Love Like Blood Read online

  Thorne craned his neck obligingly, but couldn’t see anything.

  ‘Some soldier in the First World War… shot it or stuck a bayonet in it or something.’

  ‘Everyone’s a critic,’ Thorne said.

  He carried a glass of Glenfiddich and a pint of Guinness back to the table, laid them well away from Tanner’s phone. He raised his glass and Tanner did the same and, for a second or two, they stared at one another a little awkwardly. Were they celebrating the result in court or toasting Tanner’s murdered girlfriend?

  ‘Right.’ Thorne lowered his eyes, then his mouth, to the beer.

  After downing half her whisky in two gulps, Tanner began talking. Though they had said nothing else about her dead partner on the short walk to the pub, she spoke as though picking up the thread of a conversation that had only been briefly interrupted. As though Thorne had invited her to carry on where they’d left off.

  ‘After the Finlay case, I did some work with the Honour Crimes Unit,’ she said. ‘Such as it is.’ She waited a few seconds. ‘Some of the murder cases that had gone cold. Some of those they suspected were honour killings, but couldn’t prove.’

  ‘How many’s that?’

  ‘A lot more than the official figures would have you believe, but it really depends which sort you’re talking about.’ Tanner reached for a coaster and put her glass down. ‘Some perpetrators take a lot of trouble to make a straightforward honour killing look like something else. Something sexually motivated, a random attack, a suicide, maybe. Sometimes the victim just mysteriously disappears, goes abroad for a wedding and never comes back, and I’ve come across at least a couple that look suspiciously like faked car accidents.’

  Thorne nodded. These were scenarios he had come across only rarely, but which were nonetheless familiar. ‘What’s the other sort?’

  Half a smile. ‘I knew you’d ask the right questions.’

  Thorne took a sip of Guinness. Thinking: Or the wrong ones. Up close, he could see that there was rather more grey in Tanner’s hair than he had noticed before; that such make-up as there was could not disguise the deep lines around the woman’s mouth and the shadowy half-moons beneath her eyes.

  A face changed by a fortnight of tears and no sleep.

  Tanner smiled and leaned forward. The answer to Thorne’s question was clearly the reason they were here. ‘Well, the trouble with honour killings… for the people that carry them out, I mean… is that any copper with half a brain cell tends to know who they’re looking for. It’s the father or the brothers or the uncles or some other family combination. Obviously there’s a lot of lying and secrecy to deal with, but we tend to get there in the end. Not quite an open and shut case, but pretty close.’

  ‘Not always men though, right?’

  ‘No, not always, but nine times out of ten it’s a relative.’

  ‘I’m guessing it’s the one time out of ten that you’re interested in though.’

  Her expression confirmed it. ‘Look, there isn’t an ounce of anything like nobility in what these people do. None at all. It’s murder, pure and simple, pretending to be something else, but some of those responsible do at least accept that they’ll be going to prison for it. The punishment is… part of it, in some twisted way. Some of them are quite happy to strangle their sisters or daughters and then march into the nearest police station and ask for the handcuffs to be slapped on.’

  ‘Men of honour,’ Thorne said, the beer not tasting quite as good as it did a minute before.

  ‘Others are rather more… cowardly, if that’s even possible. They don’t want to get caught, so they pay others to do it.’

  Thorne shrugged. ‘Makes sense. You know, if you’re the kind of scumbag who thinks your own flesh and blood deserves to die for wearing a skirt you don’t approve of.’

  ‘Right. Because you can’t possibly risk going to prison because you’re important. You’ve got a business to run and a family to keep together. You matter.’ She took another drink, getting to it. ‘Before Susan was killed, I’d become convinced that I’d found several cases where this is exactly what had happened. The methods were different, the locations, but I’m sure those murders were carried out by people who’d been paid by the victim’s family.’

  ‘Hitmen.’

  ‘Yes, if you like. Two of them. I think this pair has actually carried out contract-style honour killings all over the world. Pakistan, Turkey, Syria. Like I said, the ones I’m talking about over here were all slightly different, but in every case, somewhere in the files, there was a reference to two men. Two men seen in a car outside a house or watching a college one of the victims attended. Two men spotted hanging around near the scene of the crime. I got a few descriptions, and I’ve got what I reckon is a pretty decent e-fit.’

  ‘You took all this to your superiors, I presume?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘It’s not like the brass wasn’t interested, but putting all this together did cause a certain amount of friction. There were community leaders getting up in arms, there were complaints. Emails back and forth between various Chief Constables. In the current climate, this kind of thing’s a political hot potato, I suppose. I get why they’re… wary.’

  ‘Offending delicate sensibilities.’

  ‘Yes, well fuck that.’

  Thorne was taken aback to hear Tanner swear, but there was no doubting her passion; her anger. ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said. ‘Actually, I rather enjoy offending delicate sensibilities.’

  ‘One of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.’

  Thorne smiled, but he was eager to know what the other reasons might be.

  ‘The fact is, having me out of the picture because of what happened to Susan rather suits everybody, I think. But I know I’m right about this, so I’m buggered if I’m letting it go.’

  Thorne waited.

  ‘I think these same two men killed Susan.’ Her voice had dropped; broken a little. ‘I think whoever’s been paying them to carry out these honour killings put their hands in their pockets and paid to have me killed as well, because I’m becoming a nuisance. They made a mistake.’

  Seeing the look on Tanner’s face, Thorne could not help thinking that the men she was talking about had made more than one. ‘Why are you coming to me with this?’

  ‘Because you did such a great job on the Finlay thing, and because one of the cases I’ve been looking at was yours.’

  Thorne put his glass down.

  ‘Meena Athwal.’

  Thorne remembered the case, because it was one of those that was never solved. They were the ones that stayed with him; those and a few of the killers he had managed to catch. The special ones.

  ‘She was raped and strangled, four years ago.’

  ‘I know.’ The words caught in Thorne’s throat. Meena Athwal had been a college student. Bright and ambitious, trying to be independent. ‘Once we’d done a bit of digging, it made sense to look at the honour killing angle. We brought in a couple of specialists, but we couldn’t make it stick.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Tanner said. ‘Because all the likely suspects had cast-iron alibis. The father and the brothers, everyone. Funny, that.’

  Thorne was trying to remember: witness statements, house to house. Had there been any mention back then of two individuals who might have been the men Tanner was talking about?

  ‘So, what exactly do you think I can do?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I just wanted to see what you made of it, that’s all. What your… inclination might be.’

  Thorne’s inclination at that moment was to down another pint as quickly as possible.

  ‘How did you know, by the way?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘How did I know what?’

  ‘When you were in that therapy group. How did you know which of them it was?’

  ‘A smile,’ Thorne said. ‘A particular sort of smile. I could see they’d worked out that I was pretending to be something I
wasn’t and I knew straight away it was because they were pretending too.’

  ‘You got another one today,’ Tanner said. ‘A smile.’ She stood up and grabbed her handbag. ‘Same again?’

  ‘Please.’ Thorne watched Tanner walk to the bar, raise a hand and succeed in attracting the attention of the barman immediately. She struck Thorne as someone who tended to get what they were after.

  What your inclination might be.

  As if she didn’t know exactly what it would be.

  Thorne downed what little was left of his first pint, began to tear the corners off his beer mat. He already had the feeling that the smile he had received from a killer might turn out to be the high point of his day.

  THREE

  As soon as Amaya Shah had pushed through the glass doors of Barnet College and out into the fresh air, she buttoned up her coat and began looking around. People moved quickly past her and away up the concrete steps, most hurrying towards the Mitre or the cheap pizza place on the other side of the road, a few heading left towards the shopping centre. Plenty were loitering in small groups near the doors, talking and smoking; making plans for the rest of the day. Others were already gathered at the bus stop. There were plenty of faces she recognised, of course – other students, members of staff – but none that concerned her. She checked again, to be sure, as she always did.

  Then she reached up and removed her hijab.

  As she was tucking the blue headscarf carefully into her shoulder bag, Amaya looked up to see Kamal marching towards her across the precinct. A wave and that wonky smile she adored so much.

  Another look around. There would be no touching, no embrace, not until they were somewhere they both felt safe, but the caution had become second nature.

  He nodded towards her bag. ‘I thought you didn’t wear that here.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Amaya said. ‘I just make sure I’ve got it on when I come out, that’s all. My brother was waiting for me once.’

  ‘And he wasn’t happy about it.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘So, you put it on then take it straight off again?’

  ‘Right. Like you were wearing that shirt when you left home.’

  Kamal touched his fingers to the shiny material of the two-tone shirt, red and gold like a sunset, tight across his muscular chest. ‘You like it?’

  Amaya nodded. ‘What’s in your bag? Nice sensible sweater, maybe? The stupid one with all the stripes?’

  ‘Arsenal shirt.’ That wonky smile again. ‘What d’you fancy?’

  She thought about it for a few seconds then nodded across the road. ‘Pancakes.’ She grinned and pulled the hood of her anorak up against the drizzle. ‘Chocolate sauce…’

  Amaya ordered precisely what she’d told Kamal she wanted, while he plumped for a banoffee waffle with ice cream. They drank popcorn tea and vanilla milkshakes. From their small table in the window they each had a good view of the street outside; the parked cars and the passers-by.

  Kamal said, ‘Did you get my text?’

  Amaya nodded, ate.

  ‘So, we doing this, or what?’

  She looked at him. His perfect teeth and beautiful skin. He had cleared his plate quickly and now sat staring at her, slender fingers drumming on the tabletop, buzzing with it. It was his strength that had brought them this far, enough for her to feed on and cling to, but his excitement also made her nervous. How could he be quite so confident? Why did he never want to talk about what might happen if things didn’t work out the way they wanted?

  ‘Not sure about the running away bit,’ she said.

  ‘Only if we have to.’

  ‘You know that’s not what I want, though.’

  ‘Course, but we might not have any choice.’

  Amaya nodded again, but she struggled to believe it would ever come to that, in spite of everything. The shouting and… worse. Whenever she thought about her mother, she always saw that beaming smile, felt those meaty arms around her, could conjure the smell of the spices that clung to her clothes, to her hair; the garam masala, cardamom and cumin. Her father was different, of course, but she retained her faith in the fact that, above all else, he loved her. That his desire to see her happy would outstrip everything else when it came down to it. She understood the things he had to say in front of his friends, his wife and sons; the appearance that needed to be maintained for all those other important men.

  She understood the importance of reputation.

  But at the end of the day, he was still her dad.

  ‘We need to tell them at the same time,’ Kamal said. ‘Our parents. You remember that, right?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’ Amaya looked away, pushed what remained of her pancake through a smear of chocolate sauce. Her ma would already be preparing the evening meal; bent over pots and pans or chopping, chopping, chopping…

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Kamal leaned forward and touched her hand, just for a second. ‘You haven’t said anything already?’

  ‘Not to them.’

  ‘To who?’ Suddenly, Kamal was not sounding quite so confident. Nerves, fear in his whisper.

  ‘I told a friend in college.’ She looked at him. ‘It’s OK, a white girl. She won’t breathe a word to anyone.’

  ‘Nobody else? Tell me.’

  Amaya knew that she had to be truthful. If what they were planning was ever going to happen there had to be honesty, and besides, Kamal was the last person in the world she would ever lie to.

  ‘My brother takes my phone sometimes.’

  ‘So? He doesn’t know your PIN number, right?’

  ‘He made me tell him.’ Amaya closed her eyes. She did not want to remember how. ‘Said I shouldn’t have secrets from the family, that there was nothing to worry about if I didn’t have anything to hide.’

  ‘I told you,’ Kamal said. ‘I told you to always delete my messages.’

  ‘I do,’ Amaya hissed at him across the table. ‘I’m not stupid. Just… he might have seen something before I deleted it. I’m just saying.’

  Kamal looked serious, but only for a few seconds before he shrugged and the smile came back. The smile that was never far away. ‘Well, all the more reason to tell the ’rents sooner than later, right?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Amaya said.

  They said nothing for a while, looking at their phones and glancing out at the street every few seconds, the spatter of drizzle crawling down the window as it began to grow dark outside.

  ‘So, what about this party, then?’ Kamal held his arms out. ‘If you think this shirt is good, wait until you see what I’ve got lined up for tonight.’

  ‘It’s tonight?’

  ‘Come on, Amee.’ He growled in mock frustration. ‘I sent you a message last week.’

  Amaya stared at him, wide-eyed, sarcastic. ‘I deleted the text, genius, like you told me.’

  ‘You still coming though, yeah?’

  ‘It’s so late. I’d have to leave after dinner.’

  ‘It’s a party. Look, I can use my dad’s account to get us an Uber back.’

  Amaya thought about it. ‘Well, someone’s got to keep an eye on you, I suppose. Stop you getting into trouble again.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha.’

  ‘I could always tell them I’m going round to Sarah’s house to study. She’s the girl I was telling you about.’

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘They’ll want her number, but that’s not a problem. I’ve lent her notes plenty of times, so I’m sure she’ll cover for me if I ask her.’

  ‘Make sure you stash some decent party clothes in your bag. None of your Primark rubbish, OK? I don’t want you showing me up.’

  Amaya grinned and stuck her tongue out. She was already thinking about what to wear, picturing the silver top she’d bought at River Island and sneaked into the house the week before. It was at the back of her wardrobe in an old suitcase, where her brother would never find it.

  Kamal reached across and took her plate. He picked up
the fork. ‘And if you want to keep that gorgeous figure, you’d better let me finish this.’

  FOUR

  It was hard to think properly, to clear sufficient headspace for it, with the voices from the next room and the multicoloured chaos of discarded toys and games at his feet. One of those occasions when Thorne wished he was alone. Back at his own place on God’s side of the river; the flat which was currently being rented by two young beat officers based at the local station. His girlfriend’s flat, just south of Brixton, was certainly no bigger than his own, but there could be little argument that, for the time being, the current living arrangements remained the most sensible option for both of them, despite the twice-daily journey to and from Thorne’s office in Colindale. It was close to where Helen worked in Streatham, Helen’s son Alfie was happily settled in a local nursery, and they were within easy reach of emergency childcare, in the helpful, if irritating shape of Helen’s sister Jenny.

  One of those rare occasions.

  Most of the time, Thorne would admit – when pushed – that it was oddly comforting to come home at the end of a shift to this. A welcome distraction. Noise and clutter and a lively three-year-old who was always pleased to see him.

  Easy to forget about murder for a few hours.

  Easier…

  Helen appeared from the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. She did not need to tell Thorne that after a day at work and a few full-on hours with her son – feeding him, bathing him, getting him to bed – she was exhausted.

  She sighed, said, ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘Brown bear again?’

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘Only three times tonight. I sneak a new bit in every time I read it, just to keep myself interested. I’m really tempted to kill him off next time.’

  ‘Go for it,’ Thorne said. ‘Chapter twenty-six. “The bear-trap”.’

  Helen smiled as she walked across, nudging aside a squeaky dinosaur with the tip of her trainer, then dropping on to the sofa next to Thorne. She reached behind her, dug half a plastic jeep from beneath one of the cushions and tossed it on to the carpet.