It is as if he is watching himself, like a nosy bystander. He has no idea why he tries the front door. Why he leans against it. Why he runs back to his car and takes a truncheon from the boot.
Calvert's wife looks surprised to see him. Her eyes are wide as he walks into her kitchen, breath held, heart thumping. She lies on the floor, her head against the dirty white door of the cupboard underneath the sink. The bruise around her neck is beginning to turn black. She still has a wooden spoon in her hand.
She was the first to die. She had to be. The children would tell him that much.
Denise Calvert. 32. Strangled.
Thorne moves through the flat like a deep-sea diver exploring a wreck. The silence is pounding in his ears. His movements feel slow and oddly graceful, and there are ghosts in the water all around him…
He finds them in the small bedroom at the back of the flat. They are laid out next to each other on the floor, between the bunk beds and the small, single mattress. He cannot take his eyes off the six tiny white feet. Unable to fill his lungs, he drops to his knees and crawls across the floor. He takes in what he is seeing but there is a blunt refusal to process the information correctly. Grabbing at a breath he lets out a scream. He screams at the dead girls. He pleads with them. Please… you'll be late for school He is actually begging them to save him.
With that breath he smells the shampoo in their hair. He smells the freshly washed nightdresses and the urine that has soaked them. He sees the stain on the mattress on the floor where he must have taken each of them. The girls have been laid out side by side, their arms across their chest in some grotesque approximation of peacefulness. But they did not die peacefully.
Lauren Calvert. 11. Samantha Calvert. 9. Anne Marie Calvert. 5. Suffocated.
Three little girls, who screamed and fought and kicked and ran to find their mummy and then screamed even louder – their mother already dead, the only state in which she will allow this horror to be visited upon her children then the man they love and trust closed the bedroom door, and they fluttered around in a panic, like moths trapped inside a light fitting. They crashed into walls, and clutched each other and when he grabbed one and pulled her down to the mattress on the floor, they bit and scratched and cried, and went somewhere far better with their tiny fingers clawing at the flesh of those strong, callused hands.
Thorne has to believe that. He cannot accept that they smiled at their daddy as he laid the pillow across their faces.
He will not accept that.
It might be thirty minutes later when he finds Calvert. He has no idea how long he's spent in that tiny box room trying to understand. Thinking about Jan. The child they are desperate for.
He pushes open the door to the living room and his senses are immediately bludgeoned. He smells whisky, so strong he almost chokes on it, and the pungent aroma of gunpowder, which until this moment he has only ever known on a firing range.
He sees the body on the floor in front of the hearth. The brain caked to the mirror above the tiled mantelpiece. Francis John Calvert. 3 7. Suicide by gunshot.
Thorne walks across the grimy mushroom-coloured carpet like a sleepwalker. Not looking down as his foot sends an empty" whisky bottle clattering into the skirting board. Not taking his eye off Calvert. The outstretched arm is still holding the gun. The underpants are brown with congealed blood. When had this happened? Last night or first thing this morning?
The hands are unmarked by small fingers.
Thorne stands above the body, his arms hanging heavy by his sides, his breathing deep and desperate. He leans forward, knowing what's going to happen, amazed considering that he's had no breakfast. The spasm, when it comes, moves swiftly from guts to chest and then throat, and he vomits, steaming, wet and bitter, across what's left of Francis Calvert's face.
'It wasn't your fault, Tom. I know it must have been horrible, but you can't think it happened because of you.'
Thorne lay on the settee and stared at his dull magnolia ceiling. Somewhere in the distance the siren of a fire engine or an ambulance was wailing desperately.
Anne squeezed his hand, feeling like a doctor. She thought quickly of Alison. 'You were right when you thought it was an aberration. You finding them was just a coincidence. A horrible coincidence…'
Thorne had no more to say. The tiredness that had been clutching at him all day now had a firm grip and he didn't feel like struggling any more. He craved unconsciousness, a blackness that would see everything he'd remembered and described put back where it belonged. The rusty bolts slammed back into place.
He closed his eyes and let it come.
Anne had kept it together while Thorne was telling his story, willing her face to show nothing, but now she let the tears come. Thinking about the little girls. Thinking about her own daughter's tiny white feet.
It was easy to see what drove this man. What had created this obsession with.., knowing. She hoped in time that he would see his feelings for Jeremy as no more than phantoms. Distorted echoes of a past horror. She hoped they could all move on.
She would be there to help him.
She shivered slightly. The shadow was still moving across them and its chill gathered at her shoulder. She laid her head on Thorne's chest which, within a few moments, began to rise and fall regularly, in sleep. The pictures are still fuzzy but the words are clearer now. Like watching a film I've seen before, but since the last time I saw it my eyesight's gone funny and it's all a bit jumpy. We're in the kitchen. Me and him.
I tell him to put his bag down anywhere and I'm still swigging the champagne and asking him if he wants a cup of coffee or a beer or something. He says nice things about the flat. I grab a can of beer that Tim's left in the fridge. He opens it and I'm still talking about the party. about the wankers in the club. Blokes on the sniff. He's sympathetic, saying he knows what men are like, and that I can hardly blame them, can I?
Music comes in for a few seconds as I turn the radio on, and then some static as I try to tune it in to something good, and then I give up.
He says he needs to make a phone call and he does, but I can't hear him saying anything. He's just muttering quietly. I'm still rattling on but I can barely make out what I'm saying now. Just gabbling. Something about starting to feel a bit sick but I don't think he's really listening. I'm apologising for being so out of it. He must think I'm really fucking sad, slumped on the kitchen floor, leaning against a cupboard, hardly able to speak. Not at all, he says, and I can hear him unzipping his bag. Rummaging inside. There's nothing wrong with having a good time, he says. Going for it. Fucking right I tell him, but that's not how it comes out of my mouth.
I can hear my shoes squeak across the tiles as he drags me to the other side of the kitchen. My earrings and my necklace clinking as he drops them into a dish.
The groaning noise is me.
I sound like I can't actually speak at all. Can't. Like a baby. Or an old person with no teeth in, and half their brain gone. I'm trying to say something but it's just a noise. He's telling me to be quiet. Telling me not to bother trying. His hands are on me now and he's describing everything he's doing. Telling me not to worry and to trust him. Talking me through it. He tells me the names of muscles when he touches them.
Stupid names. Medical.
He catches his breath and then he's quiet for a while. A couple of minutes.
And I can't hear myself saying a single thing about it. Not a word of complaint, just the drip, drip, drip of my dribble as it spills out of my mouth and plops on to the tiles in front of me. I can make a sort of gargling sound.
There's a couple of grunts but now the sound starts to fade as I begin to slip away from everything.
Then something important. The last thing I can hear. Three words, echoey and strange as if they're from a long way away. Like he's whispering them to me from the end of a long pipe, like my friend saying hello down the vacuum-cleaner tube when we were kids.
I need to tell this, I think.
H
e says goodnight. Night-night…
It's almost silly, what he says. Sweet-sounding and gentle. A word I've heard again since.
A word I heard when I woke up and was like this. A word that says pretty much everything about what I am.
TWENTY-TWO
When Thorne woke up it was already dark. He looked at his watch. Just after seven o'clock. He'd been out of it for two and a half hours.
He had no way of knowing it, but two hours more and it would all be over.
Anne had gone. He got up off the settee to make himself coffee and saw the note on the mantelpiece. Tom, I hope you're feeling better. I know how hard it was for you to tell me.
You mustn't be afraid to be wrong.
I hope you don't mind but I'm going to see Jeremy tonight to tell him that everything's all right. I think he deserves to feel better too.
Call me later.
Anne. X
He made himself the coffee and read the note again. He was feeling better and it was more than just the couple of hours'sleep. Talking about what had happened all those years ago had left him feeling cleaner. Purged was probably putting it a little strongly but, considering that his case had gone to shit, he had no friends and he was headed for all manner of trouble with his superiors, he might have felt much worse. Tom Thorne was resigned.
It wasn't so much that he'd been afraid to be wrong. He hadn't even considered it. Now he had to do a lot more than consider it. He had to live with it.
Anne was going to see Bishop to tell him that he was out of the frame. That was fair enough. He'd never really been in the frame, if truth were told. Only in Thorne's thick, thick head. It was time to face a few harsh realities. Anne was doing a good thing. Bishop deserved to know what was going on. He deserved to know how things stood. He was not the only one.
Thorne picked up the phone and dialed Anne's number. Maybe he could catch her before she left. Rachel answered almost immediately, sounding out of breath, annoyed and distinctly teenage.
'Hi, Rachel, it's Tom Thorne. Can I speak to your mother?'
'No.'
'Right…'
'She's not here. You've just missed her.'
'She's on her way to Battersea, is she?'
Her tone changed from impatience to something more strident. 'Yeah. She's gone to tell Jeremy he's not public enemy number one any more. About time as well, if you ask me.'
Thorne said nothing. Anne had told her. It didn't matter now anyway.
'How long ago did she-'
'I don't know. She's going shopping first, I think. She's cooking him dinner.'
'Listen, Rachel'
She cut him off. 'Look, I've got to go, I'm going to be late. Call her on the mobile or try her later at Jeremy's. Have you got the number?'
Thorne assured her that he had, then realised she was being sarcastic.
He tried Anne's mobile number but couldn't get connected. Maybe she had it switched off. She wouldn't have a signal anyway if she was on the tube. Then he remembered that she was on call and guessed that she'd probably be driving. He had her bleeper number somewhere… He picked up his jacket. He'd do what Rachel had suggested and get her later at Bishop's. This time he wouldn't have to withhold his number. how late Alison Willetts could receive visitors. He was wearing one of the crisp white shirts he knew she liked so much. He'd stared at himself in the full-length mirror as he slowly did up the buttons. Watching the scars disappear beneath the spotless white cotton. Now he looked at his watch as the car cruised sedately north across Blackfriars Bridge. He was going to be a little late. She would be on time as always.
She was very, very keen.
He was meeting her outside the Green Man as usual. It was a bit of a slog to drive all the way across the river just to turn round and drive back south again, but he'd rather do it this way than let her get on the tube or bus. He wanted to be in control of things. If she was late or missed a bus or something it could throw the timing of everything off.
When he'd told her that they would be going back to his place, he knew that she was thinking, Oh, my God, tonight's the night. He could almost smell the rush of teenage estrogen and hear the cogs in her silly little brain whirring as she tried to decide which perfume to dab between her tits and which knickers would turn him on the most.
Well, yes, it would be a night to remember for certain. Back at his place.
It might be a little crowded…
On the drive to Queen Square, Thorne didn't really need to think. He'd worked out what he was going to say to Alison Willetts. Now he just needed to be a little more relaxed in order to say it.
He popped out the Massive Attack tape and slid in Merle Haggard.
Getting relaxed enough to apologise.
' Tommy?'
' Yes, and to you too.
After circling the square for nearly ten minutes, swearing loudly, he double-parked and stuck a dog-eared piece of cardboard with 'Police Business' scrawled on it in the front window of the Mondeo.
The evening was turning chilly. He wished he'd grabbed a warmer jacket on his way out. As he walked quickly towards the hospital's main entrance, he felt the first drops of rain and remembered making this same journey in reverse two months earlier. It seemed a lot longer ago, that day in August when he'd first met Alison Willetts. He'd run through the rain towards his car and found the note. He'd begun to understand the nature of the man he was dealing with.
Today, on the same spot, with the rain starting to fall, Thorne was coming to terms with the fact that he still had no idea who that man was.
Nearly eight o'clock. The latest that Thorne had been inside the hospital. It was a very different place after dark. His steps echoed off century-old marble as he strode through the older part of the building towards the Chandler Wing. There were few people around and those he passed, nurses, cleaners, security staff, looked at him closely. They seemed to be studying his face. He'd never been aware of such scrutiny during the day. Somewhere in the distance he thought he could hear what sounded like somebody weeping softly. He stopped to listen but couldn't hear it any more.
Even the modern part of the hospital seemed spookier. The lights that normally bounced off the bleached wood in the Medical ITU reception area, had been dimmed. The only sounds were the muted tones of a faraway conversation and the low hum of distant equipment of some sort. It might have been cleaning carpets. It might have been keeping somebody alive.
He looked at the row of payphones in Reception. He'd try Anne again as soon as he'd been to see Alison. He'd forgotten to bring his mobile..
As he walked from the lift, he caught the eye of a woman in the glass-fronted office in Reception. She waved at him and he recognised her as Anne's secretary. He couldn't remember her name. He pointed at the doors and she nodded, signaling at him to go on through. He remembered the three-digit code that opened the heavy wooden doors and stepped through them into the Intensive Therapy Unit.
He let the sister on duty at the nursing station know where he was going and set off down the corridor towards Alison's room. As he walked past the other rooms he realised that he knew nothing about the people inside. He'd never spoken to Anne about her other patients. He presumed that none were suffering in quite the same way as Alison was, but that all had seen their lives changed in a few short seconds. The time it takes to trip on the stairs or miss time a tackle or lose control of a car.
The time it takes for a brain to short-circuit. He listened at the door of the room opposite Alison's. The same telltale hum of machinery from within, like the lazy throb of a dozing beehive coming slowly to life after a long winter. Whoever lay in the bed inside that room was here by accident. That was the difference.
Thorne turned and moved across to Alison's door. He knocked quietly and reached for the handle. He gasped as the door was yanked open from the inside and David Higgins all but pushed him back into the corridor.
'She's not here.' Higgins was in his face.
'What?' Thorne tried to pus
h past him into the room.
'You're out of luck, Thorne. Sorry.'
Thorne looked at him, not understanding. Higgins began to raise his voice. 'My fucking wife. My fucking wife, who you are fucking. She. Isn't. Here.'
Thorne could smell Dutch courage.
'I'm not here to see Anne. Move out of the way.'
'Of course. Have fun.'
Higgins took a step to his left but Thorne didn't move, just looked at him. 'What does that mean?' Knowing exactly what it meant but wanting to hear him say it.
'Well, in the absence of the lovely Anne, who doesn't actually enjoy it that much anyway, you might as well… make hay with someone who really doesn't have a great deal of say in the matter. Like a blow-up doll with a pulse.'
Thorne had always thought that the accusations about his relationship with Alison were a little cheap for the killer. A little beneath him. Now he knew who had been responsible. The motivation was obvious but Thorne asked anyway. 'Why?'
Higgins swallowed, licked his lips. 'Why not?'
As his right arm bent and swung at speed, Thorne unballed his fist. A slap seemed so much more appropriate. Higgins wasn't man enough to punch.
The hard flat hand caught Higgins across the jaw and ear, sending him sprawling across the highly polished linoleum. He lay still, whimpering like a child. Without looking at him, Thorne stepped across Higgins's outstretched leg and opened the door to Alison Willetts's room.
The second he looked at her, she began to blink. Once, twice, three times. Thorne realised that she'd heard the noise from outside and was disturbed. Maybe he should call for a nurse. What had Higgins been doing in her room anyway? Probably just looking for Anne, but couldn't he have spoken to someone at reception?
Thorne's mind was racing. He needed to calm down if he was going to be able to say what he came to say. Alison was still blinking. One blink every three or four seconds.
Sleepyhead tt-1 Page 27
