She stared at herself in the mirror on the back of her bedroom door, striking a pose in bra and pants. She saw herself smiling as she thought again about the policeman who had answered the phone a week before. Impossible to picture from just the voice of course, but she'd tried anyway and was pretty keen on what she'd come up with. She was fairly sure that, crime scene or no crime scene, he'd been flirting with her on the phone, and she knew full well that she'd been flirting right back. Or had she been the one to start it?
She pulled on a white, FCUK T-shirt and went back into the kitchen to make her tea.
They'd sent a car round the day after she'd called, to collect the cassette from her answering machine. She told the two officers that she'd have been more than happy to bring it into the station, but, understandably, they seemed eager to take it with them.
Walking around the flat opening windows, she debated whether a week was quite long enough. She couldn't decide whether she should just turn up, or if it might be better to call. The last thing she wanted was to look pushy. She had every right of course, being involved, to see what was going on. It was only natural that she should be a bit curious after the business with the phone call, wasn't it? Surely, going along to enquire if there had been any progress in the case was no more than any other concerned citizen would do.
She suddenly realised that, wandering around the flat, she'd put her tea down and couldn't remember where. Sod it, the kitchen was close and she knew exactly where the fridge was. Opening the wine, she wondered if Detective Inspector Thorne was one of those funny blokes that got put off by women who appeared a bit keen. Maybe she'd leave it another day or two.
The evening was ridiculously warm. Elvis, Thorne's emotionally disturbed cat, looked uncomfortable following him from room to room, yowling like she was asking to be shaved. Thorne got sweaty cooking and eating cheese on toast wearing an open Hawaiian shirt and a pair of shorts he bought during a short-lived dalliance with a nearby gym. Thorne lay on the sofa and watched a film. He turned the sound on the TV. down and looked at the pictures with the radio on. He flicked through the music section in the previous week's edition of Timeout, trying to find the band with the most ridiculous name. Finally, just before midnight, his empties cleared away and nothing else to do which might put it off any longer, he reached for the phone.
It didn't matter that it was late. His father's body clock was only one of the systems that had broken down. In some ways, the Alzheimer's diagnosis had come as something as a relief. The eccentricities were now called symptoms, and for Thorne the vagaries of old age becoming certainties, however unpleasant, had at least provided a focus. Things had to be done, simple as that. Thorne still got irritated with the terrible jokes and pointless trivia, but the guilt didn't last as long as it had before. Now he just got on with it and the shape of the guilt had changed, hammered into something he could recognize as anger at an illness which took father and son and forced them to swap places. There was a financial burden now that wasn't always easy to meet, but he was getting used to it.
Jim Thorne was, at least physically, in pretty good nick for 71, but still, a carer had to visit daily and there was no way an old age pension was going to cover it. His younger sister Eileen, to whom he had never been close, traveled up from Brighton once a week, taking care to keep Thorne well informed of his dad's condition. Thorne was grateful though it seemed like a terribly British thing to him, families coming good when it was practically too late.
'Dad.'
'Oh, thank Christ, this is driving me mad! Who was the first Dr. Who? C'mon, this is doin' my head in.'
'Was it Patrick somebody? Dark hair.'
'Trenton was the second one, the one before Pertwee. Oh shit and belly confusion, I thought you might know.'
'Look in the book...I..I bought you that TV encyclopedia.'
'Fucking Eileen's tidied the bugger away somewhere. Who else might know?'
Thorne started to relax. His father was fine.
'Dad, we need to start thinking about this wedding.'
'What wedding?'
'Trevor, Eileen's son, your nephew.'
His dad took a deep breath and he breathed out again. The rattle in his chest sounded like a low growl.
'He's an arsehole. He was an arsehole when he got married the first time. Don't see why I have to go and watch the arsehole get married again.'
The language was unimaginative, but Thorne had to admit that his father had a point.
'You told Eileen you were going.'
There was a heavy sigh, a phlegmy cough, and then silence. After a few seconds, Thorne began to think his father had put the phone down and wandered away.
'Dad?'
'It's ages. It's ages away isn't it?'
'It's a week on Saturday. Come on, Eileen must have talked to you about it, she talks to me about sod all else.'
'Do I have to wear a suit?'
'Wear your navy one. It's light and I think it's going to be warm.'
'That's wool, the navy one. I'll bloody roast in the navy.'
Thorne took a deep breath, thinking, Please your bloody self. 'Listen, I'm going to come and pick you up on the day and we're stopping the night down there...'
'I'm not going down there in that bloody death-trap you drive...'
'I'll hire a car, all right? It'll be a laugh, we'll have a good time. OK?'
Thorne could hear a clinking, the sound of something metallic being fiddled with. His dad had taken to buying cheap, second-hand radios, disassembling them and throwing the pieces away.
'Dad? Is that OK? We can talk about the details closer to the day if you want.'
'Tom?'
'Yeah?'
To Thorne, the silence that followed seemed like the sound of thoughts getting lost. Slipping down cracks, just beyond reach and then gone, flailing as they tumbled into darkness. Finally, there was an engagement, like a piece of film catching, regaining its proper speed. Holes locking on to ratchets.
'Sort that Doctor Who thing out for me, will you, Son?'
Thorne swallowed hard. 'I'll ask around and call you tomorrow. OK?'
'Thanks...'
'And listen, Dad, dig out that navy suit. I'm sure it's not wool.'
'Oh shit, you never said anything about a suit...'
22 DECEMBER, 1975
They were both in the kitchen, a few feet apart, and nowhere near each other.
Just a couple of days till Christmas, and from the radio on the window sill the traditional songs did a good job of filling the silences. Seasonal stuff from Sinatra or Elvis mixed in with the more recent Christmas hits from Slade and Wizzard. That awful Queen song looked like it was going to be the Christmas Number One. He didn't like it much anyway but he knew that he'd never be able to hear it again without thinking about her, about her body, before and after. Her face and how it must have looked, Franklin pushing her down among the cardboard boxes... She stood with her back to him, washing up at the sink. He sat at the table and looked at the Daily Mirror. The newsprint, the soapsuds, the absurdly cheery DJ-things to look at and listen to as, separately, they both went over and over it. Remembering what had happened at the station that morning. Thinking about the police officer, pacing around the Interview Room, winking at the WPC in the corner, leaning down on the desk and shouting. He thought about the copper's face. The smile that felt like a slap.
She was thinking about the way he'd smelled.
'Right,' the officer had said. 'Let's go over it again.', and then, afterwards, he'd said it again, and again. Shaking his head indulgently when she'd finally broken down, beckoning the WPC who strolled across, pulling a tissue from the sleeve of her uniform, a minute or two, a glass of water and then they were back into it. The detective sergeant marching around the place, as if in all his years of training he'd never learned the difference between victim and criminal.
He'd done nothing, said nothing. Wanted to, but thought better of it. Instead, he'd sat and watched and listened to his wife
crying and thought stupid thoughts, like why, when it was so cold, when he was buttoned up in his heaviest coat, was the bastard detective sergeant in shirtsleeves? Rings of sweat beneath both beefy arms.
Now there was a choir singing on the radio... He stood up and walked slowly towards the sink, stopping when he was within touching distance of her. He could see something stiffen around her shoulders as he drew close.
"You need to forget everything he said, OK? That sergeant. He was just going over it to get everything straight. Making sure. Doing his job. He knows it'll be worse than that on the day. He knows how hard the defence lawyer's going to be. I suppose he's just preparing us for it, you know? If we go through it now, maybe it won't be so hard in court.' He took another step and he was standing right behind her. Her head was perfectly still. He couldn't tell what she was looking at, but all the while her hands remained busy in the white plastic washing-up bowl...
'Tell you what,' he said. "Let's just get through Christmas shall we, love?
It's not just for us after all, is it? New year soon, and then we can just keep our heads down, and get on with it, and wait for the trial. We could go away for a bit. Try and get back on an even keel maybe...'
Her voice was a whisper. He couldn't make it out.
'Say again, love.'
'That policeman's aftershave,' she said. 'I thought at first it was the same as Franklin's. I thought I was going to be sick. It was so strong...'
She began to scream the second his hand touched the back of her neck and it grew louder as she spun around, the water flying everywhere, her arm moving hard and fast, striking out instinctively, the mug in her hand smashing across his nose.
Then she screamed at what she had done and she reached out for him and they sank down on to the linoleum, which quickly grew slippery with blood and suds.
While the voices of young boys filled the kitchen, singing about holly and ivy.
FOUR
Back when the Peel Centre had been a centre for cadet training, Becke House had been a dormitory block. To Thorne it still felt utilitarian, dead. He swore, on occasion, that rounding a corner, or pushing open an office door, he could catch a whiff of sweat and homesickness. :. No surprise when, a month or so earlier, everyone on Team 3 had got very excited at news of improved facilities and extra working space. In reality, it amounted to little more than an increased stationery budget, a reconditioned coffee machine and one more airless cubbyhole which Brigstocke had immediately commandeered. There were now three offices in the narrow corridor that ran off the major incident room. Brigstocke had the new one while Thorne shared his with Yvonne Kitson. Holland and Stone were left with the smallest of the lot, negotiating rights to the wastepaper basket and arguing about who got the chair with the cushion.
Thorne hated Becke House. Actually it depressed him, sapped his energy to the point where he hadn't enough left to hate it properly. He'd heard somebody once joking about Sick Building Syndrome, but to him the place wasn't so much sick as terminally ill.
He'd spent the morning catching up. Sitting at his gunmetal-grey desk, sweating like a pig and reading every scrap of paperwork there was on the case. He read the post-mortem report, the forensic report, his own report on the visit to Derby Prison. He read Holland's notes on the search of Remfry's house, the interviews with relatives of the women Remfry had raped and the statements from some of the men he'd shared cells with in three different prisons. Inches thick already and only one promising lead. An ex-cellmate of Remfry's had mentioned a prisoner named Gribbin, who Remfry had talked about falling out with, back when the pair of them were on remand in Brixton. Gribbin had been released from prison himself only four months before Remfry and had skipped parole. There was a warrant out...
When Thorne had finished reading, he spent some time fanning his face with an empty folder. He stared at the mysterious scorch marks on the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Then he read everything again. When Yvonne Kitson came in, he looked up, dropped the notes down on to his desk arid gazed towards the open window.
'I've been thinking about jumping,' he said. 'Suicide seems like quite an attractive option, and at least I'd get a breeze on the way down. What d'you reckon?'
She laughed. 'We're only on the third floor.' Thorne shrugged.
'Where's the fan?'
'Brigstocke's got it.'
'Typical...' She sat down on a chair against the wall and reached into a large handbag. Thorne laughed when she pulled out the familiar Tupperware container.
'Wednesday, so it must be tuna,' he said.
She peeled the lid off and took out a sandwich. 'Tuna salad, actually, smartarse. My old man went a bit mad this morning and stuck a slice of lettuce on...'
Thorne leaned back in his chair, tapped a plastic ruler along its arm.
'How do you do it, Yvonne?'
She looked up, her mouth full. 'What?'
Still holding the ruler, Thorne spread his arms wide, waved them around. 'This. All of it. As well as three young kids...'
'The DCI's got kids...'
'Yeah, and he's a fucking mess like the rest of us. You seem to manage it all without breaking a sweat. Work, home, kids, dogs and your sodding lunch in a box.' He held out the ruler towards her, as if it was a microphone. 'Tell us, DI Kitson, how do you manage it?
What's your secret?'
She cleared her throat, playing along. Truth be known, they were both glad of a laugh. 'Natural talent, an old man who's a pushover and ruthless organisational skills. Plus, I never take the job home.'
Thorne blinked.
'Right, any more questions?'
Thorne shook his head, put the ruler down on his desk.
'Good. I'm going to get a cup of tea. Want one...?'
They walked along the corridor, past the other offices, towards the Major Incident Room.
'Seriously, though,' Thorne said, 'you do amaze me sometimes.' He meant it. Nobody on the team had known Yvonne Kitson for very long, but bar the odd comment from older, less efficient male colleagues, nobody had a bad word to say about her. At thirty-three, she would almost certainly have been furious about the fact that many of them, Thorne included, found her comfortingly mumsy. This was more to do with her personality and style than with her face or figure, both of which were more than attractive. Her clothes were never flashy, her ash-blond hair was always sensible. She had no sharp edges, she did her job and she never seemed to get rattled. Thorne found it easy to see why Kitson was already earmarked for bigger and better things. At the coffee machine, Kitson leaned down to take Thorne's cup from the dispenser. She handed the tea to him. 'I meant it, about taking the job home.' She began to feed more coins into the machine.
'Couldn't if I wanted to, there's no bloody room...'
Every window in the Incident Room was open. Bits of paper were being blown from the tops of desks and filing cabinets. Thorne sipped his tea listened to the flutter of paper, to the grunts of those bending to pick it up, and he thought how different he was from this woman. He took the job everywhere, home included, though there wasn't usually anybody there to bring it home to. He and his ex-wife Jan had divorced five years earlier, after she'd started getting distinctly extra-curricular with a Fine Arts lecturer. Thorne had had one or two 'adventures' since then, but there hadn't been anyone significant.
Kitson dropped the red-hot plastic cup into another empty one and blew across the top of her drink. 'By the way, the Remfry case?' she said. 'Is it just me, or are we getting seriously fucking nowhere?'
Thorne saw Russell Brigstocke appear on the far side of the room. He beckoned, turned and headed back in the direction of his office. Thorne took a step in the same direction, and, without looking, he answered Kitson's question.
'No, it isn't just you...'
When Russell Brigstocke was really pissed off, he had a face that could curdle milk. When he was trying to look serious, there was a hint of the melodramatic, a cocking of the head and a pursing of the lips that always made Thorne smil
e, much as he tried not to.
'Right, where are we, Tom?'
Thorne tried and failed not to smile. He didn't bother to hide it, deciding that a more upbeat response than the one he'd just given Yvonne Kitson might not be a bad idea anyway. 'Nothing earth shattering, but it's ticking along, sir.' It was always sir after one of Brigstocke's looks. 'We've traced most of the male relatives now. Nothing that hopeful, but we might get lucky. Spoken to most of Remfry's former cellmates and the Gribbin thing looks the most likely...'
Brigstocke nodded. 'I think it sounds promising. If someone bit half my nose off, I think I'd bear a fucking grudge.'
'Remfry said it was him that did it. Probably just larging it. Anyway, we can't find Gribbin...'
'What else?'
Thorne held up his hands. 'That's it. Apart from chasing up the computer side of it. We can start looking at the Inmate Information System as soon as Commander Jeffries reports back.'
'He has,' Brigstocke said. 'Don't get too excited...'
Stephen Jeffries was a high-ranking police officer who actually worked for HM Prison Service. As the official Police Adviser he was based at Prison Service Headquarters, in a grand-looking building off Millbank, from where he could stare directly into the offices of MI6 on the opposite side of the river.
Jeffries had been looking, quietly, into the feasibility of a leak from the Inmate Information System. If this was where the killer was getting his information from, an awful lot of people would be wanting to know how.
'Commander Jeffries has delivered an interim judgment, suggesting that as an avenue of inquiry, this would be unlikely to prove fruitful.'
'You'll have to help me,' Thorne said. 'I haven't got my "bullshit to English" dictionary handy at the minute...'
'Don't be a twat, Tom. All right? That would really help me.'
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