Cry Baby Page 12

  ‘I don’t feel unsafe,’ Cat said.

  ‘That’s OK, then.’

  ‘I can’t speak for him.’ She drained the last of her tea. ‘Why did you let him go, anyway?’ She stared at him. ‘There was a witness, you said.’

  Thorne knew that – especially considering Catrin Coyne’s proximity to the suspect – he should trot out the same old line about an ongoing inquiry. Tell her he was unable to go into details at this stage. But he could see how desperately this woman needed to know what was happening, and he knew that she, above everyone else, had a right to.

  He sat back and said, ‘We didn’t have enough, simple as that. We need a bit more time to gather evidence.’

  ‘What did he say when you had him?’

  ‘Same as he told you.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  Thorne had changed his mind several times in the previous twenty-four hours. Yes, there had been something close to certainty when he’d first encountered Catrin Coyne’s strange neighbour, but Thorne was all too aware how dangerous that feeling was. That same certainty he’d felt shaking hands with a man at a police station ten years previously. An unasked-for knowing, that still fuelled smirks and sarky comments from Boyle and the rest of them.

  Ten years ago when he’d been right, but it had all been ultimately useless.

  Three freshly laundered pillowcases, the initials embroidered in red, blue and green.

  L, S, A-M.

  ‘He fits the bill,’ Thorne said.

  ‘So, what about this witness? The one who saw the car.’

  ‘The witness didn’t pick Figgis out of a line-up,’ Thorne said. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Thorne looked away and signalled for the bill. ‘He didn’t pick him out.’

  Halfway back to Cat’s place, Thorne’s pager sounded and he asked if she would mind letting him use her phone to make the necessary call.

  ‘You paid for breakfast,’ she said.

  Less than a minute later, they caught sight of the small crowd at the entrance to the tower block and Thorne understood why someone at the office was urgently trying to get hold of him.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Cat said.

  A dozen or more men and women with large cameras and flash guns.

  Others scribbling in notebooks, while some – clearly colleagues or rivals – chatted animatedly to one another, excited to be gathered together once again on the front line, waiting for their moment.

  ‘There was one here yesterday.’

  ‘No worries,’ Thorne said. ‘I’ll get you inside.’

  Then Thorne noticed the front page of a newspaper being read by a man at the back of the scrum. He saw the headline and the photo beneath, and he knew it wasn’t Cat they were after.

  Some teams were leakier than others.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  By the time Thorne got back to Islington station just after ten o’clock, he’d missed the official heads-up/call to arms/mass bollocking meted out by DCI Andy Frankham. The less-than-gentle reminder about regulations surrounding professional conduct and the promise of retribution to those who had chosen to flout them.

  Brigstocke ran him through the highlights while Thorne sat and looked at the front-page story in the Sun that had caused all the trouble.

  IS THIS THE MAN WHO TOOK KIERON?

  The story not only named Grantleigh Figgis, but revealed him to be a neighbour of the woman whose son had been snatched. It reported that the suspect – a known drug user – had a history of sexual offending and that police and forensic scientists were examining a motor vehicle owned by the suspect which they believed was directly linked to the abduction of seven-year-old Kieron Coyne.

  There was a small photograph of Kieron, grinning in a West Ham shirt, and a far larger one of the man the paper was as good as accusing of snatching him. A photo of Grantleigh Figgis – taken on a long lens from a distance away – as he was being led from Seacole House to a police car two nights previously.

  Figgis looked alarmed, certainly, and disorientated, yet the expression on that thin face – pale beneath the shock of hair – could just as easily have been seen by those with an agenda as nervous or shifty. There was something like anger in the eyes, too, if you were looking for it. A flash of that same irritation Thorne had glimpsed in the interview room.

  Figgis looked unbowed yet also, strangely . . . unworldly.

  A proper funny strip of piss . . .

  He looked guilty.

  It wasn’t hard to see why the DCI had been so furious. ‘Smoke coming out of his ears,’ Brigstocke had said. For their suspect to have had his picture taken moments after his arrest could only mean that the paper had been tipped off by a member of the team.

  Thorne knew how it worked.

  Nobody ever joined the Met for the money, but while making ends meet wasn’t usually a problem for most, any unexpected drain on wages could easily put the average copper under pressure. Alimony, a serious drink or drug problem, gambling debts. Some just racked up as much overtime as they could manage and there were more than a few who had second jobs, working as private security guards or manning all-night car parks. Others found easier and more lucrative ways to beef up their salaries, and passing information to people who were not supposed to reveal their sources often proved too tempting to resist.

  Not that too many of the journalists Thorne had met were burdened with any more scruples than those to whom they passed envelopes stuffed with twenty-pound notes.

  Ethics . . .

  For some, it was just the way people with a lisp pronounced the name of that county where all the girls wore white stilettos.

  Boyle and Roth wandered in, looking rather less rattled by the turn of events than they ought to have been.

  ‘Pain in the arse, all this, but there you go,’ Roth said.

  ‘Yeah, there you go,’ Brigstocke said.

  The DI shook his head. ‘I’ve already had the head of the surveillance team on the blower to tell me they’re wasting their time. Can’t get anywhere near Figgis while every arsehole with a camera’s hanging around. Still, look on the bright side . . .’

  Seeing the man smile suddenly, Thorne wondered if Gordon Boyle had any unsuspected drains on his wages. A taste for high-class prostitutes maybe, or a secret second family. Mind you, imagining even one willing to put up with him was a bit of a stretch.

  ‘. . . we don’t need a surveillance team to tell us what Figgis is up to, because the papers will do it for us.’

  ‘Save us the trouble,’ Roth said. ‘Probably save us a few quid an’ all.’

  ‘Does that mean we can finally buy a new kettle?’ Brigstocke asked.

  ‘Yeah, but even if you’re right about Figgis leading us to Kieron,’ Thorne said, ‘he’s hardly likely to do that with the press watching him night and day.’

  Perhaps it was the even if that wiped Boyle’s smile away. ‘They’ll find something else to write about in a few days and lay off him. Meantime, we just get on with it and see how Mr Figgis handles the pressure.’

  ‘Not very well so far,’ Roth said.

  ‘Listen, I talked to Catrin Coyne first thing,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Boyle waited.

  ‘She told me that Billy Coyne isn’t Kieron’s real father.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Brigstocke said.

  ‘Thought we should probably have a word with the man who is.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ The DI looked as if he was already thinking about something else. ‘Just write it all up and I’ll have a look when I’ve finished dealing with all this Figgis business.’

  Thorne turned to Roth. ‘What did you mean about him not dealing with the pressure?’

  ‘Oh, just that he’s already been on the phone twice today.’ Boyle held up two fingers, either to illustrate exactly what twice meant or to emphasise how pleased he was with the way the situation was panning out. ‘First to moan about the fact that he couldn’t get out to go to work, then half
an hour later to tell us that work had called and told him not to bother coming in anyway.’

  ‘Jammy sod’s got himself a day off already,’ Roth said.

  ‘Right, but we haven’t.’ Boyle clapped his hands and rubbed them together, mustard-keen. ‘So, let’s crack on.’ He stopped at the door, turned to look at Brigstocke and Thorne. ‘Oh, and don’t think it means that when all this is done and dusted, I won’t be going after the twat who leaked the information and having his balls for breakfast.’

  Roth smiled and rubbed his belly, as though he quite fancied the leavings from his master’s plate.

  When Boyle and Roth had gone, Brigstocke said, ‘Crack on with what, exactly? Forensics won’t be coming back any time soon and there’s nobody else in the frame.’

  Thorne picked up the paper again. Kieron Coyne’s toothy grin. Figgis, like a rabbit trapped in the headlights.

  ‘We’ve spunked all our money away on one horse.’

  ‘Right,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I know he’s the favourite, but still.’

  Thorne nodded and tossed the paper into the bin next to his desk.

  The failure of the Yorkshire Ripper inquiry might have led to a shake-up when it came to cross-referencing intelligence, but other bad habits still lingered, fifteen years on. More than once, Thorne had been swept along by the dangerous tendency of some colleagues to focus exclusively on one theory, one suspect, while choosing to ignore any evidence that might run counter to that. To stop looking for it.

  The Ripper killed because of a hatred for prostitutes.

  The Ripper was from Wearside.

  How many women had died because of those fixations? Half a dozen?

  None of this was to say that Boyle wasn’t right, of course. The horse he’d backed. There were compelling reasons why their prime suspect was exactly that. But it would also mean Thorne had been right, that he would bear responsibility if things did not work out well, whether anyone thought he deserved it or not. So, for as long as he turned the lights out still fearful of dreaming about three dead girls, he would kick against it.

  Thorne grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Come on, you heard what he said.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Let’s have a chat with the World’s Best Dad.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  As soon as he heard the letters slapping on to the hallway floor, he hurried to open the door, keen to catch the postman. He held up the bundle, mostly junk mail of course, and waved it. He recognised the Asian with the bike and the red shoulder-bag, who always seemed genial enough, though they had never actually spoken.

  ‘It’s getting later and later,’ he said.

  The postman turned at the bottom of the path, peered at him through thick glasses. ‘I know, but it’s hard to keep it regular,’ he said. ‘These out-of-the-way routes.’

  ‘All the same. It’s virtually lunchtime.’

  ‘Some places are lucky if they get their mail before teatime.’ The postman smiled, oblivious to the fact that he was being told off, or simply not caring a great deal. ‘They always get it, though.’

  ‘OK, well. Just thought I’d mention it.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll have a word at the office, see what I can do.’

  ‘It’s a bit inconvenient, that’s all.’

  The postman had begun sauntering back up the front path, seemingly happy to chat. He pointed towards the hanging baskets on either side of the door and said, ‘These are doing very well.’

  ‘Yes.’ The man nodded and reached up to check the soil was damp enough. ‘I’m very pleased with them.’

  They stared at each other for a few moments.

  The postman hoisted his bag up on to his shoulder and said, ‘I meant to say . . . is your son all right?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I presume it’s your son?’

  The man blinked and began thinking furiously, his face a mask.

  ‘Only I heard him crying yesterday morning.’ The postman shook his head and smiled. ‘Well, more like lunchtime, obviously . . . anyway, not sure you were here. So, I just thought—’

  ‘He’s got—’

  ‘He sounded really upset.’

  ‘He’s had terrible earache.’

  ‘Oh. That can be nasty.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ the man said. ‘That’s why I’m keeping him off school.’

  The postman pulled a face. ‘Yeah, I remember when my youngest had it. She screamed the place down. You got Calpol?’

  ‘Oh yes. Calpol and plenty of treats. Don’t worry, he’s getting good and spoiled.’

  ‘The best way,’ the postman said.

  The man took a step back and drew the door towards him. ‘Well, thanks for, you know . . .’

  ‘Not a problem. I’ll see what I can do about getting here a bit earlier from now on.’

  The man closed the door, stared out through the frosted-glass panes and watched the postman get on his bike and ride away. He stayed there until he felt his breathing start to settle down.

  He would clearly need to do something, quickly.

  He had thought that the room was far enough below ground, but obviously those eggboxes weren’t doing the trick in terms of soundproofing. He would go out and get what he needed straight away, pick all the stuff up from that DIY megastore on the trading estate and get to work.

  It wouldn’t take very long.

  Putting his jacket on and trying to remember where he’d left his car keys, he wondered if maybe he could let the boy out into the garden while he was doing the work in the cellar. He was fairly confident that the boy wouldn’t shout or scream or try to climb over the fence, and even if he did, there was nowhere close he could get to very quickly. On second thoughts, it would probably be less stressful for both of them if the boy stayed put. Maybe the boy could help him. They could make a game out of it.

  He would like that and he guessed that the boy would like it, too.

  Anything that brought them closer.

  Even if it was the two of them messing about with tools and whatever else, turning that room into something more like a prison cell. He hated to think of it in those terms, even though he wasn’t an idiot and knew that’s more or less what it was. It wasn’t how he wanted the boy to see it, not if he was going to be there for a while.

  He wanted the boy to feel safe down there, to feel at home.

  He wanted the boy to know he was loved.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dean Meade was the assistant manager of a tile showroom in Palmers Green and had a badge to prove it. He appeared to be the only member of staff working there, however, and even though there was only one customer in the place – a woman browsing sullenly through a display of cut-price laminates – he announced that he was busy. As soon as the browser had wandered out of the shop, Brigstocke turned the sign on the door to closed.

  ‘It’s just a quick natter, Dean,’ Thorne said.

  Muttering about his boss having his ‘guts for garters’, Meade led them to a small, musty-smelling office in the back where boxes of tiles and large tubs of grout took up most of the available space. Brigstocke and Thorne squeezed on to plastic chairs behind one side of a desk-cum-hot drinks station. Meade took a seat opposite them and leaned back, a little happier suddenly, like someone who rarely got to sit in the big comfy chair. He saw Thorne staring at the calendar behind his head and turned. A Formula One car, on which a pneumatic blonde in a string bikini was perched holding a chequered flag as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘Nice, right?’ Meade said.

  ‘The car or the girl?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Well, they go together, don’t they? Sort of . . . complement each other.’

  Brigstocke opened his notebook. ‘Why did you go to visit Catrin Coyne yesterday?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Meade looked from one to the other.

  ‘We know that you’re Kieron’s father,’ Thorne said.

  ‘
Well, how come you’re asking, then?’ Meade was skinny, in a collar and tie, which he tugged at, jutting out his chin, like it was too tight. His dark hair was streaked with what Thorne always thought of as ‘bird-shit highlights’ and had been styled into a series of long strands which hung over his forehead like spider’s legs. ‘Obvious, I would have thought.’

  ‘You’d have thought,’ Brigstocke said.

  ‘Tell us anyway,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I read about what had happened, didn’t I?’ Now, he began fiddling with the stud in his left ear. ‘I thought I should be there for her. For Cat.’

  Thorne looked at him. A Jack the Lad who wasn’t a lad any more. ‘You wanted to be there?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A bit ironic, isn’t it? Considering you hadn’t been there since Kieron was born. I mean, as far as I’m aware, you’ve never even seen him.’

  ‘Did a runner before he was born,’ Brigstocke said.

  ‘I didn’t do a runner,’ Meade said. ‘It wasn’t like that. I . . . stepped away.’

  ‘Considerate,’ Thorne said. ‘And you haven’t seen Cat for what, seven years?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Meade folded his arms. ‘But my son’s never been abducted before, has he?’

  ‘So, you thought it was time to put in an appearance.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought I should,’ Meade said. ‘I thought it was the decent thing to do. Like I told Cat, it’s not like I never cared about him.’

  ‘So, seeing as you cared about your son so much,’ Brigstocke said, ‘I presume you kept up with what he was doing?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Did you know what school he was going to?’

  ‘Yeah, I knew that. I’d heard something in the pub from one of Cat’s mates.’

  ‘Did you send cards on his birthday?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Well, I wanted to, but it didn’t seem like a good idea. I mean, it wouldn’t do anyone any good to have certain people asking awkward questions. Definitely not Cat.’