The pub was old fashioned in the worst sense and half empty, probably as a result. They sat in a tiny bar the sort of room that might once have been called a snug around a rickety metal table near the door. The absence of anything like atmosphere was mostly due to the strip lighting. It buzzed above their heads, washing everything out. It made the place feel like a waiting room that smelled of beer.
Thorne knew why they'd chosen this particular pub: his father liked places that were brightly lit. He was forever wandering around his house turning all the lights on, even in the middle of the day. It might have been forgetfulness, but Thorne thought that the old man was simply trying to keep the darkness away, knowing it was creeping up on him and struggling to stay in the light, where he could see. Where he could still be seen.
"Who's for another one?" Victor asked. Eileen shook her head, slid her empty glass away from her. "If we want to get proper Sunday lunch somewhere."
They began to gather their things together bags, coats, hats. As Eileen, Victor and his father moved slowly, one by one towards the door, Thorne checked under the table to make sure no one had left anything behind.
He was wishing he was somewhere else. He was thinking about the case; about Rooker and Ryan and two men running for their lives through a dark wood. He was picturing Alison Kelly and Jessica Clarke; faces on his pillow and in a drawer beside his bed.
Beneath her chair, Thorne found Eileen's umbrella. He grabbed it and followed her to the door. Now he thought about it, perhaps a day out was a good idea. Feeling like a youngster being dragged around by three, slightly strange, grown-ups, might be just what he needed. They walked towards the seafront Thorne dragged his heels and stared at things he wasn't really interested in to avoid getting too far ahead of his father and the others.
Spring was a few days old but hadn't found its feet yet. It was grey-the type of day Thorne associated with the seaside. He couldn't help thinking that the picture would be complete if Eileen had a reason to put up her umbrella. This was, he knew, a little unfair on the city of Brighton. Expensive and deeply fashionable, with a thriving music scene and a reputation as the gay capital of Britain, it was hardly the typical coastal resort. Still, prejudice was prejudice, and, as far as Thorne was concerned, if you could buy rock with the name of a place running through it, he was happy to stay away.
As if to confirm his preconceptions, there were people 'sunbathing' on the beach. Several families were encamped on the pebbles, windbreaks flapping around them, the goose pimples visible from a hundred yards. Stubbornness, optimism, stupidity you could call it what you liked. It seemed to Thorne as perfect an embodiment of Englishness as he'd seen in a while.
"Look at those daft sods," Eileen said. "In this weather!" Thorne smiled. There were other things, of course, that were even more English.
"It's getting bloody cold, if you ask me." Eileen pulled her coat tight to her chest. "Ten or twelve degrees at most, I should think. Colder, with the wind-chill factor."
The wind-chill factor. A concept oddly beloved of forecasters in recent years. Thorne wondered where it had come from, and if they used it in places where the wind-chill might actually be a factor.
"Well, here in Spitzbergen it's minus forty degrees, but with the wind-chill factor, it's officially cold enough to freeze the bollocks off a zoo-full of brass monkeys."
They moved on, Thorne listening to his father witter on about how many years, how many workmen and how many thousand gallons of gold paint it had taken to complete the Royal Pavilion, until they reached the restaurant. Eileen put on her poshest voice to ask the waiter for a table. When they sat down, Thorne, who had already decided that he was going to pay for lunch, checked the prices. They all went for the three-course Sunday afternoon special. It wouldn't break the bank.
"This is nice," Victor said.
Eileen nodded. "I normally cook a big lunch for everyone on a Sunday, but Trevor and his wife are away and Bob's off playing golf, so I decided not to bother. Besides, it's a treat to go out, isn't it?" Thorne grunted, thinking that, at less than a tenner a head, 'treat' might be putting it a bit strongly. "Shame we won't see Trevor and Bob," he said. Trevor was Eileen's son, and Thorne guessed that he probably hadn't gone anywhere. Lunch with barmy Uncle Jim wasn't exactly a tantalising prospect. It almost certainly explained husband Bob's game of golf, hastily arranged once he'd found out that the dotty brother-in-law and dotty brother-in-law's mate were coming down for the weekend.
"I know," Eileen said. "They both said how much they were looking forward to seeing you."
Thorne suddenly felt enormously sorry for Eileen. For having to lie. For the shit she had to put up with from his father. For doing all that she did and getting nothing in return. Thorne couldn't remember if he'd ever really thanked her for anything. "Maybe next time," he said.
Eileen nodded towards Thorne's father. He was staring at the table, tapping the blunt" end of a knife against his teeth. "I think your dad's having a good time," she said.
Victor reached across for the water jug. "He's having a brilliant time, definitely."
"Did we thank you for bringing him down?" she asked. Victor beamed. "It's fine, really. It's fun for us both to go on a bit of a jaunt."
"Thank you anyway, though. I couldn't get up to fetch him down and he wouldn't have been able to get here without you. you know, keeping him company."
"He's no trouble, honestly."
Thorne knew that both of these people loved his father, that they sacrificed a great deal for him, but it still set his teeth on edge to hear them talk about him as if he were not there.
"He's trouble when he wants to be," Eileen said. Victor laughed and poured Jim Thorne a glass of water. Thorne tuned out the conversation and looked away, searching to see if there was any sign of their first course. He felt a hand on his arm and saw that it belonged to his father.
"You look like you've got a lot on your mind, son," the old man said. Thorne nodded. In his mind a young girl's arms were thrashing, as she whirled across a playground, as she danced around a kitchen, as she tumbled through the air from the roof of a multi-storey car park. Jim Thorne leaned in close and whispered, "Sometimes, I think you've got it worse than I have." He jabbed a finger into the side of his head. The hair at his temple was white, whereas his son's was grey.
"You want to try this, Tom. Can't recommend it highly enough. However bad you feel, however much it hurts to think about something, half an hour later and you can't remember fuck all. Just like that, whoosh, it's gone. Excellent. Goldfish brain." Thorne stared at his dad for a few seconds. He couldn't think of a single thing to say. He was rescued by a waitress who materialised at their table with four bowls of watery-looking soup.
"Four and three, forty-three."
When Eileen had suggested bingo, Thorne had felt almost suicidal, and the enthusiasm of Victor and his father had done nothing to change his mood. They walked past what little was left of the West Pier, now all but derelict having caught fire with suspicious regularity. They carried on to Brighton Pier, formerly the Palace, but now renamed as it was the only functioning pier the city had left. Thorne sulked all the way there.
Bingo. It was right up there with karaoke and poking red-hot needles into your eyes.
"Two little ducks, twenty-two."
Now that he was playing, though, the excitement of the game was getting to him. Even though the prizes on offer an oversized teddy-bear and a giant, inflatable hammer hardly justified his increased heart rate.
"On its own, number seven."
"Bingo!"
The call came from an old woman sitting a few feet away. Thorne swore under his breath and sat back hard in his chair at the same time as everybody else. He slid back the blue plastic squares that had been covering all but two of his numbers.
He was sitting next but one to his father.
The old man leaned across Eileen and grinned. "If you've got a hundred old women, how d'you make ninety-nine of 'em shout "fuck"?" Thorn
e shook his head. "Don't know."
"Get the other one to shout "Bingo"." Thorne had heard the joke before, but laughed anyway like he always did.
"How many numbers did you need?" Eileen asked.
"Just the two," Thorne said.
"Imagine what it's like in a big hall. Tens of thousands of pounds they play for sometimes. More on a national game." Thorne decided immediately that he'd best not venture into one of those places. If the excitement was relative to the money up for grabs, he'd probably drop dead on the spot.
Where they were, in an arcade at the end of the pier, couldn't have been much different to one of the grand bingo halls that were still dotted around London. Most were former cinemas, but several still retained the grandeur of the Victorian music halls from which they'd been converted. Thorne and the others sat on uncomfortable moulded chairs around a small podium with the plastic grids in front of them, and slots into which to shove their pound coins. It was quick and easy. There was no cash to be won. It was bingo-lite.
"Your next full house in just one minute." The caller's voice echoed through the cheap sound system.
Thorne looked up at him. He was stick-thin and balding. The huge microphone that was pressed against his mouth masked the bottom half of his face. The oversized sunglasses hid the rest of it. Shoddy as the set-up was, the concession to form in the shape of a frilly shirt and wilting bow-tie was something to be admired.
Thorne put his coin into the slot for the next game.
"Come along now, ladies and gents, only a few places left." Thorne looked around. There were no more than half a dozen people in the whole place. The bloke had more front than Brighton.
"Eyes down for your first number. "Thorne leaned forward, fingers hovering, ready to flip back the plastic squares. A few feet to his right, he could hear that his father was still laughing at his 'bingo' joke. He saw Eileen lean over and whisper, then pick up a coin and push it into the slot for him.
"Five and six, fifty-six."
Thorne's father began to laugh louder. The old woman who'd won the previous game shushed them and shook her head. There were increasingly loud mutterings and murmurs from Thorne's right. He turned at the same moment as Eileen reached for his hand and implored him for some help.
"Two and four," his father shouted suddenly, 'your mother's a whore!" Victor giggled, and Thorne saw the colour drain from Eileen's face. He reached across and took hold of his father's arm. "Dad."
"Three and six, cocks and pricks!"
Thorne stood up and stepped around the back of Eileen towards his father. He heard sniggering, then a voice of encouragement from somewhere behind him. "Go on, mate, why don't you get up there and have a go?"
Thorne lowered his head until it was close to his father's. The look of excitement, of glee, that he saw on the old man's face made him catch his breath.
"Two fat ladies," his father announced, "I wouldn't fuck either of them!"
There was a whistle of feedback as the caller put down his microphone. Thorne was shocked to see that the man had no teeth and was at least twenty years older than he'd taken him for. From the corner of his eye, Thorne could see a man in a dark suit the manager, he guessed marching towards them with a walkie-talkie in his hand. Thorne knew he should compose himself, should prepare the usual excuses and explanations, but he was far too busy laughing.
The coffee he'd bought at Brighton station had gone cold. Thorne stared out of the carriage window into the blackness as the train moved far too slowly back towards London. He let his head drop back and closed his eyes, wondering why it was that he so rarely felt this tired in bed, when he should sleep.
He pictured his father and Victor, lying in twin beds in Eileen's spare room and talking about the day they'd had. Laughing about what had happened on the pier. In truth, he had no idea whether his father knew what he was doing at moments like that. Were they events he could objectively look back on and enjoy? Thorne hoped that they were, and imagined his father struggling to hold on to the memory of his bingo-calling exploits before it slipped away from him. Whoosh, it's gone. Excellent. Goldfish brain. Earlier in the day, Thorne had imagined himself as a child with a gaggle of eccentric adults. He knew of course that this was a momentary illusion, that in reality the reverse was true that trying to look after his father was as close as he'd come, as close as he might ever come, to being a parent.
He didn't bother stifling an enormous yawn. When he'd finished, he caught the eye of a woman sitting opposite and smiled. She looked equally knackered and smiled back.
He'd heard plenty about parenting. From seasoned campaigners like Russell Brigstocke and Yvonne Kitson. From Dave Holland, who still had milky sick-stains on his lapels. Everything they'd told him seemed suddenly relevant to his situation.
Nobody could prepare you for it.
You never stopped learning.
There was no right way and no wrong way.
Thorne knew from talking to these people, from listening to their conversations, that there were times when you needed to come down hard. And times when you did, only to feel shitty later, when you realised that you'd got it wrong. Now, Thorne understood what they meant. Sometimes, though they might not like what their children were doing, or the effect that their behaviour was having on other people, it was important to accept that the child was simply having fun. He pictured the look on his father's face as he was shouting out obscenities. Thorne wondered if it was too late to call Alison Kelly. He decided it probably was. Then he reached for his phone and dialed anyway.
"Hi, it's Tom. Hello.?"
"Hi."
"Sorry if it's late. I was wondering how you were."
"I'm tired."
"Me too. It was quite a night."
She laughed. "Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Thorne pictured her naked. Pictured her crying. Pictured her turned away from him, trying to take in what he'd said. "I was wondering how you were about what I told you."
Static crackled on the line. Thorne thought he'd lost the signal, looked at the screen on his phone.
"I'm fine about it," she said finally. "I'm .. grateful."
"I shouldn't have said anything."
"You told me the truth."
"You were upset."
"I needed the truth. I need the truth." Thorne noticed the woman opposite turning her head away. He lowered his voice. "Some truths are harder to handle than others." There was silence.
"Alison?"
"I'm a big girl," she said. Another laugh, humourless. "At least I got to be a big girl."
"Do you want to do it again? Go out?" He heard a breath let out slowly. "Why do I think you're just being nice?"
"No, really."
"Let's give it a few days, shall we?" she said. "See how we feel."
Because of the darkness on the other side of the window, it took Thorne a few seconds to realise that they'd entered a tunnel. He checked the phone. This time he had lost the signal. He stared into space for a few minutes, then reached across the aisle for a newspaper that had been discarded on a table. He turned it over and began to read. He was asleep before he'd finished the back page.
NINETEEN
The waitress slid a plate of perfectly arranged biscuits into the middle of the table. She picked up the empty tray and moved back, stopping at the door to cast a somewhat perplexed glance back towards the group of men and women gathered in the conference room. It was certainly an odd collection.
Detective Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond cleared his throat noisily and waited for silence. "Shall we get started, ladies and gentlemen?" Tea and coffee were poured as Jesmond made the introductions.
There were seven people around the long, rectangular table. Jesmond was at the head, with a Turkish-speaking uniformed WPC adjacent to his right. Further down the same side of the table sat Memet Zarif, who was next to an elderly man, described as a well-respected Turkish community leader. Opposite them sat Stephen Ryan and a smartly dressed woman named Helen Brimson, introduced by Jesmo
nd as the solicitor representing Ryan Properties. The last person to be introduced sat sweating beneath his leather jacket, a pen in his hand and a sheaf of paper in front of him.
"DI Thorne will be taking notes. Keeping minutes of the meeting."
Helen Brimson sat forward and cut in: "I presume these proceedings will be subject to a valid Public Interest Immunity Certificate?" Jesmond nodded, and kept on nodding as she continued.
"I want it confirmed that any notes taken will form the basis of an internal police document only, that they will not be disclosed in open court should any action arise at a later date." Thorne scribbled without thinking, hoping that there wouldn't be too much more of this legal bullshit to wade through.
"This meeting is purely part of an ongoing process of community consultation," Jesmond said. He held out his arms. "I'm grateful that everyone has agreed to take part, and to come here this morning."
"Here was a bland and anonymous hotel just outside Maidenhead. A businessman's hotel, like any one of a hundred others around the M25. Easy enough to reach and far enough away from the spotlight. This was what Tughan had been talking about a little over a week before getting them around the table, trying to put an end to it. Zarif placed a hand on the shoulder of the man next to him, the 'well-respected community leader'. The pair of them wore smart suits and tidy smiles. "My brothers and I have been asked, through our good friend here, to assist the police in any way we can," he said. "I would like to think that we were already doing everything in our power to aid these investigations, but if there is anything else we can do, of course we shall be happy to do it."
Jesmond nodded. Thorne scribbled. There was clearly going to be a lot of bullshit flying around.
"The same goes for myself," Stephen Ryan said. A thick gold chain hung at his throat. A pricey suede jacket over the open-necked shirt. "It goes for my father and for everyone connected with Ryan Properties. An important business meeting has meant that my father can't be here today, but he wanted me to stress his disgust at these killings." Thorne could barely believe his ears. He thought about Alison Kelly. It had been just over a week since their phone conversation on the train. There had been no contact between them since.
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