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  And try to keep warm as the shadow grew larger.

  The last time he’d stood on this spot, his face had been hidden and his fist wrapped around the end of an iron bar.

  Today he had an altogether more subtle message to deliver. He’d rung several times to ensure that the flat was empty, having taken care to withhold his number. He’d smiled each time he’d punched in 141. It was, of course, a trick that Thorne must himself have been familiar with.

  Things could not have been going better. The excitement of the procedure, the surge he felt rushing through him, had been replaced by something else, now that he’d admitted to himself that he might never enjoy another success. A different kind of enjoyment, fuelled by a very different purpose.

  The enjoyment of the game with Thorne.

  The game had been a part of it all from the beginning. A vital part of it. It had gone cheek by jowl with – he smiled – his more hands-on work. It had complemented it, cast a light upon it, put it beautifully into context.

  And he had played the game extremely well.

  As he moved towards the front door, he wondered if, secretly, Thorne was enjoying it too. He suspected he probably was. There was something in the man’s eyes.

  He looked around casually and knocked on the door. Just a man of the world paying a visit to a friend. Nobody in? A note would do the trick . . .

  He removed a gloved hand from his trouser pocket and reached into his jacket for the envelope. Yes, a different kind of enjoyment. It was not wrapping fingers around a pulsing artery, but he enjoyed its . . . delicacy nevertheless. Popping open a letterbox provided a different kind of thrill from that he garnered when feeling an ordinary life float away under his touch. But, in context, a thrill nevertheless.

  The end of the game was in sight.

  One way or another, this will all be over soon . . .

  He was enjoying it so much, it was almost a shame to let Thorne win.

  The car park was starting to empty. Thorne decided it was time to leave. He’d now been sitting in his car for over four hours, during which time he’d drunk six cans of ­supermarket-strength lager.

  He’d never felt more sober.

  After his meeting with Phil Hendricks he’d wandered back towards the car in something of a daze. He’d popped into the supermarket to pick up the beer, read the paper, and then sat, listening to the radio, drinking, and mulling over what his friend had said. Friend? Had he got any friends?

  He knew that Hendricks was right. Everything he’d said was spot on. So he’d thought about it for a while, let one can of beer quickly become four, then turned a bad day into a fucking awful one by deciding to ring Anne.

  Where had the caution of the day before gone? He’d decided then that it was probably wise to steer clear of any confrontation until the case had broken. So why, in God’s name, had he rung her and told her to stay away from Bishop?

  There had been something almost boastful about it. Some part of him had wanted to flaunt this . . . victory. It was becoming about something more than cracking a case and stopping a killer. It was starting to feel like defeating a killer. Like besting a rival. He’d as good as picked up the phone and said, ‘Stand back, this isn’t going to be pretty.’ It was proprietorial.

  He wanted her to know how good he was. How right he’d been.

  She told him she thought he was pathetic. Fucking pathetic.

  He’d hurled his phone into the back of the car, turned up the radio and polished off the last two cans.

  Now it was dark outside. The supermarket would be closing soon. The security guard who patrolled the underground car park was starting to give him decidedly dirty looks and mutter into his radio.

  Thorne realised that he was starving. Six cans of lager was all that had passed his lips since breakfast. He knew he should leave the car where it was and head for the tube. He was only one stop away from home. Christ, he could walk home in about ten minutes.

  Thorne started the engine, pulled out of the car park and pointed the Mondeo south, away from home, and towards the centre of town.

  Nobody could say I wasn’t comfortable. That’s the word hospitals always use, isn’t it? When you ring up to ask after someone. They’re ‘comfortable’. Like they’re lying there on feather pillows being massaged or something. Well, I’m certainly comfortable with my state-of-the-art mattress and my remote-control bed and my telly and my magazine holder.

  Comfortable.

  And all I really want to do is scream until my throat is raw. I want to scream and yell and, maybe it’s asking a bit much, but I’d like to punch somebody in the face as hard as I can and smash a few things up as well, if that’s all right. Break things. Mirrors. Glass things. Feel blood on my knuckles, anything . . .

  Do I sound frustrated? Well, I am. Frustrated.

  So. FUCKING. FRUSTRATED!

  There’s stuff I want to say, to talk about and I’ve got less chance of doing it now than I had even a week ago. Now that I’m wired up to this superannuated fucking accordion again.

  Since I found out why I’m the way I am, since I was told that somebody planned this, I’ve been trying to remember. Trying so hard to remember. Something that might help. Anything that might help them get the bastard.

  Now there’s some stuff in my head that I know isn’t a dream or anything I’ve imagined. I don’t know whether it will help. It’ll help me for sure.

  It’s memory and it’s fighting to come out.

  Memory about what happened after the hen party. It’s not so much pictures as words. Actually, not even words. It’s sounds. I’m hearing words but it’s like they’re being spoken to me under water. They’re distorted and I can’t quite make them out but I can guess the sense of them. I can make out the tone.

  Soon I’m going to work out exactly what the words are.

  They’re the words he said while he was doing it. The man who put me in here.

  NINETEEN

  A quarter to midnight and Tower Records was heaving. Dozens of late-night shoppers mingled with those who were just there to listen to the music or read the magazines or kill time.

  The young man behind the till didn’t even look up. ‘Yeahcan’elpyou?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to pay for these, please,’ said Thorne, ‘and there’s a Waylon Jennings import I’d like to order.’

  James Bishop reddened furiously. ‘What the fuck do you want? I shouldn’t even be talking to you.’

  Thorne dumped three CDs on to the counter in front of Bishop and fumbled for his wallet. He stared at Bishop until, with a face clouded by resentment, he began picking up the CDs, removing the security tags and running them through the till. He wouldn’t look at Thorne, but instead glanced nervously towards his colleagues, thrusting the CDs clumsily into a plastic bag, trying to get it all over as quickly as possible.

  Thorne leaned on the counter, waving his credit card. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t want your workmates knowing you’ve got a friend who buys Kris Kristofferson albums? I did want to get the new Fatboy Slim single but you’ve sold out.’

  Bishop took the credit card, swiped it, and glared at Thorne. ‘You’re not my friend. You’re just a wanker!’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s worth asking for the staff discount?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Thorne shook his head sadly. ‘I knew I should have gone to Our Price . . .’

  An assistant with a silver spike through his lower lip ambled over. ‘Is everything all right, Jim?’

  Bishop thrust the plastic bag at Thorne. ‘It’s fine.’ He looked over Thorne’s shoulder to the girl waiting behind him. ‘Yeahcan’elpyou?’

  Thorne didn’t move. ‘When does your shift finish?’

  The girl behind him tutted impatiently. Bishop look­ed at him with a defiant half-smile. He gla
nced at the ­enormous blue G-Shock on his wrist. ‘Fifteen minutes. And?’

  Thorne pointed towards the door. ‘And I’ll see you in Dunkin’ Donuts. I’d recommend the cinnamon, but it’s entirely up to you . . .’

  Twenty minutes later, Thorne was just finishing his second coffee and his fourth doughnut when James Bishop strolled in and sat down next to him. He was wearing a red Puffa jacket and the same black woolly hat he’d been wearing in the shop. Thorne took another doughnut and pushed the box towards him. Bishop pushed it back. ‘Suit yourself,’ Thorne said. Bishop stared at him. ‘I’ve not eaten all day. Do you want coffee?’

  Bishop shook his head. Again the strange half-smile. ‘So what is it, then? Do you want to know if my dad’s flipped out yet, is that it? If you keeping him awake half the night with stupid phone calls is affecting his work? Maybe costing someone their life? Pretty fucking irresponsible, wouldn’t you say?’

  Thorne stared at him for a few seconds, chewing. ‘So has he?’

  ‘Has he what?’

  ‘Flipped out.’

  ‘Jesus . . .’ Bishop took out a packet of Marlboro. Thorne’s eyes drifted away to the left and Bishop followed them to the no-smoking sign on the wall. He threw the packet on to the table.

  ‘He’s pissed off that you’re doing it and even more pissed off that you’re getting away with it. None of us are going to let it go, you know. Whatever happens, we’ll keep making a fuss until you’re back in fucking uniform.’

  Thorne considered, for a second or two, the uncomplicated life of the woodentop. Domestics. D and D. Traffic. He wouldn’t­ wish it on his worst enemy.

  ‘None of the things that you and your father are accusing me of is against the law, James.’

  ‘Don’t hide behind the law, that’s pathetic. Especially when you’ve got no respect for it.’

  ‘I respect the important bits of it.’

  ‘You’re not a copper, Thorne, you’re a stalker.’

  Thorne took a napkin and slowly wiped the sugar from around his mouth. ‘I’m just doing my job, James.’

  Bishop was agitated. Had been since he’d walked in. Chewing his nails one second, drumming his fingers on the table the next. One part of his body always moving or twitching. Feet kicking, arms stretching. He was jittery. Thorne wondered if he had a drug problem. He didn’t find it hard to believe. If he did it was almost certainly funded by his father. Maybe the doctor prescribed something . . .

  Another very good reason for wanting to protect him.

  ‘Your sister thinks that you only pretend to be close to your father so that you can keep sponging off him.’

  ‘She’s a silly cunt.’ Spitting the words out.

  Thorne was shocked, but did his best not to show it. ‘You do fairly well out of him, though?’

  ‘Look, he gave me a car and he helped with the deposit on my flat, all right?’ Thorne shrugged. ‘This is nothing to do with money. He’s upset and that makes me upset, it’s as simple as that. He’s my father.’

  ‘So he’s not capable of . . . wickedness?’ Thorne had no idea why he’d used that particular word. While he was wondering where it had come from, James Bishop was staring at him as if he’d just dropped down to earth from another planet.

  ‘He’s my father.’

  ‘So you protect him at all costs?’

  ‘Against the likes of you, yeah . . . using the law to act out a vendetta because he happens to have treated some woman who got attacked by the man you’re after and because you’re shagging somebody he once had a thing with. I’ll protect him against that.’

  ‘It’s my job to get at the truth, and if that upsets people sometimes, then that’s tough.’

  Bishop scoffed. ‘Christ, you really think you’re a hard man, don’t you? Part misunderstood copper and part vigilante. I’d call you a dinosaur but they had bigger brains . . .’ He stood up and turned to go.

  Thorne stopped him. ‘So what sort of copper would you be, James? What do you think it should be about?’

  Bishop turned and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. He sniffed, pursing lips that were the same as his father’s. Thorne could see the small boy hiding just beneath the arrogant posturing. ‘What about justice?’ Bishop sneered. ‘I had the stupid idea that was fairly fucking important.’

  Thorne pictured a young girl, in a bed with a pale pink quilt, trapped inside a body growing frail and flabby from lack of use. He pictured a face, the features partly shadowed, staring down at him from the second floor of a large house. Now he stared back, hard, at those same perfect features, set in the younger face of the man to whom they’d been passed on. ‘Oh, it is, James. Very important . . .’

  Thorne followed him to the door. ‘Can I drop you anywhere?’ Bishop shook his head and stared out of the doorway at the huge stream of people still flowing round Piccadilly Circus in the early hours of a cold October morning. Without a word he stepped into it, and was immediately gone.

  Thorne stood for a few seconds, watching the red Puffa jacket disappearing into the distance, before turning and heading in the opposite direction to pick up his car.

  Thorne stopped when he saw the shape in the doorway.

  He froze when it began to move.

  He breathed out, relieved, when the shape revealed itself to be the somewhat wobbly figure of Dave Holland. Thorne’s first thought was that he’d been hurt. ‘Jesus, Dave . . .’ He moved quickly, reaching to gather up the DC by the arms, and then he smelt the booze.

  Holland stood up. Not paralytic, but well on the way. ‘Sir . . . been sitting waiting for you. You’ve been ages . . .’

  Thorne had given up the whisky a long time ago, at the same time as the fags, but it was still a smell he’d recognise anywhere. Instinctively he reeled from it, just needing a second or two. It was a smell that could overpower him. Pungent and pathetic. The smell of need. The smell of misery. The smell of alone.

  Francis John Calvert. Whisky, piss and gunpowder. And freshly washed nightdresses.

  The smell of death in a council flat on a Monday morning.

  Holland stood, leaning against the wall, breathing too loudly. Thorne reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for his keys. ‘Come on, Dave, let’s get inside and I’ll make some coffee. How did you get here anyway?’

  ‘Taxi. Left the car . . .’

  There was really no point in asking where Holland had left his car. They could sort it out later. The key turned in the lock. Thorne nudged open the front door with his foot, instinctively turning the bunch of keys in his hand, feeling for the second key that would open the door to his flat.

  There was a white envelope lying on the doormat in the communal hallway.

  Thorne looked at it and thought: There’s another note from the killer.

  Not ‘What’s that?’ or ‘That’s odd’ or even ‘I wonder if . . .?’. He knew what it was immediately and said as much. Holland sobered up straight away.

  Thorne knew that neither the envelope nor the note inside it would trouble a forensic scientist greatly. They would be clean – not a print, not a fibre, not a stray hair. But he still took the necessary precautions. Holland held down the envelope with fingers wrapped in kitchen towel while Thorne used two knives to improvise as tongs and remove the piece of paper.

  The envelope had not been sealed. Thorne would ­probably have steamed it open anyway, but the killer had left nothing to chance. He’d wanted his note read straight away. By Thorne.

  He used the knives to flatten the paper out. The note was neatly typed like the others. Thorne knew it was only a matter of time before the typewriter it had been written on was being wrapped up, labelled and loaded into the back of a Forensic Science Services van.

  This would be Jeremy Bishop’s last note.

  tom,

&n
bsp; i had considered something different, an email ­perhaps, but i’m guessing that you’re something of a luddite

  as far as all that’s concerned. so, ink and parchment it is.

  congratulations on the tv performance by the way, very intense. did you mean what you said about it all being over soon, or was that just hot air for the cameras? there’s nothing like confidence, is there? or are you just trying to make me jittery in the hope that i’ll make a mistake?

  one question . . .

  what i was wondering is, what was it like finding her? being the first one there? was that your first time, tom?

  you get used to blood, don’t you?

  anyway, if you’re right, i suppose i’ll see you very soon.

  regards . . .

  Holland slumped on to the settee. Thorne read the note a second time. And a third. The arrogance was breathtaking. There seemed no great point to it. There was no revelation or announcement. It was all . . . display.

  He went into the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and swilled out a couple of coffee-cups. Why did Bishop feel the need to do this? Why was he baiting him about Maggie Byrne, when Thorne had so clearly risen to the bait a long time ago?

  He spooned in the instant coffee.

  There was something skewed about the tone of the note that Thorne couldn’t put his finger on. Something almost forced. Maybe the killer was starting to lose the control he had over every­thing. Maybe his latest failure had tipped him over the edge. Or maybe he was starting to work towards the insanity plea he would obviously try to cop when the time came.

  And the time was most certainly coming.

  He stirred the drinks. There was nothing artificial about the madness. Nobody sane could do as this man had done, but still Thorne would fight tooth and nail to prevent it cushioning his fall.

  He wanted him to fall hard.

  There would be pressure, of course, from those who would want to treat his illness, to care for him. There were always those. There were always plenty for whom violent death was a hobby, or a study option or a gravy train. The lunatics who would write to him inside with requests for advice, or signed pictures, or offers of marriage. The campaigners. The writers of books – ­bestsellers before the bodies had started to decompose. The makers of films. The old women with pastel hair hammering on the side of the van, spitting . . .