Lazy Bones (7 page)

'Tel you what,' he said. "Iet's just get through Christmas shal we, love? It's not just for us after al , is it? New year soon, and then we can just keep our heads down, and get on w'ith it, and wait for the trial. We could go away

for a bit. Try and get back on an even keel maybe...' Her voice was a whisper. He couldn't make it out. 'Say again, love:

'That policeman's aftershave,' she said. 'I thought at first it was the same as Franklin's. I thought I was going to be sick. It was so strong...'

She began to scream the second his hand touched the back of her neck and it grew louder as she spun around, the water flying everywhere, her arm moving hard and fast, striking out instinctively, the mug in her hand smashing across his nose.

Then she screamed at what she had done and she reached out for him and they sank down on to the linoleum, which quickly grew slippery with blood and suds.

While the voices of young boys fil ed the kitchen, singing about hol y and

ivy.

52

FOUR

Back when the Peel Centre had been a centre for cadet training, Becke House had been a dormitory block. To Thorne it stil felt utilitarian, dead. He swore, on occasion, that rounding a corner, or pushing open an office door, he could catch a whiff of sweat and homesickness. :.

No surprise when, a month or so earlier, everyone on Team 3 had got very excited at news of improved facilities and extra working space. In reality, it amounted to little more than an increased stationery budget, a reconditioned coffee machine and one more airless cubbyhole which Brigstocke had immediately commandeered. There were now three offices in the narrow corridor that ran off the major incident room. Brigstocke had the new one while Thorne shared his with Yvonne Kitson. Hol and and Stone were left with the smal est of the lot, negotiating rights to the wastepaper basket and arguing about who got the chair with the cushion.

Thorne hated Becke House. Actual y it depressed him, sapped his energy to the point where he hadn't enough left to hate it properly. He'd heard somebody once joking about Sick Building Syndrome, but to him the place wasn't so much sick as terminal y il .

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He'd spent the morning catching up. Sitting at his gunmetal-grey desk, sweating like a pig and reading every scrap of paperwork there was on the case. He read the post-mortem report, the forensic report,

'his own report on the visit to Derby Prison. He read Hol and's notes on the search of Remfry's house, the interviews with relatives of the women Remfry had raped and the statements from some of the men he'd shared cel s with in three different prisons.

Inches thick already and only one promising lead. An ex-cel mate of Remfry's had mentioned a prisoner named Gribbin, who Remfry had talked about fal ing out with, back when the pair of them were on remand in Brixton. Gribbin had been released from prison himself only four months before Remfry and had skipped parole. There was a warrant out...

When Thorne had finished reading, he spent some time fanning his face with an empty folder. He stared at the mysterious scorch marks on the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Then he read everything again.

When Yvonne Kitson came in, he looked up, dropped the notes down on to his desk arid gazed towards the open window.

'I've been thinking about jumping,' he said. 'Suicide seems like quite an attractive option, and at least I'd get a breeze on the way down. What d'you reckon?'

She laughed. 'We're only on the third floor.' Thorne shrugged. 'Where's the fan?'

'Brigstocke's got it.'

'Typical...' She sat down on a chair against the wal and reached into a large handbag. Thorne laughed when she pul ed out the familiar Tupperware container.

'Wednesday, so it must be tuna,' he said.

She peeled the lid off and took out a sandwich. 'Tuna salad, actual y, smartarse. My old man went a bit mad this morning and stuck a slice of lettuce on...'

Thorne leaned back in his chair, tapped a plastic ruler along its arm. 'How do you do it, Yvonne?'

She looked up, her mouth ful . 'What?'

Stil holding the ruler, Thorne spread his arms wide, waved them

around. 'This. Al of it. As wel as three young kids...'

'The DCI's got kids...'

'Yeah, and he's a fucking mess like the rest of us. You seem to manage it al without breaking a sweat. Work, home, kids, dogs and your sodding lunch in a box.' He held out the ruler towards her, as if it was a microphone. 'Tel us, DI Kitson, how do you manage it? What's your secret?'

She cleared her throat, playing along. Truth be known, they were both glad of a laugh. 'Natural talent, an old man who's a pushover and ruthless organisational skil s. Plus, I never take the job home.' Thorne blinked.

'Right, any more questions?'

Thorne shook his head, put the ruler down on his desk.

'Good. I'm going to get a cup of tea. Want one...?'

They walked along the corridor, past the other offices, towards the Major Incident Room.

'Seriously, though,' Thorne said, 'you do amaze me sometimes.' He meant it. Nobody on the team had known Yvonne Kitson for very long, but bar the odd comment from older, less efficient male col eagues, nobody had a bad word to say about her. At thirty-three, she would almost certainly have been furious about the fact that many of them, Thorne included, found her comfortingly mumsy. This was more to do with her personality and style than with her face or figure, both of which were more than attractive. Her clothes were never flashy, her ash-blond hair was always sensible. She had no sharp edges, she did her job and she never seemed to get rattled. Thorne found it easy to see why Kitson was already earmarked for bigger and better things.

At the coffee machine, Kitson leaned down to take Thorne's cup from the dispenser. She handed the tea to him. 'I meant it, about taking the job home.' She began to feed more coins into the machine. 'Couldn't if I wanted to, there's no bloody room...'

55

Every window in the Incident Room was open. Bits of paper were being blown from the tops of desks and filing cabinets. Thorne sipped his tea listened to the flutter of paper, to the grunts of those be'nding to pick it up, and he thought how different he was from this woman. He took the job everywhere, home included, though there wasn't usual y anybody there to bring it home to. He and his ex-wife Jan had divorced five years earlier, after she'd started getting distinctly extra-curricular with a Fine Arts lecturer. Thorne had had one or two

'adventures' since then, but there hadn't been anyone significant.

Kitson dropped the red-hot plastic cup into another empty one and blew across the top of her drink. 'By the way, the Remfry case?' she said. 'Is it just me, or are we getting seriously fucking nowhere?'

Thorne saw Russel Brigstocke appear on the far side of the room. He beckoned, turned and headed back in the direction of his office. Thorne took a step in the same direction, and, without looking, he answered Kitson's question.

'No, it isn't just you...'

When Russel Brigstocke was real y pissed off, he had a face that could curdle milk. When he was trying to look serious, there was a hint of the melodramatic, a cocking of the head and a pursing of the lips that

always made Thorne smile, much as he tried not to.

'Right, where are we, Tom?'

Thorne tried and failed not to smile. He didn't bother to hide it, deciding that a more upbeat response than the one he'd just given Yvonne Kitson might not be a bad idea anyway.

'Nothing earth shattering, but it's ticking along, sir.' It was always sir after one of Brigstocke's looks. 'We've traced most of the male relatives now. Nothing that hopeful, but we might get lucky. Spoken to most of Remfry's former cel mates and the Gribbin thing looks the most likely...'

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Brigstocke nodded. 'I think it sounds promising. If someone bit half my nose off, I think I/bear a fucking grudge.'

'Remfry said it was him that did it. Probably just larging it. Anyway,

we can't find Gribbin...'

'What else?'

Thorne held up his hands. 'That's it. Apart from chasing up the computer side of it. We can start looking at the Inmate Information System as soon as Commander Jeffries reports back.'

'He has,' Brigstocke said. 'Don't get too excited...'

Stephen Jeffries was a high-ranking police officer who actual y worked for HM Prison Service. As the official Police Adviser he was based at Prison Service Headquarters, in a grand-looking building off Mil bank, from where he could stare directly into the offices of MI6 on the opposite side of the river.

Jeffries had been looking, quietly, into the feasibility of a leak from the Inmate Information System. If this was where the kil er was getting his information from, an awful lot of people would be wanting to know how.

'Commander Jeffries has delivered an interim judgement, suggesting that as an avenue of inquiry, this would be unlikely to prove fruitful.'

'You'l have to help me,' Thorne said. 'I haven't got my "bul shit to English" dictionary handy at the minute...' 'Don't be a twat, Tom. Al right? That would real y help me.' Thorne shrugged. It sounded as if Jeffries came from the same place that shat out Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond. 'I'm listening.'

Brigstocke glanced down at the piece of paper on his desk, speed read a section out loud. '"Individuals with computer access to the system are based at the main HQ building as wel as the twelve regional offices nationwide - London, Yorkshire, the Midlands

etc "'

Thorne groaned. 'We're talking hundreds of people...'

57

'Thousands. Checking them al out would be a major drain on manpower, even if I had it.'

Thorne nodded. 'Right. So even if that were to prove fruitful, it wouldn't be proving very fruitful very bloody quickly.' He picked up his empty tea cup from Brigstocke's desk, spun round on his chair,

and took aim at the wastepaper basket in the corner.

'No,' Brigstocke said.

The paper cup missed by more than a foot. Thorne spun around again. 'What about somebody hacking into the system?'

'Bloody hel , thousands of suspects is bad enough, now you want mil ions...'

'I don't want them, but if the system isn't secure...'

'If that system isn't secure, a lot of people are going to get their arses severely kicked. The I S has information on the whereabouts of every prisoner in the country, terrorists included.

There's al sorts of stuff on there. If it turns out that somebody's been able to break into it, for whatever reason... Jesus, they'l be talking about Douglas Remfry in Parliament.'

'They're looking into it though?" Thorne asked.

'As far as I know...'

'They've got things that tel them, haven't they? If they've been hacked. Like alarms. If somebody's been trying to break into the system?'

'Don't ask me,' Brigstocke said. 'I can barely send a fucking e mail...'

Not long ago even doing that would have been beyond Thorne, but he'd made an effort and was starting to get to grips with the technology. He'd even bought a computer to use at home.

He hadn't used it very much, yet.

'So, one thing's a drain on manpower, the other's political y sensitive. Has Commander Jeffries got any suggestions as to what we can do?'

Brigstocke took off his glasses, wiped the sweat from the frames with a handkerchief and put them back. 'No, but I have. I think there 58

are other ways that the kil er could have got the information he needed

about Remfry.'

'Go on...

'What about if he got it from the victim's family? Gets his mum's name out of the phone book, rings up and says he's an old friend who wants to visit...' Thorne nodded. It was possible.

'Once he finds out where Remfry is and when he's coming out, he starts sending the letters...'

'He gets everything from Remfry's mother?'

'Remfry's mother ... maybe one of the prison staff. I just think there are other things we could be looking at...'

'What's the motive, Russel ?' Stil the big question. 'Why was Remfry kil ed?'

Brigstocke puffed out his cheeks, leaned back in his chair. 'Fucked if I know. Got to be worth talking to Mrs Remfry again though...'

Thorne couldn't see it, and yet there was something in what Brigstocke had said. Something that had caused Thorne's heart to beat faster, just for a second; but, like the face of someone in a dream, like an object he ought to recognise, glimpsed from an unfamiliar angle; it had faded away before he could see it for what it was.

He was stil trying to work it out when he spoke. 'I'm chasing something else up. Something with the photos...'

Brigstocke leaned forward, raised an eyebrow.

Tl tel you if it comes to anything,' Thorne said. He looked at his watch. 'Fuck, I'm going to be late...'

As he was standing up, the phone began to ring in his office next door...

Hol and's mobile had rung just as he was heading across to the pub, for what Was becoming something of a regular lunchtime pint. Andy Stone had given him that look. The one he'd been getting from a few of the lads, whenever the mobile rang, and they saw his face as HOME came up on cal er ID.

59

'Shit,' Hol and said.

Stone took a few steps toxvards the pub doorway and stopped. 'Shal I get you one in, Dave?'

Hol and pressed a button on the phone and brought it to his ear. After a few seconds he caught Stone's eye and shook his head.

Sophie was stil crying when he walked through the door twenty minutes later.

'What's the matter?' He wrapped his arms around her, knowing what the answer would be.

'Nothing,' she said. 'I'm sorry ... I know I shouldn't cal .' The words sputtered into his col ar between sobs.

'It's OK. Look, I've only got about a quarter of an hour, but we can have a quick bit of lunch together. I'l go back when you're feeling calmer.'

The baby was three months away. It was easy enough to put these weekly col apses down to hormones, but he knew that there was much more going on. He knew how frightened she was. Frightened that he would make a choice between her and the job. That he would think she was forcing him to make a choice. That the baby would not be enough to make him choose her.