Lifeless - 5 (35 page)

He would have liked to have stayed, but he needed to get to work. He was annoyed but he was not letting it get to him. He was angry that his past was being disturbed, examined, when he had taken such great care, always, to ensure that to al intents and purposes, it had never real y existed. He was in control of what lay behind him, every bit as much as he was of what lay ahead. It wound him up to see them

taking a little of that control away. He felt usurped.

But he wasn't going to let it spoil things.

Let them uncover a smal piece of who he used to be. It wouldn't do them any good at al . He was about to take another leap into the future.

He'd felt close to it the night before. It had been there, almost within his reach when Caroline had been going on about kids. Then afterwards, as she had sobbed and shouted, as he'd reached out to draw her

into an embrace, it had come to him.

The way forward.

Two major changes to the way he was going to go about things, now that he was working alone again. Two. And each on its own enough to ratchet up the excitement, to get whatever it was that spewed out

adrenaline working overtime. Even as he considered what he had decided to do, his exhilaration was tempered by the thought that he would never be able to top it. How could he?

He was being far too modest, of course. Hadn't he thought the same thing with his hands around a woman's neck, imagining Palmer's hands around another doing as he'd been instructed? When he'd put the gun to that young girl's head and pictured another gun being raised? A gun, as it turned out, in somewhat shakier hands.

Now, things were about to change. He had his new motor.

Never stay stil and never go back.

This time, the victim would not be chosen at random. She, and it would be a she, would not be plucked from the crowd. She would be careful y selected.

The second change was the breathtaking one - the part of his plan that real y raised the stakes. It was so beautiful y brazen.

The woman who he was going to kil next would be invited to die. Now it was just a question of deciding on a guest list.

Sarah McEvoy slammed the door behind her with such force that Hol and braced himself, waiting for the sound of shattering glass, which thankful y never came. The windows were equal y lucky to survive the onslaught of McEvoy's fury, which moved in front of her like a swinging bludgeon as she stomped across the office.

' You wanker,t You self-righteous, tight-arsed little wanker!' 'Listen...'

'What was it? WD40? Motor oil?'

Hol and felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, winded by the force of her anger, sick because of what had caused it. Gutted that what he'd done had been proved to be necessary.

'It was cooking oil. Just cooking oil...'

A thin layer across the top of the cistern in the Ladies, invisible unless you were looking for it. The cocaine gone in a second. A trick they used in some of the more drugs-conscious clubs. He'd picked up

the oil on the way to work. He hadn't wanted to be seen taking the

bottle from the cupboard at home... 'Think you're clever, don't you?' 'No.'

'Any idea what it costs? Come on smartarse, you've got your finger on the pulse, haven't you? Any idea how much it is a gram?'

Hol and had had quite enough of being lectured at. He stood up,

took a step towards her. 'Listen to yourself...'

'I can't afford to waste it...'

'I don't think you can afford not to.'

McEvoy laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. 'Which fucking seminar did you pick that one up at?'

Hol and looked at her. She was shaking her head, breathing heavily. Her speech had been machine-gun fast. Though the oil had stopped her, it clearly hadn't held her up for very long.

She'd probably just done a line off the back of her hand.

'You said you didn't do it at work.'

'You real y think I've got a problem, don't you?' She was laughing again, looking anywhere but at him. 'You go on like I'm some fucking junkie. It's just an occasional thing. Just now and again, Jesus...' 'You said you didn't do it at work, Sarah.'

She coughed, wincing a little as something came up into her mouth. 'Yes, wel , it hasn't exactly been a normal sort of day, has it?' She pushed past him and dropped into the chair behind her desk. 'I needed something after spending al morning staring into that hole, al right with you?'

Hol and realised that at that moment there was almost nothing about this woman, whose body he knew intimately, that he recognised. 'No. It isn't al right.'

She glanced up, threw him a twisted smile. 'Are you stil here?' 'That is the sickest piece of self-justification...' 'Bol ocks! I don't need to justify what I do to you.' 'No, but you obviously need to justify it to yourself...'

McEvoy picked up a sheet of paper and studied it. 'The gun that Palmer failed to shoot Jacqui Kaye with. He says that Nicklin delivered it, left it outside his door. The boss thinks that's bul shit, reckons

Palmer's lying for some reason...'

'I know. Sarah--'

'So we don't know why Palmer's not tel ing us, but he must have got the gun from somewhere. From somebody who made it very clear that he better keep the whos and wheres to himself.'

Hol and wasn't listening. He wasn't sure she was. 'This is stupid--' 'If there's a connection to Nicklin we've got to start chasing it, so this is a list of known, or suspected dealers which I've divided up, A, because it's depressingly long, and B, because we should probably

work separately, I mean, I wouldn't want to compromise you...' 'You need to talk to somebody.'

Her look was one he would remember. 'Or you wil ?'

There was a smal knock and Paul Moorhead, a trainee detective, poked his head round the door. His expression said that he knew ful wel it was about to be bitten off. 'Sorry...' 'What for?'

'DCI tickwood on the phone for you. Do you want me to put it through?'

'Yeah, thanks.'

McEvoy put her hand on the phone, picked it up the instant it

began to ring.

'Derek.'

She laughed at whatever it was Lickwood said, placed a hand across the mouthpiece and stared at Dave Hol and until he left.

' There's something else I want to tel you.'

On TV, half a dozen dul , unattractive people sat about in a house, each trying to avoid being voted out. Thorne bit unenthusiastical y into a sandwich and prayed for something interesting to happen. Like

a meteor striking the house, or maybe a knife fight. He thought it was ironic that this was cal ed fly-on-the-wal television. The morons that enjoyed it would have got as much entertainment out of capturing a real bluebottle in a jam jar; watchirig it smack into the glass over and over again.

The sound was turned down. Folsom Prison Blues provided the soundtrack.

Thorne was almost certain that there would be nothing jaunty about Belmarsh Prison Blues. No boom-chicka-boom two-beat. Just feedback. A tuneless dirge screamed over the monotonous thumping of boots on stairs and heads against wal s. Martin Palmer had walked into the visiting area a few hours earlier looking like it was a song he'd been hearing a lot in the last week.

Thorne had said nothing. He'd put the plastic bag down on the table, slid it across. Palmer had leaned forward and stared at the wrapper, much as Hendricks and the others had done earlier. Palmer had seen what it was straight away. He'd recognised it.

'Nicklin kil ed Karen, Martin. He kil ed her and buried her in a ditch, then told everyone she'd been abducted.' Thorne had only glanced away for a second but when he'd looked back, Palmer's face had been wet. 'Come on, did you never even consider it?'

Palmer had reached forward and put his hand over the plastic bag. Obscured it.

'Karen was his first,' Thorne had said. 'At least, I think so. There isn't much of her left to test, so we'l never know for sure, but I'd guess he assaulted her as wel . Some kind of sexual activity before he kil ed her...'

Palmer had looked away, poking two fingers behind his glasses to wipe his eyes. 'How did he do it?'

'He strangled her. Wrapped a rope around her neck.. Smart, who you loved.'

'I don't believe he did anything to her like that. Anything sexual, I mean.'

Thorne had scoffed. 'You're right, I'm only guessing. We'l just stick with murder and dumping the body in a shal ow grave, shal we? Did you ever ask yourself how many more he might have kil ed, Martin? How many more Karens there might be?'

Palmer had turned back to him suddenly. 'I want to see where she was.'

'You know where she was. At the embankment. I told you, we found the body in a drainage ditch...'

'I want to see exactly. I'd like to see exactly where he put Karen.' Thorne had heard similar requests before from friends and relatives of victims. Show me where he died. Take me to the spot they kil ed her. Where did the accident happen? Location was important to people. Somewhere to leave a marker, to visit. Increasingly, thanks to Diana and the emergence of a shrine culture, a place for complete strangers to leave bunches of flowers or teddy bears.

Palmer was not a victim though. Palmer was on remand, charged with murder.

'Sorry, no. What's the point, anyway? They've taken the body away, she's not there any more. There's nothing there any more...' Thorne said this, but didn't know for sure. The body would probably have been removed by now, but he didn't know what else might be happening at the site.

'I don't care. I want to see.'

'Forget it.' Thorne stood up, took a few steps in no particular direction. 'Before, you were helping us locate the body, fair enough, but this is pointless. Even if I was in favour of it, which I'm not, I couldn't get

it authorised.'

'Please.'

'Shut up.' With Palmer, it always seemed to go the same way. He made Thorne feel something that was almost like sympathy, whatever it was turning quickly to something that was definitely anger. 'Why the fuck should I try to... ?'

Palmer shoved back his chair and tood up fast. Through the

window at the far end of the room, Thorne could see one of the prison officers moving to check that everything was al right. He had been about to signal that there was no problem when Palmer had said what Thorne had been desperate to hear since those first few days after he'd handed himself in.

'There's something else I want to tel you . . .'

Now, in his flat, the phone was ringing.

Thorne got up, turned off the television and stereo en route and fetched the phone from the table by the front door. Stepping sideways to avoid the unfinished sandwich on a plate on the floor, he dropped backwards over the arm of the chair leaving his legs dangling, and hit the button.

It was his dad. They hadn't spoken for a week or so. 'Tom...' 'How's it going?' 'Fine, you know.'

'Gags tonight, or quizzes?'

'Tom, it's Dad.'

'I know.' Thorne laughed. 'You al right?' His dad breathed heavily down the phone at him. 'Listen, you never told me how it went down the Legion.'

'What?'

'The trick you were going to pul . You cal ed me and asked me about the worst kil ers.'

There was a pause. 'I didn't...'

'That smal pox thing. It was a joke to play on your mates. Remember? It was a couple of weeks ago, I think.'

'No. Sorry. No idea what you're on about. Smal pox?'

'Come on, yes you do. You asked me for the names of the worst kil ers .....

'What, you mean diseases?'

'Yeah, that was the point, I think. Forget it. Wasn't one of your best anyway.'

'Is this a windup?'

Thorne laughed again, pul ed a face. 'Wel if it is, it's not me that's doing it...'

'Just piss off, al right...'

'Dad... ?' Thorne swung his legs over the arm of the chair, sat up straight.

'Who the hel d'you think you're talking to? Talking to me like that...'

Thorne was suddenly concerned, but tried his very best not to sound it. 'Look, calm down, Dad. It doesn't matter OK. OK?'

There was silence then, save for the laboured breathing. Ten, fifteen seconds...

'Dad, I--'

'Go to hel , you little fucker!'

An explosion of rage, then the dial ing tone.

TWENTY-TWO

Karen McMahon's parents hadn't been informed about the finding of a body, at least, not official y. That wouldn't be done until tests had been completed, but being asked to provide material for a DNA comparison must have given them a fair idea. A cal out of the blue fifteen years down the line, and suddenly they would be thinking about final y laying their daughter to rest.

Karen McMahon's parents would not yet have visited the site of this, her first grave. When they did, they wouldn't have a great deal of trouble finding it.

Over forty-eight hours now since they'd found the bones, the bin bags and the carpet. The equipment, the paraphernalia, was already long gone. Now it was just a muddy hole, its location marked by footprints, a few scraps of crime-scene tape, and the smal pile of rocks which Nicklin had used to keep the animals away which now stood like some parody of a headstone.

They'd probably come down with Vic Perks, the parents, when they

came . . .

Perks had been very clear about wanting to visit. He'd sounded grateful when Thorne had told him - grateful and devastated.

'Would it have been quick, do you think?' Palmer had been staring

down into the drainage ditch for several minutes, saying nothing. The

sudden question took Thorne a little by surprise. 'To bury her?' 'To kil her.'

Thorne pictured the rotten black rope hanging loose around the

bones of the neck where once it had bitten tight against the flesh. He remembered Carol Garner's post-mortem report. 'Not quick enough,' he said.

Palmer stepped back from the ditch and turned away. He looked up towards the top of the embankment where the back-up officers sat in their car - the Vectra parked up next to Thorne's Mondeo. It was raining gently. Both cars were splattered with mud. At the foot of the slope, Hol and, in a yel ow waterproof jacket, wandered up and down, glancing across occasional y at Thorne and Palmer, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.