Lifeless - 5 (20 page)

'I was sorry to hear about you and your wife...'

So Thorne poured the wine and made the tedious smal talk, and waited for her to get to the point; to say what she'd obviously cal ed to say. He'd warned his dad against ringing her, sil y old bastard. Now it was going to be embarrassing. He started prompting her, getting tetchier, waiting to hear that she was ever so sorry but she real y couldn't have Jim at Christmas.

She had a houseful after al , and there wasn't the room to put him up and maybe if he'd given her a bit more notice...

Stuff you, Thorne thought. We'l be fine, the two of us...

'So we've talked about it and decided that your dad's coming to us this year.'

Thorne held the wine glass halfway between his knee and his mouth. He knew he'd heard correctly, but couldn't think of anything to say. 'Sorry? But...'

'If you drop him at Victoria, we'l pick him up at the other end.'

Thorne felt himself starting to redden a little. 'Listen, maybe I'd better have a word with dad...'

'Don't worry, it's al been organised, love.'

'But you'l have a houseful. You haven't got the room...'

'We'l be free. Look, we'd love to have him and I dare say it'l be a bit of a break for you.'

Then five minutes more of this and that, until Thorne heard the cal -waiting signal on the line and dropped a hint. Auntie Eileen took it, announcing that now it was past her bedtime and tel ing Thorne how lovely it would be to see him sometime, too...

Thorne had told Phil Hendricks the whole thing before he'd real y had a chance to decide how he felt abotrt it. It was probably rash of Hendricks to make the invitation and Thorne couldn't decide whether it was stupidity or desperation that made him accept, but either way, two days later, here he was...

Christmas Eve. Playing gooseberry. Sitting in a pub and not listening.

'Tom? For fuck's sake...'

Thorne felt as if he were emerging at speed from a long, long tunnel. Gold, silver and red coming into focus. Cheap decorations, catching the light, dangling from fake wooden beams.

He blinked. 'Sorry Phil. Is it my round, mate?'

Hendricks stared at him. 'Hel o! Brendan's up there, getting them in. You haven't heard a word, have you?'

Thorne downed the last of his pint. 'Yes, I have.'

'So? What d'you reckon?'

Thorne puffed out his cheeks, just needing a second or two. He began to recal bits of a one-sided conversation. Brendan and Phil were an item again. Yes, that was it. Hendricks wanted to know whether taking Mr Didn't-Turn-Out-To-Be-A-Bastard-After-Al back was a good idea.

'What's definitely not a good idea,' Thorne said final y, 'is having me dossing on your sofa like a spare prick at a wedding.'

Hendricks sighed. 'Look, we've been through this. It's not a big deal.' Thorne looked around. The place was packed. It was hard to make themselves heard over the hubbub and the loud Christmas music. Slade, Wizzard, Mud. Utterly predictable and hugely reassuring. He glanced towards the bar where Brendan was handing over money for the drinks. 'Have you asked him?'

'It's fuck al to do with him. I'm not daft anyway - I know he's only back because he can't face being at home. His mum and dad don't know he's gay and he's got nowhere else to go...'

'None of us is exactly spoilt for choice.'

'Don't go on about it, al right? You're staying. It's either you for Christmas or some old tramp from outside the soup kitchen.'

Thorne grinned. 'Wouldn't the smel bother you?'

Hendricks gleeful y supplied the punchline. 'I'm sure you can clean yourself up.'

They were stil laughing as Brendan arrived with the drinks, but as soon as he put the glasses down on the table, Thorne was out of his seat and pul ing on his jacket.

'Listen, I'm going to get out of your way...'

Brendan held up Thorne's new pint. He looked pissed off and was about to say something, but Hendricks put a hand on his arm to stop him. He knew there was little point in arguing.

'See you later, yeah?'

Thorne said nothing. He squeezed round the table, put a hand on

Brendan's shoulder. 'I'm sorry about the beer...'

'Tomorrow for lunch, then?' Hendricks asked.

Thorne nodded, but knew instantly that his friend could tel he didn't mean it. He took the hand from Brendan's shoulder and held it out towards Hendricks. 'Have a good one, Phil.'

Hendricks stood, took the hand and pul ed Thorne into a slightly awkward hug.

'You too. Now, fuck off...'

So, Thorne did.

TWELVE

A DC answered the door and Thorne held up his warrant card. If the officer, who was ginger, pudgy and only an inch or so above minimum height, could smel the beer on Thorne's breath, his face wasn't letting it show. It showed only the same blank truculence that Thorne had seen on the faces of the two muppets in the car outside.

Parents coming.., the cottage.., the kid's first Christmas...

'I'l not be long.' Thorne nodded back over his shoulder towards the chair in the hal way. The officer stepped outside and sat down, muttering and disgruntled. Thorne shut the front door behind him. He probably had smelt the booze. It didn't matter.

Thorne noticed a copy of the Sun on the table just inside the door. He opened the door and offered it to the constable who took it with a grunt. Fuck you, Thorne thought, pul ing the door shut again.

He turned and walked through into the living room. Palmer stepped out of the kitchen carrying a mug of tea. He had ev.idently not heard the knock on the door and started slightly when he saw Thorne.

They looked at one another for a few seconds. Then Palmer spoke, his voice deep and slightly nasal. 'Has something... ?' Thorne shook his head.

Palmer held up his mug, the steam fogging his glasses for a second

or two. 'Can I get you one?'

Thorne said nothing, walked across to where the computer sat on a

smal desk near the window. It was logged on to a server twenty-four

hours a day. The second Nicklin got in touch, they'd know about it.

Thorne stared at the screensaver - a series of multicoloured clocks

which swam about, bouncing al over the screen, buzzing and ticking, chiming on the hour. He leaned forwards and moved the mouse so that the clocks disappeared. He pul ed the chair away from the desk,

turned it round so that it faced into the room and sat down.

He hadn't taken his jacket off.

'What d'you do? Surf the Net? Chat? Play Scrabble on it?'

Palmer sat straight-backed on the sofa. He held his mug of tea in

two hands against his chest. 'Yes. The Net. Sometimes.'

'And... ?'

'Wel , with a police officer in constant attendance, I'm hardly likely

to spend the hours of darkness trawling through porn sites, am I?'

'But if you were on your own?' Thorne asked, quickly.

Palmer stared down into his tea. 'I see. What would a filthy degenerate seek out? Wel , I'd be looking for something perverse, almost certainly. You know, sick.' He looked up and across at Thorne. His head was tipped slightly back, his nose wrinkling slightly to stop his glasses sliding off. 'Bodies perhaps. Autopsy photographs, they're out there if you know where to look.'

He started to talk faster, his voice getting louder, his breathing harsh and faintly wheezy; the best impression he could do, he could give, of excitement. 'Perhaps even a video or two, with sound if at al possible to pick up the noise.., the howl of the buzz saw. You know the sort of thing, danger and dissection, the usual saucy mix for the pathetic, the sexual y dysfunctional--'

'Stop.'

Palmer had. Thorne silently admonished himself. He should never

have got into this. At best, it was prurient. At worst, it smacked of the

kind of cheap psychology that was also to be found on the bits of

paper which would spil from crackers round lunch tables the fol owing day. He glanced across at Palmer who clutched his tea and stared straight ahead. Thorne couldn't quite read the expression. Sad? No, disappointed.

The screensaver had kicked in again, and the growing silence was now broken only by a series of distant, electronic ticks.

'I might go out tomorrow,' Palmer said suddenly. He turned to look at Thorne, his upper body leaning forward, his face now keen and animated. 'Just for a walk, get a bit of air. Going a bit bonkers in here...'

Thorne snorted. Palmer started to nod thoughtful y even though it was strangely comic. 'I know, I'd better get used to it. Won't be many creature comforts when al this is over. Actual y...'

He stood up quickly. Reflexively. Thorne did the same. Palmer looked over at him, nervous. 'I've got some cans of beer in the kitchen.' He took a step forwards, then stopped. 'Have one.

You could have one.'

Thorne nodded without thinking and Palmer was away towards the kitchen. 'It's bitter, I think. Is that al right?' Thorne said nothing, sat back down again.

He looked around the room. As usual, there was nothing out of place. The layout was simple, the furnishings modern and functional. The first time Thorne had walked into the place, he'd been reminded of somewhere, and then after a few minutes had shivered slightly as he'd realized that the flat was like his own. A few more books and plants maybe, an absence of family photos or souvenirs. Little evidence of a life lived with much enthusiasm. There was nothing homely...

Through the open kitchen door, Thorne could see Palmer moving around, hear him getting glasses from a cupboard and rinsing them out. He was a big man; a man that lumbered and loomed and yet he was oddly graceful. Considering his height and weight, he had very smal hands and feet, and looked on occasion as if he must surely tumble forwards on to his pale, fleshy face.

These were observations Thorne had made in the beginning when

they'd spent many hours going over it al . Getting the story. Then they'd spent days and days planning, working out how they could make it work; giving Palmer a last taste of freedom so that Nicklin might.., might show his hand. Al those hours in overheated interview rooms and yet they had never talked, not real y.

Thorne thought about this now, as he sat in Palmer's living room,

not with any sense of regret - he had no desire to get to know this

man - it was just interesting, that was al , considering where they were.

And stil he had that lingering sense that Palmer was holding something back. Saving something up...

Palmer returned with two glasses of beer, an odd look of pride on

his face, as if he were delivering the heads of a pair of conquered enemies. Thorne took the glass that was offered and placed it on the floor by the side of his chair. Palmer stayed standing, staring out of the window and nodding slightly. He smiled. 'Quite lucky, actual y. Al these police officers everywhere, especial y the one outside the door.., at least I haven't been bothered by carol singers.'

Thorne stared up at him. Palmer was wearing baggy grey tracksuit bottoms, blue moccasin-style slippers and an orange hooded top. The clothes looked cheap, not a natural fibre anywhere. And not for the first time, Thorne wondered what Palmer spent his money on. He had a good

job, but his car wasn't flashy and there were no signs of extravagance.

'Where does al the money go?'

Palmer moved across to the sofa and sat down. He looked across at Thorne, squinting at him, as if trying to grasp every nuance of meaning in the question.

Thorne tried again. 'What do you spend money on?' Palmer shook his head, shrugged. 'I save it.' 'Holidays?'

'I save it. It's al in the building society. I send some home occasional y, wel I did, but my parents don't like taking it, so now I just buy them things. You know, when they need them. I bought them a new

boiler a couple of months ago.' He nodded again, a series of smal nods, like he gave al the time. As if he was agreeing with himself, trying to confirm something.

Thorne thought again about that first meeting, when he had spoken and shouted about a disease cal ed bereavement and Palmer had first spoken about Nicklin. Later, he'd been taken to have his head wound stitched - Jacqui Kaye had done a fair amount of damage with that shoe - and when he'd returned he'd talked more, and with more ease, about Nicklin - the meeting in the Brasserie, the proposal, the instructions for the kil ings. Early on in that conversation, when they were talking about how he and Nicklin had first met, Palmer had mentioned a name. Twice, perhaps three times, a girl's name had bobbed into view. She, or at the very least, her name, had appeared briefly, like a shape dredged up; something which you could almost place, appearing just below the surface of water before disappearing back into the depths. Now, that name floated to the surface of Thorne's swampy consciousness.

'Tel me about Karen.'

Palmer took a drink. He held the beer in his mouth for a few seconds before swal owing it down. 'Karen died.' More nodding. Thorne waited. 'She got into a car and died. On a sunny day, she climbed into a blue Vauxhal Cavalier - it was on the news, you can probably get the video. That was it. She was fourteen.' He downed nearly al that was left of his beer in three enormous gulps, put the almost empty glass careful y down on the floor and then looked up at Thorne. 'A blue Vauxhal Cavalier. Driven by a murderer. Like me.'

There was only one way Thorne could fil the pause that fol owed. He'd spoken the words aloud on a hundred different occasions. He'd felt the same sour taste of loss and longing then, hanging in the air, tart

on his tongue.

'I'm sorry.'

Instinctively, he meant it. Then another instinct every bit as strong swept over him and he felt the need to qualify what he'd said.

'Not for you. For her, for her family. Not for you, Palmer.'

Then silence, and a nod or two, and the ticks and beeps from the swarm of animated clocks seemed suddenly much louder, fil ing the space between them.

Thorne jumped a little at the chorus of computerised chimes and turned to look at the screen. He glanced down at his watch. Midnight. Christmas day. When he looked back round, Palmer had shuffled forward to the very edge of the sofa. He was smiling awkwardly at him, holding his al but empty glass, just half a mouthful of beer in the bottom.