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  For a moment he was deeply afraid to go in. He got out of the car and leaned against the bonnet until the moment passed.

  As he trudged towards the door, he made a decision. He wasn’t going to let anyone put a picture of Alison on the wall.

  Fourteen hours later Thorne got home and rang his dad. They spoke as often as Thorne could manage and saw each other even less. Jim and Maureen Thorne had left North London for St Albans ten years before, but since his mum had died Thorne felt the distance between him and his dad growing greater all the time. Now they were both alone and their telephone conversations were always desperately trivial. His dad was always keen to pass on the latest dirty story or pub joke, and Thorne was always pleased to hear them. He liked to let his old man make him laugh – he liked to hear him laugh. Aside from the forced lightheartedness of these phone calls, he suspected that his father wasn’t laughing a great deal. His father knew damn well that he wasn’t.

  ‘I’ll leave you with a couple of good ones, Tom.’

  ‘Go on then, Dad.’

  ‘What’s got a one-inch knob and hangs down?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘A bat.’

  It wasn’t one of his best.

  ‘What’s got a nine-inch knob and hangs up?’

  ‘No idea.’

  His dad put the phone down.

  He sat down and, for a few minutes, he said nothing. Then he began to speak softly. ‘Perhaps, in retrospect, the note on the windscreen was a little . . . showy. It’s not like me, really. I’m not that sort of person. I suppose I just wanted to say sorry for the others. Well, if I’m being truthful, I must admit that a part of me wanted to boast just a little. And I think Thorne’s a man I can talk to. He seems like a man who will understand how proud I am about getting it right. Perfection is everything, isn’t it? And haven’t I been taught that? You can believe it. I have been well taught.

  ‘I mean, it’s been a struggle and I’m certainly not saying that I won’t make any more mistakes, but what I’m doing gives me the right to fail, wouldn’t you say? The one . . . frustration is that I can only imagine how good it feels on the machines. Safe and clean. Free to relax and let the mind wander. No mess. And if I feel proud at liberating a body from the tyranny of the petty and the putrid then I can’t be condemned for that, surely. It’s the only real freedom left that’s worth fighting for, I’d say. Freedom from our clumsy movement through air. Our bruising. Our . . . sensitivity. To be released from the humdrum and the everyday. Fed and cleaned. Monitored and cared for. All our filthy fluids disposed of. And, above all, to know. To be aware of these wonders as they are happening. What does a corpse know of its washing? To know and to feel all these things must be wonderful.

  ‘God, what am I thinking? I’m sorry. I don’t have to tell you any of this.

  ‘Do I, Alison?’

  Sue and Kelly from the nursery came to see me yesterday. My vision’s a lot better already. I could see that Sue was wearing far too much eyeliner as usual. There’s plenty of gossip. Obviously not as much as usual with me in here, but still good stuff. Mary, the manageress, is really pissing everybody off, sitting on her arse and correcting the spelling on the happy charts. Daniel’s still being a little sod. He cried for me last week, they said. They told him I’d gone to Spain on my holidays. They told me that when I came out we’d all go and get completely pissed and that they’d rather be in here any day than changing shitty nappies on three pounds sixty an hour . . .

  There wasn’t much else after that.

  And, at last, a bit of real excitement. Some bedpan-washer or something got blocked up. I know it doesn’t sound earth-shattering, but there was water everywhere and all the nurses were sloshing round and getting really pissed off.

  Excitement is relative, I suppose.

  I dreamed about my mum. She was young, like she was when I was at school. She was getting me dressed and I was arguing about what I was going to wear and she was weeping and weeping . . .

  And I dreamed about the man who did this to me. I dreamed that he was here in my room, talking to me. I knew his voice straight away. But it was also a voice I recognised from after it happened. My brain has gone to mush. He sat by my bed and squeezed my hand and tried to tell me why he’d done it. But I didn’t really under­stand. He was telling me how I should be happy. That voice had told me to enjoy myself as he handed me the champagne bottle and I took a swig.

  I must have invited him in. I must have. I suppose the police know that. I wonder if they’ve told Tim?

  Now that dreams are the closest thing I have to sensation, they’ve become so vivid. It would be fantastic if you could press a button and choose what you were going to dream about. Obviously someone would have to press the button for me, but a selection of family and friends with a healthy degree of filth thrown in would be nice.

  Mind you, once you’ve been fucked to this degree, a shag is neither here nor there, really, is it?

  THREE

  Thorne had been wrong about the summer: after a fortnight’s holiday of its own, it had returned with a sticky vengeance, and the siren call of the launderette could no longer be ignored. He was horribly aware of the smell coming off him as he sat sweltering in Frank Keable’s office. They were talking about lists.

  ‘We’re concentrating on doctors currently on rotation in inner London, sir.’

  Frank Keable was only a year or two older than Thorne but looked fifty. This was more due to some genetic glitch than any kind of stress. The lads reckoned he must have started receding at about the same time he hit puberty, judging by the proximity of his hairline to the nape of his neck. Whatever hormones he had left that stimulated hair growth had somehow been mistakenly rerouted to his eyebrows, which hovered above his bright blue eyes like great grey caterpillars. The eyebrows were highly expressive and gave him an air of wisdom that was, to put it kindly, fortunate. Nobody begrudged him this bit of luck – it was the least you could hope for when you looked like an overfed owl with alopecia.

  Keable put one of his caterpillars to good use, raising it questioningly. ‘It might be best to look a bit further afield, Tom. We’d be covering our bases, should the worst happen. We’re not short of manpower.’

  Thorne looked sceptical but Keable sounded confident.

  ‘It’s a big case, Tom, you know that. If you need the bodies to widen things out a bit, I can swing it.’

  ‘Let’s have them anyway, sir, it’s an enormous list. But I’m sure he’s local.’

  ‘The note?’

  Thorne felt again the heavy drops of rain that had crawled inside his shirt collar and trickled down between his shoulder-blades. He could still sense the polythene between his fingers and thumbs, as he’d read the killer’s words while the water ran down into his eyes, like tears coming home.

  The killer had known where Alison was being treated. He was obviously following the case closely. Theirs as well as hers.

  ‘Yes, the note. And the locations. I think he’d want to be around to keep an eye on things.’

  To monitor his work.

  ‘Is it worth putting a watch on the hospital?’

  ‘With respect, sir, the place is crawling with doctors . . . I can’t see the point at the minute.’ His eyes drifted to the calendar on the dirty yellow wall – views of the West Country. Keable was originally from Bristol . . . The heat was making it hard to concentrate. Thorne undid another button on his shirt. Polyester. Not clever. ‘Is there any chance of moving that fan round a bit?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Tom.’

  Keable flicked a switch on his black desktop fan, which started to swing backwards and forwards, providing Thorne with a welcome blast of cold air every thirty ­seconds or so. Keable leaned back in his chair and puffed out his cheeks. ‘You don’t think we’re going to crack this, do you, Tom?’

&
nbsp; Thorne closed his eyes as the fan swung back in his direction.

  ‘Tom, is this about the Calvert case?’

  Thorne looked at the calendar. Two weeks now since they’d found Alison, and they were nowhere. Two weeks of banging their heads against a wall, and getting nothing but headaches.

  Concern, or what passed for it, crept into Keable’s voice. ‘Cases like this, it’s completely understandable . . .’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Frank.’

  Keable leaned forward quickly. In charge. ‘I’m not insensitive to . . . moods, Tom. This case has a taste to it. It’s not . . . in the run of things. Even I can sense it.’

  Thorne laughed. Old colleagues. ‘Even you, Frank?’

  ‘I mean it, Tom.’

  ‘Calvert is ancient history.’

  ‘I hope so. I need you focused – and focused is not fixated.’

  Keable wasn’t sure but he thought that Thorne nodded. He continued as if the exchange had never happened.

  ‘I think we’ll make a case if we get him. We should be able to match up the note to the typewriter for a start.’

  Keable sighed and nodded. The old-fashioned typewriter was a bit of luck, a lot easier to identify than a laser printer, but still, they needed a suspect first. He’d been in the same position plenty of times. It was hard to sound enthusiastic about evidence which was only of any use when someone was in custody. The procedure had to be followed, but at the end of the day they had to catch him first. Keable knew that procedure was his strong point. He was a good facilitator. It was this self-awareness that had allowed him to leapfrog other officers, Thorne included. It also ensured that those officers didn’t resent it. He recognised the talents of others and the lack of them in himself. He was a forger of team spirit. He was well liked. He helped where he could and left the job at the office at the end of the day. He slept well and had a happy marriage – unlike other officers. Thorne included. ‘He’ll make a mistake, Tom. When we get a hit on a drugs theft we can start narrowing things down a bit.’

  Thorne leaned in close to the fan. ‘I’d like to get over to Queen Square, if that’s okay. It’s been a while and I’d like to see how Alison’s doing.’

  Keable nodded. This hadn’t been his most successful attempt at one-on-one morale-building but, then, he hadn’t expected a backslapping gagfest from Tom Thorne. He cleared his throat as Thorne stood up, walked to the door and then turned.

  ‘That note was spotless, Frank. It was the shortest forensic report I’ve ever seen. And he doesn’t wash the bodies in a ritualistic way. He’s just very, very careful.’

  Keable turned the fan back on himself. He was unsure exactly what Thorne expected him to say. ‘I’d been wondering whether we should get the boys to chip in for some flowers or something. I mean, I thought about it but . . .’

  Thorne nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir, I know. It hardly seems worth it.’

  ‘These are really lovely. It was a very nice thought.’ Anne Coburn finished arranging the flowers and closed the blinds in Alison’s room. The sun was streaming in through the window, causing the girl’s face to flush a little.

  ‘I meant to come in sooner, but . . .’

  She nodded, understanding. ‘You could have written a note to say congratulations, though.’

  Thorne looked down at Alison and immediately understood. It was difficult to notice one less machine amid the confusion of life-preserving hardware. She was breathing. The breaths were shallow, almost tentative, but they were her own. Now a tube ran into a hole in her windpipe, covered with an oxygen mask.

  ‘She came off the ventilator last night and we performed the tracheostomy.’

  Thorne was impressed. ‘Exciting night.’

  ‘Oh, it’s non-stop excitement in here. We had a small flood a while ago. Have you ever seen nurses in wellies?’

  He grinned. ‘I’ve seen the odd dodgy video . . .’

  It was the first time he’d heard her laugh: it was filthy.

  Thorne nodded towards the flowers, which he’d picked up at a garage on the way in. They weren’t quite as lovely as Anne Coburn had said. ‘I felt like such an idiot last time, you know, whispering. If she can hear I thought she must be able to smell so . . .’

  ‘Oh, she’ll smell these.’

  Suddenly Thorne was aware again of the stickiness beneath his arms. He turned to look at Alison. ‘While we’re on the subject . . . sorry, Alison, I must really hum.’ He was embarrassed at the silence where a response should have been. He hoped he could get used to talking to this woman with a tube in her neck and another up her nose. She was unable to clear her throat. She was unable to lift the hand that lay pale and heavy on the pink flowery quilt. She was . . . unable. And yet, selfishly, Thorne hoped that she thought well of him, that she liked him. He wanted to talk to her. Even now he sensed that he would need to talk to her.

  ‘Just fill in the gaps yourself,’ Coburn said. ‘It’s what I do. We have some cracking chats.’

  The door opened and an immaculately suited middle-aged man walked in with what at first glance appeared to be candyfloss on his head.

  ‘Oh . . .’ Thorne saw Coburn’s features harden in an instant. ‘David. I’m busy I’m afraid.’

  They stared at each other. She broke the uncomfortable, hostile silence. ‘This is Detective Inspector Thorne. David Higgins.’

  The soon-to-be-ex-husband. The helpful pathologist.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Thorne held out a hand, which the immaculate suit shook without looking at him – or at Alison.

  ‘You did say that this would be a good time,’ said the suit, half smiling.

  He was obviously trying hard to be pleasant for Thorne’s benefit but clearly it did not come naturally. On further inspection the candyfloss was in reality a teased up and hairsprayed dyed vanilla quiff – a ridiculous affectation in a man who was at least fifty-five: he looked as if he’d walked off the set of Dynasty.

  ‘Well, it would have been,’ said Coburn frostily.

  ‘My fault, Mr Higgins,’ said Thorne. ‘I didn’t have an appointment.’

  Higgins moved towards the door, adjusting his tie. ‘Well, I’d better make sure I have an appointment in future, then. I’ll call you later, Anne, and we can arrange one.’ He closed the door soundlessly behind him. There was a muffled exchange outside and the door was opened again by a nurse. It was time for Alison’s bedbath.

  Anne Coburn turned to him. ‘What do you usually do for lunch?’

  They sat in the back of a small sandwich bar on Southampton Row. Ham and Brie on a baguette and a mineral water. A cheese and tomato sandwich and a coffee. Two busy professionals.

  ‘What are Alison’s chances of regaining any significant . . .?’

  ‘Nil, I’m afraid. I suppose it depends a little on your definition of “significant” but we have to be realistic. There have been documented cases of patients regaining enough movement to operate a sophisticated wheelchair. They’re doing a lot of work in the States with computers operated by headsticks, but realistically it’s a bleak prognosis.’

  ‘Wasn’t there somebody in France who dictated an entire book with an eyelash or something?’

  ‘The Diving Bell and the Butterfly – you should read it. But it’s pretty much a one-off. Alison’s gaze reacts to voices and she seems to have retained the ability to blink, but whether she has any real control over it is hard to say at the moment. I can’t see her giving you a statement just yet.’

  ‘That wasn’t the reason I asked about . . . It wasn’t the only reason.’ Thorne took an enormous bite of his sandwich.

  Anne had done most of the talking but had already finished hers. She looked at him, narrowing her eyes, her voice conspiratorial. ‘Well, you’ve been privy to my disastrous domestic situation. What about yours?�
�� She took a sip of mineral water and watched him chew, her eyebrows arched theatrically. She laughed as, twice, he tried to answer and, twice, had to resume his efforts to swallow the sandwich.

  Finally: ‘What – you mean is it disastrous?’

  ‘No. Just . . . is there one?’

  Thorne could not get a fix on this woman at all. A vicious temper, a filthy laugh, and a direct line of questioning. There seemed little point in going round the houses.

  ‘I’ve moved effortlessly from “disastrous” to just plain “bleak”.’

  ‘Is that the normal progression?’

  ‘I think so. Sometimes there’s a short period of “pitiful” but not always.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’ll look forward to that.’

  Thorne watched as she reached into her bag for a cigarette. She held up the packet. ‘Do you mind?’

  Thorne said no, and she lit up. He stared as she blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, away from him. It had been a long time since his last cigarette.

  ‘More doctors smoke than you’d imagine. And a surprising number of oncologists. I’m amazed that more of us aren’t smackheads to be honest. Do you not, then?’ Thorne shook his head. ‘A policeman who doesn’t smoke. You must like a drink, then?’

  He smiled. ‘I thought you worked too many hours to watch television.’

  She groaned with pleasure as she took a long drag.

  Thorne spoke slowly but was still smiling when he answered the question. ‘I like more than one . . .’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘But that’s pretty much it, as far as the clichés go. I’m not religious, I hate opera, and I can’t finish a crossword to save my life.’

  ‘You must be driven, then? Or haunted? Is that the word?’