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  It had told Francis Calvert to kill children. There was one can of beer left. He put his favourite track from the George Jones album back on and turned it up. Jones's duet with Elvis Costello…

  ' There's a stranger in the house no one will ever see.., but everybody says he looks like me.'

  He'd have to play it carefully with Keable. However much he discredited Thorne's theories about Jeremy Bishop, Keable knew that the killer and Thorne had a connection. That first note had been written before Thorne had even met Bishop. There was a link. The killer wanted Thorne close. So, whatever Thorne did, he knew that Keable would be watching. The truth was that Thorne didn't really know what he was going to do and, more disturbingly, he had no idea what Bishop was going to do either. How would he react to Thorne leaving the case?

  Would he be… insulted? Would he do something to demand the attention he thought he deserved?

  Thorne tried not to think about those things that might make him bitterly regret what he had chosen to do. He told himself that he'd been given very little choice. They wouldn't listen. Worse, they were judging him. Putting it down to Calvert. Fifteen years, and still he was tainted, any instinct called an obsession. Every observation, every thought weighed up and judged and found wanting. He couldn't bear that judgment any longer. He didn't need the judgment of the living.

  He was being judged every day by the dead.

  He needed to be outside an operation that was stifling him. He had to get out and make things happen. While he dicked about following leads and smiling the right smiles, Jeremy Bishop was making a fool of him.

  It was time to turn things round.

  He had to go to bed. The following morning was not going to be pleasant and he'd need to be as sharp as he could be. But he still needed to make one more call. He got up and went to the mantelpiece for his address book. He couldn't remember the numbers of many pornographers offhand.

  I'm glad Anne's spending more time with me again. I'd sort of started thinking that she'd moved on a bit, that the novelty had maybe worn off. I wouldn't have blamed her, but I can't believe she's got many like me. She told me her workload had built up and that the administrator was an arsehole, so fair enough. Mind you, if I don't start making some progress I might find myself out on my ear. Somebody's bound to need the bed.

  We've pretty much got 'yes' and "no' sussed, and 'in pain' is one of my specialities, but blinking is hardly Esperanto. One for yes and two for no is all very well in theory but it's the control that's letting me down. And the gaps between the blinks are all over the shop. I try to blink twice but it's hard for Anne to know if I'm saying "no' or saying "yes, yes'. There's a lot of "Is that a yes, Alison? No? Is that a no, then?" We're like a pair of comical foreigners on Benny Hill. This chicken is rubbery, Dad used to piss himself at that. Mum was never much for comedy shows, but he loved it. Maybe the old sod just fancied the women in bikinis. I caught Mum watching one of the videos a couple of weeks after my dad died. She must have got it out of the video shop. I was doing my NVQ's, I think, and I cane back from college early one day. She was sitting there watching this sad old fat bloke chasing these dolly-birds round and round a garden and crying her eyes out.

  Tim had better buck up his sodding ideas as well. He just sits there holding my hand. I know he can't come much in the daytime because of work but he should make more of an effort in the evenings. I don't know anything. He doesn't tell me. What's happening on Brookside? Is he still playing football on Sundays? Has he put that shower curtain up yet? If Dad was here he'd kick him up the arse.

  He's stupid, really, because the weight's dropping off me and if everything else is knackered then there's every chance I might actually have stopped ageing! I'll be walking out of here a slim and sexy shadow of my former self. There's one very tasty male nurse. Probably gay, but fit as fuck. If Tim's not careful l might have to start looking elsewhere.

  NINE

  When he woke up he was still angry. The previous night's amateur dramatics had been hugely disappointing. And where the hell was Thorne? At least it confirmed what he'd suspected for a while – that the rigorous, high-priority investigation had got precisely nowhere. Perhaps they'd have the car by now, or a slightly better description, but it was still painfully slow. There wasn't even a sniff of the number plate. It was stolen, of course, but come on! It was nearly a fortnight since he'd given them Helen's body to play with and they were still begging for the help of the general public.

  Useless wankers.

  Thorne. Nowhere to be seen when he should have been grabbing his bit of televisual glory. He hadn't believed for a second that Thorne had still been recovering. No, there was something afoot among the jolly coppers for sure. This was unforeseen but easily dealt with. If all that his thuggish theatrics and beautifully arch little note had done was cause the boys in blue to have some sort of queeny tantrum, then he'd just have to find another way to chivvy them along, wouldn't he?

  It was about time anyway. Maniacs were supposed to speed up as the frenzy took hold, weren't they? They'd expect nothing less. He'd considered livening things up a little. Perhaps a gay man or an old person next time. No… that would be bound to confuse them and he didn't want them confused. All things considered, he was ready for another bash. Keen as mustard to try, try, try again. He'd tried kicking Thorne in the shins. It was time to aim for the heart.

  Thorne looked around the pub. Businessmen in shirtsleeves using a basket of scampi or a microwaved chili con carne as an excuse to sink a couple of pints at lunchtime. It was probably as good a place as any. Informants didn't like to meet too close to home and as it was, of all the people upstairs in the Lamb and Flag, Thorne looked the most likely villain. He was comfortable with that. He knew he looked.., useful. It hadn't done him any harm by and large, though he would've liked to be taller. A surly Australian barman emptied the ashtray Thorne wasn't using. 'Are you eating, mate? We need the table.'

  Thorne opened his wallet. 'I'll have another mineral water.' He made sure his identification was visible. With a tut the barman wiped the table and went to fetch Thorne's drink.

  The Perrier was the one thing slightly at odds with the image he knew he was presenting, but the booze was, as yet, strictly confined to Little IKEA. Besides, he could do with getting straight back to work afterwards. He didn't think rolling in bladdered on his first day would go down too well.

  The meeting with Frank Keable the day before hadn't been as prickly as he'd expected. Keable had wanted him to stay on the investigation, but for none of the right reasons. He talked about the integrity of the case, whatever that was, and how he could ill afford to lose an officer with Thorne's outstanding record. As far as the notes and the attack on Thorne, which Keable assured him was being viewed as an attempted murder, were concerned, Keable was predictably vague. He was adamant that this facet of the case would be monitored closely, but Thorne could sense a real fear on Keable's part that, were he to leave, Keable himself might become the object of the killer's bizarre attention.

  Thorne knew that this was never going to happen. The simple truth was that, if Thorne left, Keable was terrified of the press getting hold of it and understandably he did not relish explaining to the detective superintendent why one of his senior officers was jumping ship. Thorne had told him to put it down to a clash with Tughan. Or him. Anything he liked.

  Keable asked him to reconsider. Thorne had looked into the bored brown eyes of the Exmoor stag and stood his ground.

  By lunchtime he'd been transferred back to the Serious Crime Group (West) out of Hendon, effective from nine o'clock the following morning.

  He hoped things were a little clearer than when he'd left.

  The Met was in a serious state of flux. Not only was it now under the direct auspices of the GLA and Mayor Livingstone, it was also undergoing major operational restructuring. NHS red tape was impressive, but it didn't even come close.

  The old area system had gone. Five areas of London (NW, NE, SW, SE and Cent
ral), each with its own Major Incident Team (AMIT), which had in turn replaced the Area Major Incident Pools (AMIP's) and all now superseded by three Serious Crime Groups (East, West, South) encompassing all existing OCU's as well as the old Organised Crime Department, the Fraud Squad and the Firearms Unit.

  The result? Hundreds of officers without a clue what was happening. Or indeed, why. The official line was that the new SCG's were supposed to be more proactive. The Met would no longer sit back and wait for crime to happen.

  It was a good theory.

  But you couldn't anticipate the likes of Jeremy Bishop. As the DI on Team 3 out of Beck House in Hendon, Thorne had landed on his feet. He'd worked with DCI Russell Brigstocke for six months at Serious Crime and he knew that, barring-anything major going down, Brigstocke wouldn't kick up a fuss should Thorne be unavailable from time to time.

  Like since nine o'clock that morning.

  'Kodak!'

  If Thorne looked useful, the man in his early forties nodding and strolling over to join him was positively indispensable. Six feet four and built like a barn, with bleached blond hair, a nose-ring and, today, a bright yellow puffa jacket. But it wasn't all good news. Dennis Bethell's voice could start a fight at a hundred yards. It was a spilt pint waiting to happen.

  'Can I get you one, Mr. Thorne?'

  Thorne always smiled the first time he heard the incongruous, high-pitched squeak. Whoever was responsible for these things had screwed up big-time or else had a great sense of humour. Somewhere there was an extremely irate cartoon mouse who sounded like Frank Bruno. He pointed to his water. 'No, I'm fine.'

  Bethell nodded for about ten seconds.

  Thorne emptied his glass as the barman finally brought over a new one and took the money. Bethell, if anything, was even bigger than the last time he'd seen him.

  'Steroids give you cancer, you know, Kodak.'

  'Bollocks,' squeaked Bethell. 'They make you infertile. Anyway, this all right for you, Mr. Thorne? I know it's a bit busy, but coming up West is handy for me. I do a lot of business round here.'

  'Course you do, Kodak…'

  As porno merchants went, Dennis Bethell was among the least unpleasant. For twenty years Thorne had monitored his career with interest. He was purveyor of everything from soft-focus glamour snaps for car magazines to the more brightly lit and clinical stuff for those publications a little harder to reach. In the eighties his top quality cumshot work had been much in demand, and his occasional foray into blackmail had caused the abrupt termination of at least one prominent political career. Dennis was old school. In an age where hard-core videos were a tenner and any mug punter with a PC could watch dwarfs doing it with donkeys at the drop of a hat, or the click of a mouse, he was still a firm believer in the power, the truth, of the single still photograph. Deep down, Thorne admired the filthy piece of pond life.

  'This boozer used to be the Bucket of Blood you know.'

  Thorne did know. Two hundred and fifty years earlier this had been a brawler's pub. Whores and cutthroats doing business and slicing each other up for pennies while Hogarth sat in the corner jotting it all down and doing sketches. Thorne looked around him. He couldn't help but wonder if he might not have felt a little more at home.

  'Business going well, then, is it?'

  Bethell was lighting a Silk Cut. 'Oh, not too shabby. I've got a website, you know…'

  'You're shattering all my illusions.'

  'You've got to move with the times, haven't you? Have you seen the stuff that's out there?'

  Thorne had. Plenty of it. 'And you think the stuff you do is any different?'

  'I don't do anything with kids, Mr. Thorne, you know that. I won't be doing with that filth. Besides, my stuff's a bit more exclusive, I reckon. It's harder to get hold of.'

  'Yeah. You've got to stand on tiptoe in the newsagent.'

  Bethell looked uncomfortable. Stubbed out the fag long before it was finished. Lit another. 'Can we get this over with, Mr. Thorne?'

  'Of course. I'm sorry to have kept you.'

  'Listen, Mr. Thorne, I don't really hear a great deal these days. I've been getting this webcam thing off the ground and apart from that it's just the usual stuff with the models. I don't hang around as much as I did…'

  The barman returned with Thorne's change. From the table behind him Thorne could hear muffled sniggering. He really hoped it wasn't aimed at the big man sitting opposite him.

  Bethell mistook Thorne's silence for disappointment.

  'There's a bit of drugs business I could put your way. These young girls are dropping Es and putting Charlie up their beaks like there's no tomorrow. They don't want to eat, see…'

  More sniggering, and this time Bethell heard it too. Thorne turned round. Four media types. Short hair, square glasses and training shoes that probably cost more than his suit. They wouldn't look at him. He turned back round, lowering his voice as a cue for Bethell to do the same.

  'I don't need information, Kodak.'

  'Right.'

  'I wish to avail myself of your high-quality professional services, which you will provide in return for me not sending Vice to go trampling through your darkroom.'

  Bethell thought for a moment or three. 'You want me to take some photos?'

  'Simple black and white portrait from as close as you can get. The subject will be unaware that he is being photographed.'

  Bethell was hardly inconspicuous, but Thorne knew that the man had a great deal of experience in maintaining a low profile. In a parallel universe he might have been a highly paid paparazzo.

  'No sweat, Mr. Thorne, I've got this blinding new three hundred mil Nikon zoom.'

  Thorne leaned in close. 'Listen, Bethell, this is a piece of piss, all right? A simple head shot. Coming out of his house, getting into his car, it doesn't matter. Should be simple for you. No beds. No animals. No drugged-up teenage girls.'

  He thought about Helen Doyle, sitting in the pub, laughing.

  'I never did anything like that, Tommy. Strictly a Bacardi Breezer girl…'

  He gave Bethell the address and finished his drink while the photographer enthused a little more about lenses before lumbering off towards the gents'. As he went, Bethell gave the quartet on the table behind them a good hard look.

  Thorne felt pretty sure that Bethell would do a decent job for him. It wasn't just because he'd make his life hell if he didn't, he could sense that the man would take pride in the work. Not for the first time Thorne thought about how much better he functioned with professional criminals. It was a game he was good at. Even the really nasty bastards he had squared up against in his eighteen months on the Flying Squad weren't hard to figure out. Some he caught and some he didn't, but he never had to waste his time wondering why they were doing it. Money, usually. Sex, occasionally. Because they couldn't be arsed doing anything else, often. But the rules of the game were simple: stop them doing it and let somebody else work out why afterwards.

  Bishop and those like him were not playing by the same rules. Thorne knew that if he was going to catch Jeremy Bishop he'd have precious little help. He knew that he had to take things carefully, a step at a time. Bethell was the first step, but after that he'd be making it up as he went along. Whatever this new game was, Bishop had a distinct advantage. Thorne was certain that the 'why' was important. The 'why' was probably crucial. But this was where he was up against it.

  Thorne didn't give a shit about 'why'.

  When Bethell arrived back at the table Thorne stood up and started putting on his coat. 'Are we sorted, then?'

  Bethell picked up his cigarettes. 'Yeah. No point me asking how soon you want these photos, is there?'

  'Not really, no.'

  The laughter from behind them told Thorne that he really should get out, straight away. Bethell was already taking a step towards them.

  'Something funny?'

  The biggest of the four stood up and stared at Bethell through designer glasses. It was not an aggressive move so much as
a reflexive one, but it didn't really matter to Bethell. The thick finger he prodded into the man's chest must have felt like a battering ram. 'Something about how highly I speak of you, was it? Go on, tell me.' Square Glasses moved to swat away the finger; Short Hair moved to protect his friend and it went off.

  As Bethell swung a fist bristling with signet rings into Square Glasses' face, Thorne stepped forward and backhanded his friend across the mouth. He fell backwards across the table, the expensive training shoes sending bottles and glasses flying in all directions. It was now two on two and all over very quickly. The third man reached for a large metal ashtray but Thorne was on him in a second, bringing his forehead down across the bridge of the man's nose as casually as if he were bending to tie a shoelace.

  It was only as the fourth man backed away in such a hurry as to knock a plate of vividly orange chicken tikka massala into a young woman's lap, that the screaming began in earnest. As the Australian barman hovered nervously, a fearsome-looking landlady with vanilla-coloured hair and a broken pool cue marched from behind the bar.

  'Right. Call the police.'

  The barman pointed an accusing finger at Thorne.

  'They're already here.'

  Thorne rubbed his forehead and looked around. Three men lying, kneeling, crawling across a wooden floor glittering with broken glass, blood splashing on to designer combat trousers, the horrified yet excited faces of two dozen onlookers…

  He guessed that it was not the right time to mention to the landlady that Hogarth would probably have approved.

  Ten minutes later Thorne and Bethell were on the pavement outside the Garrick Club. The landlady had taken a bit of mollifying and those with smashed teeth and shattered noses were predictably aggrieved until Thorne dropped the word 'cocaine' into the conversation and everything was hastily forgiven and forgotten. Bethell placed an unwelcome hand on Thorne's shoulder.