Bloodline

by Mark Billingham

  Maier asked them both how they took their coffee and slid a plate of biscuits across the table. He was wearing khakis and an open-necked salmon-pink shirt, brown suede moccasins without socks and a touch too much gold jewellery. He looks like an upmarket estate agent, Thorne thought.

  ‘You’ve got a decent colour on you,’ Holland said.

  ‘Weather was very nice over there, when I wasn’t stuck inside bloody lecture theatres.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The West Coast,’ Maier said. ‘LA, Santa Barbara, San Diego. Have you been?’

  Holland shook his head.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us so quickly,’ Thorne said.

  Maier reached for a biscuit and sat back. ‘You could hardly expect someone who does what I do not to be curious.’ He looked from Thorne to Holland and held up his hands. ‘So . . . ?’

  Thorne told him about his conversation with Pavesh Kambar, the phone calls and visits the doctor had described. The relationship Maier had suggested he’d had with Anthony Garvey.

  ‘I hardly think I pestered him,’ Maier said. ‘But in terms of what I was trying to write, Doctor Kambar was an important person to talk to, so I . . . persisted. That’s the kind of job I have. The kind of job you have, too, I should imagine.’

  ‘Tell us about Garvey,’ Thorne said. ‘Junior.’

  ‘My grand folly, you mean.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Maier held up a hand again, as though to say he’d get there in his own time. He finished eating his biscuit, brushed crumbs from the front of his shirt. ‘Well, I’d written a book about the Raymond Garvey murders.’

  Thorne pointed at his briefcase. ‘I’ve got a copy.’

  ‘I can sign it for you if you’d like, though I’m guessing that isn’t the main reason why you’re here. Worth at least a fiver on eBay.’ Maier laughed, but his attempt at self-deprecation was about as convincing as Thorne’s fake smile. ‘The man I later learned was Raymond Garvey’s son read it and got in touch with me.’

  ‘And this would have been when?’

  ‘Perhaps six months after Garvey died, so about two and a half years ago, I think.’

  ‘How did he contact you?’

  ‘He emailed my website. From an internet café, if you’d like to know. I checked. We exchanged a few emails and he told me there was something he thought I’d be interested in, so I gave him my home number. He called and, after a while, he told me what he wanted. He was right, of course. I was very interested.’

  ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘Sadly not. It was all done by phone and email.’

  ‘He gave you all this guff about the brain tumour, did he?’ Holland said. ‘The personality change stuff.’

  Maier nodded, like he’d been expecting the question. ‘Look, Anthony believed it, which was the important thing.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter if you don’t?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘I’m just there to tell the story,’ Maier said. ‘And whatever you think, it was a hell of a story. The possibility that one of the most notorious killers of the last fifty years had not been responsible, in the strictest sense of the word, for what he did. How could I ignore that?’

  ‘I presume you asked for proof?’ Thorne said. ‘That Anthony was who he claimed to be.’

  ‘He sent me some letters, or copies of letters that he’d received from Raymond Garvey over the years he’d been visiting him in Whitemoor.’ Maier saw the look on Thorne’s face. ‘You’re more than welcome to see them. As far as Ray Garvey was concerned, Anthony was his own flesh and blood.’

  Holland leaned forward and placed his coffee cup on the table, careful to use the coaster provided. ‘So, he asked you to write another book, bringing this new . . . development to light?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Did he seriously think they’d reopen the investigation? With his father dead?’

  ‘All he told me was that he wanted to get the truth out there.’

  Holland shook his head. ‘I’m sure you were planning to talk to some of the relatives of the women Garvey killed. You know, seeing as the truth was so important.’

  ‘It never got that far,’ Maier said.

  Thorne threw a look across at Holland; the signal that he wanted to take over. ‘What happened after you agreed to write the book?’

  ‘Well, I went to a publisher, obviously. Never has the phrase “they bit my hand off” been more appropriate. They were more than happy to stump up the money.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Anthony wanted forty-five thousand pounds for the story. For the use of his father’s prison letters, interviews with him, that sort of thing. All sadly premature, of course, since Doctor Kambar refused to play ball. He would not even go as far as to say that the tumour might have changed Garvey’s personality. Without any medical evidence, we had nowhere to go. It all fell apart rather quickly after that and, needless to say, I was no longer flavour of the month with the publisher.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Thorne did his best to look as though he meant it.

  Maier shrugged. ‘Had to make do with ghosting for a while after that. Did a couple of senior coppers’ autobiographies as it happens. Everyone’s got a story or two to tell. I should imagine you’ve got more than a few, Inspector.’

  ‘Did you not think to talk to Kambar before you handed over the money?’

  Another shrug. ‘It wasn’t my money, was it? Besides, we needed to strike while the iron was hot. He might well have gone to somebody else.’

  Thorne saw a possibility. ‘I’m guessing you paid the money into some account or other?’

  ‘Sorry, no. It was paid in cash.’

  ‘What? Used notes in a brown paper bag?’

  ‘A holdall, actually, in the ticket office at Paddington station. If you ask me, I think the publisher quite enjoyed all the cloak and dagger. On top of which, everybody knew that it would make the most fantastic opening to the book: photographs of the illicit pick-up, the shadowy son of a serial killer, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘You took pictures?’

  ‘They sent a photographer along, yes, lurking among the commuters. I’ve got them in the office somewhere, if you want to have a look.’

  ‘Could you . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Maier got up and walked towards the door. He smiled as he passed Thorne. ‘I dug them out before you came.’

  Thorne said nothing.

  ‘Don’t get too excited, though. It wasn’t Anthony Garvey who picked the money up.’

  Holland waited until Maier had left the room and said, ‘He loves himself, doesn’t he?’

  ‘If he’d already got the photos out,’ Thorne said, ‘he knew what we wanted to see him about.’

  ‘You didn’t give him any hints?’

  Thorne shook his head. ‘Just said we wanted a word with him in his professional capacity. Help with an ongoing investigation. Usual old shit.’

  They helped themselves to a couple more biscuits while they waited for Maier to return. He was talking as he re-entered the room.

  ‘Of course, we couldn’t do anything while the money was being picked up. Like I said, we didn’t want him to go running off to someone else. I asked him who the girl was afterwards, obviously.’

  Thorne took the photographs that Maier was brandishing. Half a dozen black-and-white ten-by-eights. A woman in her early twenties, jeans and a puffer jacket. She looked distinctly nervous. The photographer had caught her full-on as she looked around, approaching the bag that had been left by the counter. More shots: a final check that nobody was paying too much attention; bending to pick up the holdall; side-on as she walked towards the exit.

  ‘Who did he say she was?’ Thorne asked.

  Maier was standing behind the chair, staring at the photographs over Thorne’s shoulder. ‘Some girl he’d been seeing. Said he paid her a hundred pounds to pick up the bag, that he guessed we’d want some “coverage” and that he preferred to remain anonymous. A shame, but I wasn’t too di
sappointed, the shots were still usable. I asked him for a name and he said it didn’t matter. That she was already out of the picture. ’

  Thorne handed the photographs to Holland. ‘What happened after you’d got nowhere with Kambar?’

  Maier returned to his own chair. ‘Well, even though we knew it was second best, we tried a number of other neurologists, but we got very much the same result. We couldn’t get any kind of . . . authentication. So, in the end, I had to tell Anthony that, without it, the publisher was refusing to go ahead with the book.’

  ‘How did he take that?’

  ‘Not well,’ Maier said. ‘There was a lot of shouting, a few very abusive emails, which was rich, considering that I’d been every bit as shafted as he had. I’d already done a fair amount of background work, started mapping out the book, working. All a waste of bloody time in the end.’

  ‘How did you leave it?’

  ‘Well, the last time I spoke to him he was a damn sight calmer. I think perhaps his mood had been tempered slightly by the fact that he knew there was no way they could get the cash back off him. He said he was considering other options. All very mysterious, but I wished him luck with whatever they were. What else could I say?’ Maier adjusted the crease in his khakis and twisted his cuffs until they were as he wanted them.

  ‘Jesus.’ Thorne could only shake his head in disbelief, and watch as the author raised his arms again, like it was a funny old world.

  Maier leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, a knowing expression creeping across his face. ‘So . . . how many has Anthony killed so far? Four, is it?’

  Thorne was stunned. He struggled to respond quickly, his difficulty compounded by the pleasure Maier clearly gained from the hesitation.

  ‘Look, it’s no big mystery,’ Maier said. ‘I spent long enough studying the Raymond Garvey killings, so the names of the victims did rather jump out of the newspaper at me, even though they were all reported as separate murders. Now, Catherine Burke’s brother died years ago in a car accident, if my memory serves, so, by my reckoning’ - he counted off his fingers - ‘that means Anthony has another four to go. I presume you’ve warned them all?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to say.’ Thorne shrugged as though it were no big deal. ‘You’ll understand I can’t tell you any more than you already know.’

  ‘If there is any more.’

  ‘On top of which, we’d be very grateful if you kept what you know to yourself.’

  ‘Not go running to the press, you mean?’

  ‘Not go running to anyone.’

  ‘I appreciate why you’re keeping the media in the dark on this one,’ Maier said. ‘As far as the link between the murders is concerned. But someone will get wind of it eventually, you do know that? A good serial-killer story will sell a lot of papers.’

  ‘And books,’ Holland said.

  Maier seemed to enjoy the dig. ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘So, we understand each other?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Well, I understand you, certainly, but you need to bear in mind that I have a living to make.’

  Thorne waited, hoped that the sound of his teeth grinding wasn’t carrying.

  ‘All I’m saying is that when you are in a position to talk a bit more freely, or if there are any major developments as far as what Anthony’s up to, I would hope that I’d be the first person you’d talk to. The first person without a warrant card, at any rate.’ He leaned forward for the final biscuit. ‘How’s that sound?’

  Thorne watched Maier chew, the weak chin working, thinking that he had the sort of face you could not be satisfied with punching just the once. He said, ‘Sounds fine.’

  Maier nodded and reached towards the tray again. ‘There’s plenty more coffee in the pot.’

  Ten minutes later, creeping slowly north along the Holloway Road, Holland said, ‘I was thinking about how Anthony Garvey lives, you know?’

  Thorne swore in frustration at the traffic, then glanced across.

  ‘I mean, he can’t be holding down any sort of proper job, can he? Not without leaving traces and certainly not if he needs to move about, tracking his victims. I reckon that cash he screwed out of Maier is exactly what he needs to do this.’

  ‘That phrase Maier used,’ Thorne said. ‘Garvey was “considering other options”.’

  ‘Shit, they as good as funded him.’ Holland stared out of the side window for half a minute. ‘And that tosser’s going to end up getting a book deal out of it.’

  Thorne was only half listening. He was thinking about the girl in the photographs and something else Maier had said. The precise words Garvey had used.

  Out of the picture.

  TWENTY

  H.M.P. Whitemoor

  ‘What’s that mark on your face?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Christ, I thought you were . . . protected in here. A vulnerable prisoner. ’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s not just nonces I’m stuck on the wing with. All sorts are vulnerable in here, need to be kept separate. An ex-police officer gave me this. Made him feel better for a few days, I suppose. Got a few people off his back.’

  ‘It’s a fucking zoo!’

  ‘It’s not supposed to be pleasant. Mind you, we have got a PlayStation now . . .’

  ‘I was thinking, you know, about what it’s going to be like when you come out.’

  ‘That’s not happening, Tony, I’ve said.’

  ‘No harm in thinking about stuff we could do.’

  ‘What, you and me in the park, kicking a sodding ball about?’

  ‘You’ve got to be optimistic.’

  ‘You’re talking stupid.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’

  ‘There must be places you fancy going, though, things you want to see.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Inside of a pub would be nice. A decent pair of tits that aren’t on an eighteen-stone armed robber.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can laugh.’

  ‘You’ve got to.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t get that from you. A sense of humour, I mean. I can’t remember the last time I found anything very funny. I see people watching TV, pissing themselves at some stupid sitcom or whatever, and I just don’t . . . see it.’

  ‘You’ve had a hard time of it, that’s all.’

  ‘Did I laugh when I was little?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, would I?’

  ‘Not really little, I mean, but when you saw me?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It was only a couple of times.’

  ‘We all know whose fault that was.’

  ‘Don’t start all that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gives me a headache when you talk about your mother. I’m serious. Last time I puked up after you’d gone.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m fine about it. It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘’Course it was my fault. All those women. No excuses.’

  ‘It’s what you get for keeping secrets.’

  ‘Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘You seeing anyone?’

  ‘What, like girls?’

  ‘Girls, boys, I don’t know.’

  ‘Fuck off, Dad.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘On and off. Nothing serious. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Still does my head in. When you call me that. Dad.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  If a sliding scale of news was topped by being told you’d won the lottery, with a diagnosis of cancer at the bottom, the phone call Thorne received the previous evening would run the cancer diagnosis a pretty close second. Brigstocke had spoken quickly and without hesitation, not wanting to give Thorne a chance to start shouting, or crying, until he had finished.

  ‘Remember I mentioned they might convene a critical incident panel? Well, it’s tomorrow at ten o’clock. They’d like you to be there, so you mi
ght want to dig out a suit. Sorry, the suit . . .’

  ‘Like me to be there as in I have a choice?’

  ‘Like you to be there as in what do you think?’

  ‘You don’t reckon I could be spending my morning a bit more productively? Trying to find the girl in Maier’s photo, maybe? It’s just a thought.’

  ‘Tom—’

  ‘Having a wank?’

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

  ‘I was thinking more “strangle”.’

  ‘Just don’t piss too many of them off, OK?’

  ‘Now you’re really pushing it.’

  ‘Have a nice evening.’

  ‘I was,’ Thorne said.

  Now, twelve hours later, Thorne was sitting at a highly polished, blond-wood table in an overheated conference room at Scotland Yard. There were six other people around the table, each with a notepad and a pair of freshly sharpened pencils in front of them. There were water jugs and glasses near either end. Thorne smiled through the minute or two of small talk, wondering how people would react if he let his head drop on to the table or asked for a cold beer, and waiting for the powerful smell of bullshit to start rising on the thermal of hot air.

  The Association of Chief Police Officers was responsible for bringing such panels together, and its representative, the Area Homicide Commander, was chairing the meeting. Alistair Johns was a short, stocky man in his early fifties, with a permanently pinched expression, as though he were always walking through heavy rain. He brought the meeting to order, making sure that everyone around the table knew one another. Aside from Trevor Jesmond and Russell Brigstocke, there was a surly-looking DS named Proctor from the Community Relations Unit and a woman named Paula Hughes, who Thorne gathered was a civilian press officer. Another woman, a WPC whose name he failed to catch during a stifled yawn, was taking the minutes. Thorne caught her eye. She looked as though she’d had enough already, or perhaps she was thinking about the work that lay ahead: typing up her notes, circulating endless emails and preparing a bound report for everyone from the Commissioner to the Mayor.

  ‘We need to crack on,’ Johns said. ‘Obviously this is an ongoing inquiry and I’m grateful to DCI Brigstocke and DI Thorne for taking the time to be here.’