Scaredy cat (42 page)

'I got this gun from the same man. I followed him from the pub. He's got a lock-up garage in Neasden, near the railway works, just across from the tube station.'

Thorne was confused, but his mind raced, made connections. Neasden, four or five stops from where they were on the tube. Fifteen minutes, no more. Palmer, easily able to get here quicker than he had. 'Martin, this isn't important...'

'Please, you have to listen. I took the gun, and there was a great deal of cash...'

Cookson snorted. 'He'll fucking kill you.'

'He's dead.' Cookson's eyes widened. Palmer's looked like they were ready to bulge out of his head as he craned his neck towards Thorne. 'He was a bad man, though, so maybe I did a good thing. I had no choice anyway.' He glanced at the gun in his hand. 'I needed.., this. I needed somewhere to stay for a while. I stayed in the garage. With the body. It was starting to really smell in there...'

Palmer blinked slowly, his eyes closing almost, but not for quite long enough for Thorne to think about lunging...

'We can sort all this out later, Martin. There'll be loads of time. Just get rid of the gun. You must get rid of it...'

Palmer lowered his arm.

'That's good, Martin, but you have to drop it. Let it go.'

Palmer shook his head. Thorne sensed movement away to his right, and turned his head to see the children in the gym being led away from the windows. One by one the faces disappeared. Thorne blinked. The last face pressed up against the window, eyes wide and full of doubt, belonged to Charlie Garner... There was other movement, indistinct and fleeting, somewhere above and to the right of him. Finally, Thorne knew that back-up had arrived. Positions were being taken up, targets identified, sights fixed. A momentary glance told him that Cookson had seen it too.

'I don't want you to be afraid,' Palmer said suddenly. Thorne looked away from the rooftop. As he brought his gaze back round to Palmer, he checked out Cookson, who was standing stock still, arms by his sides, eyes narrowed.

Palmer's expression was bizarrely earnest. 'Really. You don't have to be afraid.'

'Guns make me afraid, Martin. Throw it away.'

'You know fear has a taste, don't you? It's actually the taste of your adrenal gland. That's what you can taste, that's the flavour of it...'

Thorne saw Palmer's fingers moving. He watched, afraid to breathe, as the finger moved away from the trigger.

Should he move now? Go for the gun... ?

'It's a very strange taste. Like chewing on a bit of tinfoil. That suggestion of metal in your mouth. It's actually the chemical that's in adrenaline...'

Palmer slipped his finger out of the trigger guard. Rested it against the outside. Safe.

He needed to do it now. He wasn't sure he'd seen McEvoy move for a while...

'It's called adrenochrome. Did you know that?'

Thorne shook his head. He didn't know the name, but he knew the taste very well.

As Palmer screamed and raised his arm, Thorne saw what was happening. As Palmer leveled the gun at him, Th0rne saw exactly what he was trying to do.

He saw everything, far, far too late.

The bullet from the marksman's rifle had ripped through Palmer's throat before any of them had even heard the shot. Palmer dropped to his knees with an odd slowness, but then pitched forward fast on to his face. Thorne thought, or perhaps imagined, that he could hear nose, cheekbones and glasses shattering as the face hit the ground.

Thorne went down quickly, put his hands on the gun that was lying a foot or so away from Palmer's corpse. He looked across towards McEvoy, hoping...

'Congratulations on being alive, Thorne.' Cookson smiled, slowly raising his hands into the air. 'Being alive is the easy bit though, isn't it?'

From somewhere behind them, a distorted voice boomed through a loudspeaker. Cookson took a step towards it, his arms high and straight. 'It's feeling alive, that's the hard part...'

In one smooth movement, Thorne stood up and whipped his arm round hard, smashing the butt of the gun across Cookson's mouth. He could feel the lips burst. He saw the teeth shatter and split the gums an instant before the hand moved to stop the gush of blood. Thorne heard the thump of feet behind him. He turned to see officers pouring in through the gate, and Dave Holland sprinting across the playground towards Sarah McEvoy's body.

THIRTY

The pitch was frozen. A lot of mistimed tackles, flare-ups, silly mistakes. All the game needed was a dubious penalty and a sending-off, and Thorne would feel that this month's subscription to Sky had been justified.

He wondered whether his dad would be watching, shouting at the screen as if he were still on the terraces. His dad who had taken him to his first Spurs game over thirty years before, back in the days of Martin Chivers and Alan Gilzean. Thorne wondered how much longer his old man would be able to watch, able to follow the game.

The call had been typical of him. He'd dealt with the situation in a predictable way.

'Remember the joke I told you about the bloke who goes to the doctors?'

Thorne laughed. There had been plenty. 'Which one?'

'The doctor says to him, "Bad news I'm afraid. You've got cancer and Alzheimer's disease..."'

Thorne felt something tighten. 'Dad...'

'So the bloke looks at the doctor...' The voice on the phone, starting to waver a little. 'He looks at the doctor and says, "well, at least I haven't got cancer.'"

'What are you on about, Dad?'

There was a long pause before the old man repeated the punch line, said what he'd called to say.

'At least I haven't got cancer, Tom:

Then Thorne had understood what it was his father did have. The hiss of a ring-pull brought Thorne out of it, and he turned to look at Hendricks. He was stretched out as usual, shoes off, feet up on the sofa.

'You said something interesting once,' Thorne said.

'Only once?'

'You said you thought the smell of formaldehyde put people off. You don't reckon your feet might have anything to do with it?'

'Piss off,' Hendricks said.

Things were pretty much back to normal.

Nearly a month since Thorne had walked away from the playground at King Edward's. Watching the stretchers sliding into ambulances. The arms of teachers wrapped around crying children. The look on Dave Holland's face...

Nearly a month since he'd walked back up that long drive, wondering idly what might have happened to his car.

How long it would take to scrub blood off asphalt... Palmer had known exactly what he was doing, when he'd pointed that gun. Thorne should have seen it coming earlier - when Palmer had been so keen to tell him where the gun had come from. A last attempt at a good gesture, before the most desperate one of all. Was suicide, which is what it was, the act of a coward or a brave man? Thorne thought, in the end, that Palmer had done what he did, not out of self-disgust, but simply because he knew, emotionally at least, that he would never survive prison.

The school's former Head of English, on the other hand, was made of sterner stuff. Of far stranger stuff.

Andrew Cookson would do very nicely. While the true-crime cash ins were being scribbled, he would carve out a niche for himself in Belmarsh or Broadmoor. Number one nutter in the nick. Fear was all important in prison. In a place where getting through a day unscathed was hard enough, robbers and rapists would probably scare just as easily as Martin Palmer had done.

Palmer, scared stiff all his life, whose one act of anything like bravery had gone so tragically wrong.

The words of the speech, the platitudes that had rattled around in his head that day, were close enough to those that were needed. To those that were eventually used.

'All of those who worked with her, of whatever rank, will miss her dedication and good humour . . .'

The faces of Lionel and Rebecca McEvoy had joined those of Robert and Mary Enright, Rosemary Vincent and Leslie Bowles. The flaking portraits of those that had lived to bury their children. Leslie Bowles had put it simplest, and best. It never stops. Never.

'By the way,' Hendricks said. 'If Brendan rings, I'm not here...'

Thorne turned and stared at the scruffy article sprawled on the sofa, at the open and expectant face of the man who had performed the post-mortem on Sarah McEvoy.

Who afterwards had somehow managed to misplace the toxicology report.

'Oi... I'm not here. If he rings. Is that OK?'

'I see another piercing coming,' Thorne said. 'What's happened now?'

Hendricks swung his feet on to the floor and sat up. 'You remember when I thought he was freaked out by the job, yeah? Well, it turns out he actually quite likes it.'

'So?'

'So, now I'm the one that's a bit freaked out...'

'You're never happy.'

Then what about you?'

Thorne stood and strolled towards the kitchen to get a couple more beers. 'I'm fine.'

Hendricks leaned back grinning, his hands behind his head. 'Yeah, well, so you should be. Fantastic mate like me, beer, Spurs one-nil up away from home. It doesn't get much better than this really, does it?'

With his back to him, Hendricks had no way of knowing if Thorne was smiling as he spoke.

'Christ, I sincerely hope so...'

EPILOGUE

23, Dyer Close

Kings Heath

Birmingham

B14 3EX

West Midlands

28 February 2002

Dear Inspector Thorne,

I know it's taken a while to drop you a line, but I'm sure you appreciate that there's a lot going on and that it's been quite difficult for us since the arrest.

We were very sorry to hear about Detective Sergeant McEvoy. She must have been about the same age as Carol. Please pass on our condolences to her family.

Charlie is really starting to do well now. He's settled in very well at school and is sleeping a lot better. The child psychologist is very pleased with him. My wife thought you'd like to know.

The real reason I was writing, was to say a belated 'thank you' for the tool set you sent Charlie at Christmas. It was thoughtful. I hope you don't mind, but we didn't tell him that the present came from you. We're not sure if he remembers you anyway and we thought it best, considering, to just tell him it was from us. I'm sure you understand.

Yours sincerely,

Robert Enright