli said, ‘What’s up with you?’
‘What’s up with me?’
They said nothing for a while. It was a lot quieter outside the house than they had become used to and there was no need to turn the volume up on the television to drown out the shouts. Danny tuned back into Bargain Hunt, ignoring the tutting from the sofa, the comments about how lame the programme was, how lame he was. He watched for another few minutes, then threw down the remote and stood up.
‘This is such bollocks.’
‘So find something else,’ Charli said.
‘No, you, I mean. You’re being such a bitch and I’m completely sick of it.’
‘Calm down. Jesus …’
‘We’ve got to be honest with each other, you said.’ Danny began kicking at the base of the armchair. He would not look at her. ‘Always tell the truth. No bullshit, you said.’ He was kicking harder, the chair inching across the carpet. ‘No bullshit.’ He turned to look at her, shaking his head. His mouth was tight as though he were about to spit or burst into tears. ‘And what’s so funny is that you’re full of it.’
Charli watched her brother march out. She winced as the door slammed behind him and hugged the cushion that little bit tighter.
He had every right to be angry with her, because now she wasn’t telling him things and she had promised that she would, and he was anything but stupid. That’s how families worked, wasn’t it? You could pick up on any little thing, a falling-out or whatever. The smallest change in the atmosphere, like a draught coming from somewhere.
Usually, anyway.
The day before, upstairs, with Danny out of the way, she had been so angry. How on earth could her mum have asked her something like that? Where the hell had it come from?
Easy to understand now, of course. Charli had seen all the stuff on her Facebook page, the links to the story in the paper, the things that girl had said about Steve. Danny had seen it all too, the stupid comments and the photos posted by trolls with nothing better to do. He knew just as well as Charli did why there weren’t quite so many people outside the house any more. Now, a lot of the reporters were outside that girl’s house. Now, she’d know what it was like to be shouted at and studied like you were one of those sad white mice in the school biology lab.
Maybe it was exactly what the girl deserved.
Maybe, because actually Charli couldn’t tell what the truth was any more. Not even when she was telling things to herself. She wanted to make it all better with her mum, but wasn’t sure how. She probably just needed to leave it be for a while, let everything settle down a bit.
She rubbed at the small dark spot on the shitty brown cushion; watched the next one form and the next, then lifted it to her face to press the tears away.
She knew why her mum was being the way she was. Why she was angry with herself as much as anybody else. Why she felt guilty and couldn’t look at anyone and was floating around the place like a ghost who’d died with a bottle in her hand.
Her mum had asked her a question and Charli had answered it.
And her mum thought she had lied.
Linda had been talking for a while.
She sat at the kitchen table, sometimes staring down at the scarred laminate and sometimes looking to the two police officers for a reaction. She talked, while Carson and Gallagher listened. Or rather they did a good job of looking as though they were listening. Both were well used to scenarios such as this; to nodding or smiling or shaking their heads at the right moments and they both felt strongly that being able to … ‘tune out’ when necessary did not make them any less caring or empathetic. Carson had spent a good deal of the previous half-hour thinking about what to do when her mother was no longer able to look after herself, while Gallagher had been trying to decide whether to sleep with a married firearms officer who had made it pretty clear that he was bang up for it.
‘You’ve got to admit, this makes a hell of a difference, right?’ Linda leaned too hard on the newspaper, which tore as she pushed it across the table towards the officers. Both had read the story already, but Carson stepped forward, pretended to look at the front page again. ‘Yeah, I know … well she would say that, blahdy-blah … but there’s got to be enough to make them think about it, surely. Make them … reconsider a bit. Your boss, I’m talking about. The powers that be. The … senior investigating officer.’ She put on a bizarre sing-song accent as she carefully enunciated the words; like she was announcing a visiting dignitary from some exotic country. ‘Maybe not enough to get the charges dropped, but, I don’t know, enough to get them … lowered.’ She laughed and looked to Carson and Gallagher for a reaction.
‘Look, Linda, I couldn’t say even if I did know something,’ Carson said. ‘But I can promise you that I don’t.’
‘Oh, it’s “Linda” now, is it? Linda. That’s nice, makes me feel all warm and tingly. Maybe we should have a group hug or something.’
‘Would you prefer I didn’t use your first name any more?’
‘Yes, matter of fact I would.’ Linda sat back and folded her arms. ‘I’d like you to call me Mrs Bates … no, wait, bollocks to that … I’d like you to call me madam.’
Carson said, ‘Whatever you want.’
Linda cocked her head and peered at the photograph of Aurora Harley. ‘I wonder if he touched her too, the old bastard. Wouldn’t mind betting his own family wasn’t off limits.’
Carson looked at Gallagher who shrugged, equally confused.
‘Anyway,’ Linda said, ‘this business with the alibi isn’t going to make much difference one way or another, because there’s going to be proof. Oh yeah … proper forensic proof, so it’s all going to change and you’ll have to say “duh … we got it wrong” and let him go.’
Carson and Gallagher waited.
‘What?’ Linda leaned across the table. ‘What? Bloody hell, look at you two … pair of ugly fucking bookends. An ice-queen and a shortarse Jock …’
‘Shall I make us some coffee?’ Gallagher asked.
Linda laughed. ‘You can have whatever you fancy, but I certainly don’t want coffee. What is it with you lot and fucking hot drinks? I don’t want coffee or tea or … hot chocolate.’
‘OK.’
‘Or fucking Horlicks. Christ’s sake.’ She sat breathing heavily for half a minute. She rolled her head around slowly, then looked up and pointed at the two officers. ‘Anyway, you won’t be around for much longer, because there’s real proof coming and your case is going to collapse like a shit sandcastle or whatever
and everyone’s going to know you’ve all been wasting your time. You hear me? Real proof.’
Carson sniffed. ‘You said that already, madam.’
‘That’s better.’ Linda nodded, pleased. ‘A bit of respect, for a change.’
‘So, what’s going to happen, Linda? When this amazing bit of proof comes along and knocks our sandcastle down.’ Though it had clearly been wine doing the talking, Carson had finally run out of patience and was eager to get a dig in. She pushed the tattered newspaper back towards Linda; the picture of the girl who had been sleeping with her husband. ‘You going to welcome him back with open arms?’
‘Oh, I don’t want the fucker back,’ Linda said. ‘I know what he didn’t do and I know damn well what he did do, and whatever happens when he gets out he’s not coming back to me and my kids. He’s not coming back to Charli.’ She shook her head. ‘We’ll be fine as we are, thank you very much, just like we were before I ever met him.’ She held up her left hand, stared at the mark where her wedding ring used to be. ‘What, you seriously think I’d take him back?’
She rubbed at the small dark spot on the newspaper; watched the next one form and the next …
SIXTY-NINE
‘Nice,’ Thorne said. Nodding approvingly, he followed Hendricks along a carpeted hallway lined with framed black and white photographs into a smart, modern kitchen. Every inch of bleached wood and stainless steel was spotless. ‘Looks like you landed on your feet.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Hendricks was barefoot, wearing a black vest and tracksuit bottoms. He padded across the tiles and loaded a capsule into a shiny Nespresso machine. ‘Not that I’ve spent a great deal of time on my feet.’ He flashed Thorne a grin. ‘On my knees, mostly.’
‘I don’t need the details.’
‘Don’t forget I’m doing all this for you.’
‘Course you are,’ Thorne said.
They took their coffees into an equally smart and tidy sitting room. Wooden floors and cowhide rugs, chrome and soft leather, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, high-end magazines and CDs which Thorne immediately began to peruse.
‘I told you I’d call,’ Hendricks said.
‘Sorry?’
‘When I heard anything from the lab.’
Thorne took out an album and examined it. He hadn’t heard of the band, but was impressed that the collection was in alphabetical order. ‘I know, but I thought I might as well come and keep you company in the meantime.’
‘Oh yeah?’
Thorne found an Emmylou Harris CD and waved it at Hendricks. The album she’d made with Daniel Lanois. ‘He’s got good taste in music, anyway.’
‘Mostly.’
‘How’s he afford all this on a lecturer’s salary and a bit of consulting work?’ Liam Southworth’s flat was on the top floor of a portered block a few miles from the Warwick University campus. Thorne had seen signs for the gym on the way in, the entrance to a private parking garage.
‘He is a senior lecturer.’
‘Still.’ Thorne put the CD back in its place and began poking around the room, touching things. He picked up a small, marble sculpture from the top of a cupboard. He had no idea what it was supposed to be, but it looked expensive. ‘Is there some kind of black market in dead beetles?’
‘I think he inherited some money,’ Hendricks said. ‘Not really talked about it.’
Thorne wandered back and sat down next to Hendricks on a sofa which looked a lot more comfortable than it felt. Hendricks passed him a wooden coaster for his cup which Thorne dutifully set down gently on the glass table next to him.
He smirked. ‘Look at you. Coasters.’
‘Not my place, is it?’
‘You weren’t wrong about the TV.’ Thorne nodded at the huge screen mounted on the wall, a built-in shelf lined with DVDs.
‘The sound’s incredible,’ Hendricks said.
‘I bet.’ Thorne had already clocked the sub-woofer, the Bose speakers high up in the corners of the room.
‘So, what you been doing with yourself?’ Hendricks sat back and sipped his latte. ‘Apart from turning up here to keep me company.’
‘I met up with Patterson, the pig farmer. Complete waste of time. After that, I went for a walk in the woods.’
Hendricks stared. If he had been at home and less concerned with not making a mess, he would probably have spat out his coffee for comic effect.
Thorne shrugged. ‘Yeah, I went back to the spot where Jessica’s body was found, hung about there for a bit. Then I just … walked around. You know, nice enough day.’
Now, it was Hendricks’ turn to smirk. ‘Look at you. Walking.’
‘No law against it.’
‘No, but you are normally someone who thinks there should be.’
Thorne did not want Hendricks to know that trudging through the woods for almost two hours had simply been about killing time; that although he was now enjoying himself considerably more, he was still trying to kill it.
He had no desire to talk about why.
‘So, what’s Helen up to?’
Hendricks knew him far too bloody well. Thorne guessed that his friend had known something was up from the moment Thorne had arrived out of the blue.
‘She’s just kicking around at Paula’s, I think.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘I think she wants to be on her own for a bit.’
‘Right …’
Hendricks was asking the question.
‘You were … bang on,’ Thorne said, eventually. ‘Remember you said something about home and bad memories? Turns out that town’s got some pretty bad ones for her. So …’ Thorne did not want to say any more. He knew that Helen would tell Hendricks what those bad memories were if and when she was ready; they were close enough. Seeing the look on his face now though, Thorne found himself wondering if Hendricks already knew. Or perhaps he had guessed. ‘Thing is, I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know if the things I did say were the right things.’
Hendricks put his drink down. ‘Not sure there’s ever any right things. You know … depends on the situation, obviously, but whatever it is … you just say what you’re feeling and you can’t go far wrong.’
‘I wanted her to feel better,’ Thorne said.
‘Course you did, mate. I’m sure you told her what she needed to hear.’
‘I hope so, Phil.’
‘I mean, you’re not a complete twat, are you?’ Hendricks smiled. ‘Not all the time.’
Hendricks phoned out for pizza and they ate from the boxes, in front of the TV. They talked about music and football for a while and Thorne asked a few more questions about Liam. When Brigstocke called again and Thorne dropped the call, they both enjoyed listening to the irate message the DCI left. Reading the text message that arrived from him a few minutes later, saying much the same thing.
FFS!! Maybe u should have quit after Bardsey. You’ll be lucky to end up back on the beat. Saw a vacancy for a lollipop man but that’s probably out of your league …
‘I think I’m getting addicted to daytime TV,’ Hendricks said.
Thorne had been enjoying his friend’s running commentary on Doctors, Win It, Cook It and especially Cash in the Attic. ‘That’s serious.’
‘I know and as far as I’m aware there isn’t a single support group, there’s no rehab centres.’
‘It’s disgusting,’ Thorne said.
They watched and took the piss, the pin-sharp images and surround-sound heightening each unintentionally comic gem and profoundly undramatic moment.
‘We could do this,’ Hendricks said.
‘What?’
‘Knock up a reality show.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Piece of piss. We just use what we know, right? How hard can it be? People love a bit of murder and forensics, don’t they? Ice ’Em, Slice ’Em, what about that?’
Thorne laughed, as he usually did. These sessions with Hendricks had often been the only time he was able to relax
during some of the tougher investigations they had worked on together. A way to decompress, to forget, if only for a few hours. But there was no way he could forget what Helen had told him. The pain in the telling and the deeper pain of those events she was recalling, still eating her up after almost thirty years.
Despite Hendricks’ best efforts, Thorne was craving the simple distraction of the Bates case.
The case he was not supposed to be involved in …
When Liam Southworth called, Thorne enjoyed seeing his friend’s face change, soften. He watched Hendricks turn away and lower his voice and Thorne decided it might be a good time to check out the toilet.
When he came back, Hendricks held up the phone and said, ‘We’re in business, mate. We’ve got Percy Pig in our bugs. A hundred per cent match for porky DNA. Good news, right?’
Thorne nodded, his mind already racing, but unable to go anywhere.
‘One thing, though.’ Hendricks told him that Cornish had already been informed, that Liam had been given no choice in the matter.
‘Doesn’t make any difference,’ Thorne said. ‘I won’t be holding my breath for an apology, or a “thank you”.’
‘So, what’s next?’
‘I haven’t got a fucking clue,’ Thorne said.
They sat around for another ten or fifteen minutes, but Thorne was unable to settle. When Hendricks got up to carry the pizza boxes into the kitchen, Thorne announced that he was heading back to Polesford.
‘You want me to come with you?’ Hendricks asked.
‘It’s fine,’ Thorne said. ‘I’ll call and tell you what’s happening.’
‘Let me know how Helen’s doing, will you?’
Thorne pulled on his jacket and said that he would. As he was walking to the door, Hendricks shouted through from the kitchen.
‘What about Corpse in the Attic? Come on, mate, you know that’s a winner.’
SEVENTY
Jason Sweeney knocked on the bedroom door and walked in without being invited. Helen was lying on the bed. She had picked up a book but been unable to focus and had read the same sentence several times without understanding it, before finally giving up.
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