Not one of Anthony Garvey’s victims, but still one of Raymond’s.
‘Apart from just checking to see how you’re getting on,’ Thorne said, ‘I wanted a word about your wife.’
‘Well, “bitch” is usually the first one that springs to mind,’ Dowd said. ‘But I’ve got plenty more.’
Thorne summoned a smile to accompany the thin one Dowd had flashed before he’d spoken. ‘We want to go and see her.’
Dowd’s face darkened for a second or two. ‘Good luck. Make sure you take some garlic and a wooden stake.’
Plenty going on beneath the surface . . .
Having spoken to the officers who had escorted him back from Kendal, Thorne was not surprised by Dowd’s attitude towards his wife, but the venom was startling none the less; more so, as he spoke so calmly, without losing his temper.
‘He didn’t even want to see her,’ one officer had said. ‘Just told us to take him straight to the station.’
Dowd had been adamant that he wanted no contact with his wife. That he would not go home with them to pick up some clothes and that he definitely did not want her informed of the address where he would be staying. He even went so far as to say that, if he’d had his way, she would not have been informed that he’d been found in the first place.
‘It might have done her some good to worry,’ he’d said. ‘And I would have had something to keep myself amused.’
Now, Dowd sat back and closed his eyes, apparently uninterested. But curiosity got the better of him after a minute or two. ‘Why do you want to see Sarah?’
‘Obviously, you know we’re looking for a man who calls himself Anthony Garvey.’
‘I should hope so.’
‘We think he got close in some way or another to the people he’s killed so far.’ Thorne stopped, saw that Dowd had picked up on the final two words. ‘To the people he killed.’
‘Slip of the tongue?’ Dowd said.
Thorne pressed on, feeling himself redden a little. ‘We’re fairly sure he was known to them. Probably no more than casually, but known. That he put time into making sure they would be relaxed around him, let him into their homes, whatever.’
‘How did he do that?’
‘We know he picked one of them up in a bar,’ Thorne said. ‘He may have got to know another through the hospital where she worked. We’re still putting all that together, if I’m honest, but we’re pretty sure he gets involved in their lives somehow.’
‘You think he’s involved in mine?’
‘Well, it might be that he just hadn’t got round to you yet—’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘But yes, it’s possible. Can you think of anyone who you might have met in the last few weeks?’
‘I’ve met lots of people,’ Dowd said. ‘When I was up at the Lakes there were other walkers, people in pubs.’ He raised his hands, like it was a stupid question. ‘We meet people all the time. Don’t you?’
‘OK, someone you might have seen a few times. A new neighbour, maybe. A window cleaner.’
Dowd thought for a few seconds. ‘There’s this bloke Sarah found who comes round once a week to wash the cars. He’s got one of those little vans with a generator in it, you know?’
‘Since when?’
‘A couple of months now, I think.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I barely spoke to him, to be honest,’ Dowd said. ‘You’d be better off asking Sarah.’
‘Like I said, we were planning on talking to her anyway.’
Dowd grunted and looked away, drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. The sky outside Graham Fowler’s window had been clear, but glancing out of this one, Thorne could see that a blanket of grey cloud was slowly moving to darken the day.
‘What’s the problem with you and your wife, Andrew?’ Thorne asked. When Dowd looked up sharply, he said, ‘Look, I won’t even try to pretend it’s got anything to do with the case, but . . .’
Dowd began fingering the collar of his shirt. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘There’s no point me kidding you. I’m not the easiest person in the world to live with, all right?’
‘You and me both,’ Thorne said.
‘I’m on a fair few tablets which don’t help matters. Been on all sorts, more or less since I was a kid.’
Thorne remembered the relevant chapter from one of the books he’d been reading. Since Raymond Garvey caved your mother’s head in, he thought. Since he dumped her on a patch of waste ground behind a bus station in Ealing.
‘But Sarah knows how to push all my buttons. She’s a bloody expert at it. It’s like she enjoys pushing them . . . pushing one in particular. You know how some women just get off on winding you up? Sometimes, I think it’s the only time she actually feels anything, feels properly alive. Like she thinks her life’s shit and the only way she can get her blood pumping is to push and push and push until she gets a reaction. Until she forces me to push back. Well, I’m sick of pushing. I just need to get to a place where she can’t reach me, do you understand? Not just in my head, I mean.’
Thorne nodded, guessing that he was the first person Dowd had ever said this to, but that he’d been rehearsing it. He suddenly had a vision of the man tramping around the Lakes all day, working out what he’d say to his wife when he had the chance. Getting pissed in the pub each night, trying to forget why he was there. Going back to some damp B&B and reaching for the scissors and the razor.
‘One button in particular, you said.’
‘Kids,’ Dowd said quickly. ‘She wanted them and I absolutely didn’t.’
Thorne blinked. ‘Tricky.’
‘Oh, yes. A few days before I buggered off she got pissed and started talking about finding someone who did want them.’ He folded his arms and dropped his head back. ‘Maybe that bloke who washes the cars would oblige. A couple of quick squirts . . .’
‘Sorry,’ Thorne said. He wasn’t, not particularly, but it felt like the right thing to say.
When he stood up to leave, Thorne saw Dowd’s confident mask slip a little, saw something like disappointment that the conversation was over. There was fear in his eyes, too, as he followed Thorne towards the door.
‘You will catch this bloke, right?’
‘We’ll do our best.’
Dowd nodded fast. ‘’Course, yeah, sorry. So, talk to Sarah. See if it leads anywhere. You know, this car-washer business.’
‘I’ll let you know how we get on,’ Thorne said.
When Thorne was reaching for the door, Dowd stepped close to him. Said, ‘Why would anyone want to bring kids into a world like this? A sick world.’
Certainly a weird one, Thorne thought a little later, as he walked back to the car. When one man asks you to pass on his regards to his mates in the soup queue while another has nothing to say to his own wife.
‘How do people get like that?’ Louise asked. ‘Why would they stay together for that long if they hate each other so much?’
‘Easier than being on their own, maybe?’
‘No . . .’
‘Or it’s like he said and some people just enjoy conflict. Doesn’t light my candle, but what do I know?’ Thorne had told her about his conversation with Andrew Dowd, about the dysfunctional nature of his marriage. He had not bothered mentioning the central disagreement that Dowd claimed lay at the heart of it. That one button in particular.
Louise shook her head. ‘If it doesn’t work, you should get out.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Good. Because if you start pissing me off, I’ll just trade you in for a younger model.’
Thorne was on the sofa with a beer. He had been looking through his copy of Nick Maier’s book on the Garvey killings, rereading those sections that dealt with the deaths of Andrew Dowd’s and Graham Fowler’s mothers, and the harrowing chapter that detailed the murder of Frances Walsh, the mother of Simon. Her body was the third to be discovered, though it was later determined that she had be
en the first victim.
A spot of light entertainment after dinner.
Louise lay on the floor, making a fuss of Elvis, moving a finger back and forth under the cat’s chin. Elvis closed her eyes and stretched her neck towards her new best friend. Thorne watched, thinking that Elvis was rarely that affectionate with him. She had been owned by a woman before Thorne got her - albeit one who didn’t know the cat was a she - so perhaps that was the reason. Or maybe it was something to do with pheromones, whatever they were. Or maybe the cat just enjoyed winding him up.
‘Seriously, though,’ Louise said, ‘life’s too short.’
Thorne glanced down at the cover of the book on the sofa next to him. He wasn’t arguing.
‘That’s one of the things that strikes you when something like this happens. You know, losing the baby. At first you think you’ve been unlucky, but you can look at it the other way too, start to appreciate what you’ve got.’
Thorne nodded, felt that lump in his chest.
‘You OK?’
He picked up the book again. ‘Just thinking about this stuff, sorry.’
‘That’s another thing,’ Louise said. ‘Since it happened, work doesn’t seem to have as much effect on me. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve had more important things to think about, or if it’s just not getting to me in the same way. Do you know what I mean?’
She said something else after that, lying there stroking the cat, but Thorne caught only half of it. It was hard to follow a train of thought with the Garveys rattling around inside his head.
Father and son.
According to Maier’s book, the detective leading the investigation had described the murders as some of the nastiest he had ever had to deal with. He talked about the level of violence meted out, how it must have been motivated by an incomprehensible level of hatred.
One powerful bloody tumour, Thorne thought.
It might not have been hatred that was motivating the son, but his killings had been every bit as brutal, and Thorne’s desire to find him and put him away was the equal of anything he had felt in many years.
Louise was talking softly now, to Thorne or the cat.
Anthony Garvey might have seen the newspapers, but there was no way he could know that both Fowler and Dowd had been found, or that Debbie Mitchell was safely tucked away. He would still be out there somewhere; searching, growing increasingly frustrated. That might just give me the edge over him, Thorne thought.
Louise sat up, pulled Elvis on to her lap. ‘This cat loves me,’ she said.
Thorne smiled and put down the book.
Or it might just make him more desperate.
TWENTY-SEVEN
H.M.P. Whitemoor
‘The ex-police officer again, was it?’
‘What?’
‘Your face?’
‘I fell.’
‘Right . . . ’
‘Seriously, I had some sort of fit and I hit my head on the bunk as I went down. I’ve got to go and have a few tests. Some kind of scan.’
‘What, like an epileptic fit or something?’
‘Could be, yeah. Could be all sorts. I’ve had a couple before—’
‘What?’
‘But this was the first time I got hurt. Good job really or they might not have picked it up.’
‘Christ.’
‘I’m OK, really.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘What about the headaches, though? Do you get headaches with epilepsy?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll go online and have a look.’
‘I can do it myself, we’ve got access to all that. Thanks, though.’
‘We can both do it. Doesn’t hurt to get as much information as possible.’
‘OK.’
‘It’s set off by flashing lights and stuff, isn’t it, epilepsy? Strobes and whatever.’
‘Should be fine, then. Not too many of those in here.’
‘It’s good news, when you think about it.’
‘What is?’
‘They’ll have to move you to a hospital, maybe permanently. Got to be better than this.’
‘I don’t know how that works.’
‘I bet the food’s a damn sight better, and there won’t be any nutcases hanging about with home-made blades.’
‘Let’s see what happens.’
‘Might turn out to be a stroke of luck, you never know.’
‘How’s things with you?’
‘I’m fine, same as always.’
‘What about work?’
‘Just bits and pieces really. I’m great though, honestly.’
‘You need to find something permanent, sort yourself out a bit. It’s all right messing about when you’re a teenager, but you should really think about getting settled.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Don’t you want a steady job and a family and all that?’
‘I’ve got family.’
‘Not just me.’
‘Look, I haven’t found anything I want to do yet, that’s all. There’s plenty of time.’
‘Listen, I’ve got more time than you have, OK, smart-arse? It tends to drag a bit when you’ve got sod all to do but dig the governor’s vegetable patch and take degrees you’ll never use. Goes by in a flash out there though, trust me.’
‘I know, don’t nag. I’ll find something.’
‘I was talking to one of the other lads, and he told me you might be able to come along when I go for these tests. You know, as a relative.’
‘Yeah, ’course.’
‘You don’t have to. Just it’s nice to have a friendly face around when you’re lying there handcuffed to a hospital bed. Never been a fan of hospitals at the best of times.’
‘You don’t have to worry about this.’
‘I’m bricking it, if I’m honest.’
‘I’ll be there, all right? You listening?’
‘That’d be good.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Only a decade earlier, Shoreditch had been a run-down commercial district; but like its neighbour Hoxton, it had undergone a rapid and radical period of gentrification. Recent years had seen the appearance of seven-figure loft accommodation, private member’s clubs, and even an urban golf tournament during which businessmen and media types could dress up in ridiculous clothes and knock specially designed balls around. Young writers set their novels there, and independent movies were shot on the streets. Taxi drivers were no longer reluctant to make journeys there after dark, and they had no shortage of business. While decades of grime had been sand-blasted from Victorian buildings, new developments had sprung up to house bars and nightclubs, with office space for consultancy firms and sleek advertising agencies, such as the one where Andrew Dowd’s wife was a director.
She kept Thorne waiting for fifteen minutes, but he was content to drink coffee in the small, crowded bar and watch the world go by; specifically the hordes of immaculately dressed young women with which the streets around Hoxton Square seemed unnaturally blessed. When Sarah Dowd finally appeared to add to their number, she was at pains to point out that she had only ten minutes. With an accounts meeting scheduled for later that afternoon, she could allow herself no more than thirty minutes for lunch.
Thorne might have said that he was fairly busy himself. Or pointed out that she seemed in a hurry to do everything except apologise for being late. ‘I’ll try not to keep you,’ he said.
She ordered a chicken Caesar salad and a bottle of mineral water. ‘Sorry I wasn’t able to see you at the house,’ she said. ‘I don’t get back until late, most nights, and we’re having some work done, so the place is a bit of a state.’
‘Not a problem,’ Thorne said. ‘Must be a nightmare having builders in.’
‘Oh, God. You haven’t done it?’
‘Nothing major. If I want anything to do with cowboys, I’ll watch a Western.’
‘It’s j
ust a small extension . . .’
Thorne hadn’t enquired, but he nodded anyway and asked when the work had begun. If the builders had been on site for a month or two, it might be significant. Plenty of contractors were happy to take on casual labourers for the heavy work, which would have been as good a way as any for Anthony Garvey to gain access to his target.
‘They started last week,’ she said. ‘Hell of a mess, but it helped take my mind off Andrew being missing, to be honest. Can you understand that?’
Thorne said that he could.
‘I’d been starting to worry that it would all be finished before he was found. If he was found.’
‘Well, you can stop worrying.’
‘Can I?’
Her food arrived and Thorne watched her begin to eat; precise movements of her fork, a sip of water every two or three mouthfuls. He tried to imagine her and her newly shorn husband dining together in the new extension on their already large house in Clapham. Sarah’s salary on top of what Andrew made as an investment manager, expensive holidays twice a year, private healthcare and a nice car each. They were the typical young professional couple who had it all, Thorne thought.
Except for a marriage that worked.
When she put down her fork suddenly, Thorne could not tell if she had lost her appetite or if that was as much as she normally ate. Had it been anything other than salad, he might have asked if he could help her out.
‘When the police called to tell me he’d been found, they said he didn’t want to see me. Well, they were a little more discreet than that, some rubbish about procedure, but I got the message.’
She looked very serious, but Thorne got the impression that she was not the sort of person who smiled a great deal anyway. He had certainly seen no evidence of it so far. ‘Obviously that’s none of our business,’ he said. ‘Our job was just to find him and keep him safe.’
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