Lifeless - 5 (40 page)

And McEvoy...

What the hel had al that been about? He'd need to talk to Brigstocke about it in the morning. Maxwel would probably write it up in his report, but Thorne knew it would be good if he could get in first. He hadn't a clue what he was going to tel Brigstocke though.

Probably the same bol ocks McEvoy had given him...

He'd need to talk to Hol and as wel .

He looked at his watch. Only five minutes later than the last time he looked.

He let it ring three times, hung up, dial ed again. It rang for a very long time.

'Palmer?'

'I was asleep...' 'Give me an address.' 'What... ?'

'Give me the address where you are, and I'l come and get you.' 'I can't.'

Thorne hadn't expected it to be that easy, but he was stil genuinely annoyed. 'Why don't we just get this over with, Palmer? You're not someone who escapes. You're not even someone who runs. You're just a luck-up, you're just weak.'

There was a pause long enough for Thorne to get up and move through to the bedroom. He lay down on the bed. Then Palmer spoke again.

'I know...'

'So what do you think you're doing?'

'I'm not sure.'

He wasn't the only one. Thorne stared up at the ceiling and asked himself why an escaped kil er was the only person he could think of ringing at half past midnight. There was no need to answer the question of course - it was bol ocks. He was tired and thinking al sorts of strange shit. Hol and wouldn't have minded, he was probably stil up anyway. Hendricks as wel . He could have cal ed Hendricks...

'Is there any news on Smart?' Palmer asked. 'Worried he might find you before we do, Martin?' 'No... just, you know, any news?' Thorne grunted. 'Only if you've got some.' 'Sorry... I don't know anything about him.' 'Except that he might be a policeman.'

'I did say, before, that it was just a feeling. It was nothing I can back up with anything. I've never lied to you, Inspector Thorne.'

'I'm supposed to be impressed with that, am I? Supposed to think

that counts for something?'

'I never said that.'

'You've stabbed one young woman, strangled another...'

'But deep down you're pretty honest!'

'I'm sorry if I don't fit into a convenient pigeonhole for you.'

'Bol ocks... shut up. That's crap.'

Thorne could hear the distant rhythms of an argument from somewhere down the street. A man and a woman. He couldn't tel if they were getting closer or moving further away.

'You aren't the only one who would like to know,' Palmer said. 'What I am.'

'Don't make any mistake about this, Palmer, I know what you are...

'I'm sorry if I got you into any trouble...'

'And stop fucking apologising. It's pathetic.'

Thorne needed more of his painkil ers. He took a deep breath and

swung his legs off the bed, the undigested chicken rising up his throat. 'Inspector Thorne... ?'

He stood and walked slowly across to the wardrobe. He kicked open

the door, stared at himself in the ful -length mirror on the back of it. 'Jesus Christ...' He hadn't meant to say it out loud. 'Inspector Thorne... ?'

The swol en distorted face looked back at him and reminded him of what he was supposed to be. It asked him, politely but firmly, what the fuck he thought he was doing.

'Are you al right, Inspector Thorne?'

Then the explosion of rage. The one that ran in the family.

'Don't talk to me. Not like that, do you understand? Not are you al right? Not sorry...'

'Talk to me like a murderer.' ,

TWENTY-SIX

Thorne arrived at work feeling hol ow, certain that little would happen during the day that could fil the empty space.

The sleep fol owing his conversation with Martin Palmer had been surprisingly deep - a welcome side effect of the painkil ers. This time, the animal had worked longer and harder at the space beneath the door. Digging down, forcing its snout into the gap. This time, behind the door, Karen McMahon had not been there to take Charlie Garner's hand.

The day ahead would, Thorne knew, be almost surreal considering the state of the case.

The hunt for Palmer was going nowhere.

The hunt for Nicklin was going backwards.

Thorne and the team would probably spend the day celebrating... A bottle or two and a backslap or three to put the lid on last night's result at the hotel. A session of whistling in the dark that would only be interrupted - right after lunch, according to his Regulation 7 notice by Thorne's initial meeting with officers from the DPS.

A day when nothing was going to happen. A day when everything was going to be settled...

Tom Thorne was not the only one arriving at work, and in the head of the man who used to be Smart Nicklin, a clock was ticking.

Thorne's assessment of how the day would pan out was pretty much bang on. The only thing he hadn't foreseen was quite how early the party was going to start. The word had gone out: a bit of a drink at lunchtime to toast a job wel done. Morale, however, was not exactly through the roof anywhere in Serious Crime. Not among Team 3, not among the team that had taken over the hotel kil ings, nowhere. A couple of pints in the pub at lunch-time would certainly be welcomed, but there was always going to be a need to push the boat out a little further than that.

The first bottle of scotch had appeared before the morning cups of tea and coffee were finished.

Thorne and Brigstocke watched from their office as paper cups were fil ed and the stories that had filtered back about the events the previous night were exaggerated and passed around.

'It's a bit early isn't it?' Thorne asked.

Brigstocke raised his eyebrows theatrical y. 'Bugger me, are you feeling al right, Tom? Maybe that smack in the face did more damage than we realised.'

Thorne said nothing. Looking out, he noticed that Hol and was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't joining in the celebrations.

Brigstocke shrugged. 'I think we need this to tel you the truth. As long as it stays control ed, it's no problem. As long as nobody's too shit-faced when Jesmond pops over to bask in his bit of reflected glory...'

The volume of noise from the incident room dropped. It was clear which bit of the hotel story was being repeated.

'I spoke to McEvoy first thing this morning,' Brigstocke said. 'How did she sound?'

'Half-asleep. Embarrassed about what happened. Said she was fine to come in, but I've told her to leave it until the end of the week. What do you think?' ,

Thorne nodded; that sounded about right. 'She's got some personal stuff to sort out.'

'With Hol and?'

Thorne wasn't surprised that Brigstocke had noticed something he always had a good handle on the relationships between the members of his team. 'Hol and says not,' Thorne said.

'It's not the end of the world. Shift one of them across to Belgravia or the West End...'

'Make it McEvoy.'

'Problems?'

'No, not real y.' Not real y. Nothing beyond a loyalty to Dave Hol and, and a slight unease about Sarah McEvoy. Nothing he could even name, beyond a vague suspicion he had no intention of voicing. 'Anyway,' Brigstocke said, 'if Hol and says not...' 'Right.'

'Hel o... your best mate's here.'

Thorne watched as Steve Norman strol ed into the incident room, a slim leather bag slung across one shoulder. He greeted the officers like old friends and held up a hand to gently turn down the offer of a drink. 'What's he doing here? Doesn't he have his own office?'

'I think he's one of those that likes to feel part of the team, you know?'

'Oh fuck...'

Norman was on his way towards the office. There was nowhere to hide.

'Hi, guys. Just stopped in to say wel done for last night. More work for me... but that's the nature of the beast, I suppose. Right... I'l no doubt see you for a quick one at lunch-time, bnt I'd better be off. On the move a lot today, loads to do...'

He patted his shoulder bag as he turned to leave. Thor.ne realised that it contained a laptop computer. Norman was clearly one of those that liked to remind others just how important he was. Just how very busy. He probably used it a lot on the train.

'Tosser,' Thorne muttered as Norman closed the door behind him. 'I think DCI Lickwood said he might stick his head in later on, just to say hel o and have one on our team's tab.'

Brigstocke grinned at Thorne's expression. 'Thought you'd be pleased.'

'So no chance of trying to catch any murderers today, then?'

'Come on, Tom. People wil be coming and going al day, and we

had a good result last night. It's the first one for a while.'

Thorne didn't need reminding.

'Business as usual, of course,' Brigstocke said. 'But with a good feeling round the place for a change. A positive atmosphere. Don't you remember what it was like, last day of term?'

Thorne knew what Brigstocke meant, but it stil felt wrong somehow. He walked out of the door, grumbling. 'I'l fetch the party hats...' Then the desk got him.

Thorne swore loudly and kicked at the offending corner - the bal of screwed-up paper he'd taped to it long gone. As he rubbed his thigh, he decided that while the rest of the place was celebrating the end of term, he was going to do something useful. He shouted to no-one in particular:

'Right, get me a fucking saw...'

A couple of regulars sat up at the bar, nursing grudges and pints, moaning to the landlord and throwing dirty looks over their shoulders, but the place belonged to Serious Crime. There were a hundred or more officers and civilian staff crammed in to the back bar. Though it was official y just a lunch-time thing, Thorne was pretty sure, based on the morning, that there wasn't going to be a fat lot of work done in the afternoon.

'Fancy a drink, big boy?'

Thorne actual y started slightly. Despite the noise and the crush, he'd actual y drifted away for a moment, thinking about the generations either side of himself. Young boy and old men...

'Only you've been stood here with that half for twenty minutes,'

Hendricks said. 'Wishing you were somewhere else.'

'That obvious, is it?'

'I was going to say you've got a face like a smacked arse, but, looking at it, kicked arse would be a bit more accurate.'

Thorne raised his glass, took a sip and then gestured with it, pointing at nothing in particular. 'This is fucking nonsense though, isn't it?'

Hendricks shook his head, leaned on the bar. 'Don't agree, mate. We al need to let our hair down, this lot more than most. You as much as anybody...'

'A copper with a pint pot in his hand is not my idea of a good time. Christ, it's rough enough working with them.'

'Not been flattened in the rush for a matey chinwag then?' Thorne final y smiled. 'Most of them stay away...'

'Are you having another one?' Thorne shook his head. Hendricks turned to the bar and raised his hand to attract the attention of a barmaid.

Most of them. Steve Norman had marched straight up and bent Thorne's ear for ten long minutes. Keen to impress upon him just how hard he was working. Delighted that after the depressing weeks on Nicklin and Palmer, he final y had some positive material to work with - the McMahon discovery and the hotel murders. He'd drunk two tomato juices before rushing away, as he told Thorne excitedly, to prepare a press release detailing the bril iant operation that had resulted in the arrest of Jason Alderton.

Hendricks was back at Thorne's elbow with a pint of Guinness and a disgruntled expression. 'We've got to pay for these now. How much did Brigstocke put behind the bar?'

'Two hundred and fifty. It lasted about fifteen minutes.'

The two of them said nothing for a minute or two. They stood and watched as police officers of al ranks and ages enjoyed a momentary triumph. Battered bomber jackets and fleeces with bottles of lager. Shirts with grimy col ars and Christmas ties, spil ing pints of bitter.

Sharp suits on spritzers. Women who were harder than they looked and men who were a damn sight younger. Old stagers from the squads, a squeak away from their pensions, and West End wannabes with Audis on double yel ows and dialogue from a Guy Ritchie movie. A couple of hours to pretend, to forget. Then back to it.

The Met was haemorrhaging. It was losing officers at the rate of five a day. Thorne was surprised it wasn't ten times that number. He was amazed he was too stubborn, or stupid, or scared, to be one of them.

'It'l al stil be there tomorrow, Tom,' Hendricks said. 'A couple of hours on the piss isn't going to make a blind bit of difference. Have a drink, catch the fucker another day...'

Thorne smiled and finished his drink, thinking: Tomorrow is another day nearer the next body. A couple of hours might make al the difference in the world.

Lunch-time was excruciating. Talking to people, and eating and smiling. Looking like he was interested in their pointless drivel. It was so hard today, when such excitement was so close.

He managed it every other day of course, but that was just routine. And didn't everyone dissemble to some degree or other? Saying you're not bothered about getting the stupid job when you'd happily kil for it. Saying that you just want to be friends when actual y you're already fucking somebody else. Wearing a mask. Pretending to care.

On the days he kil ed, though, it was always like this to some extent. He remembered the tedious meeting at work on the day he'd kil ed the Chinese girl; the expression of concentration stuck on to his face when al he could think about was what she might look like, how it was going to feel. He could stil feel Caroline's mouth against his freshly shaved cheek as she kissed him goodbye on the morning he'd paid his visit to Ken Bowles. He'd smiled and kissed her back, they'd talked about what they might have for dinner later, and al the time he could feel the wonderful weight of the bat in his bag...

This one was going to be even better. This time, he was having

trouble keeping himself from grabbing people and shouting into their faces. Tel ing them exactly what he was planning to do, how bril iantly he'd arranged everything, how superb it was going to feel. The buzz was already building. He could almost feel the mask beginning to slip.