Thorne - Lifeless Part 27

"Caroline . . . ?"

It was maybe half a minute before she continued. "When he was still at home, his dad used to mess with 'em, you know? With both of 'em. Used to hurt him and his sister and he couldn't stand it, so he got out.

"Got the f.u.c.k out . . .

"He was older than she was, you see? A couple of years. Older. So he left her there, and then a bit later on . . . six months or something, you'd have to ask him, was when she took a load of pills. Chucked 'em down like Smarties . . .

"Spike was . . . you know? He was very f.u.c.ked up. There was a nasty scene when they buried her . . . That was the last time he saw anyone in the family. That was it for good then."

"He knows it wasn't his fault, doesn't he?" Thorne asked.

"Like Smarties . . ."

Thorne could hear someone singing in one of the adjoining subways. He was stroking Caroline's hair. "I don't think it's hurting anyone that Spike pretends . . ."

Caroline groaned.

"Everybody does it to some extent or other," Thorne said. "When they lose someone. People bang on and on about letting go, like it's the healthy thing to do, like we don't all need a bit of f.u.c.king comfort. We all keep our loved ones alive somewhere . . ."

But she couldn't hear him anymore.

At some point during the night, Thorne was woken by something. He reached out to touch the cardboard on every side of him. He was hot and stinking inside his sleeping bag.

From a few feet away, he could hear Spike and Caroline making love. The noises they made, their cries, and the movement of their bodies inside the box seemed urgent and desperate. His hand moved to his groin, but did not stay there for very long. He was touched rather than excited by what he could hear: there was a rea.s.surance in their pa.s.sion, in the simple desire of each to please the other.

Thorne eventually drifted back to sleep, soothed by the rhythm of it and comforted by the affirmation of need. By an honest moment of human contact; by an act of love that had more meaning on cardboard than it might have had on silk.

The next time Thorne woke, he knew the cause straightaway; he could feel the mobile phone vibrating in his coat pocket. He groped for it, getting hold of the thing just as the shaking stopped. The glow from the illuminated screen lit up lines of grime on the heel of his hand; it was 6:18 a.m. and it had been Holland calling . . .

It rang again almost immediately.

Thorne pushed his way out of the box and took a few steps away from where Spike and Caroline were still sleeping. He squatted down, answered the phone with a whisper.

"Dave?"

"Thank f.u.c.k for that . . ."

During the short pause that followed, Thorne stood and waited for his head to clear a little. A plastic bag flapped along the tunnel and he shuddered as the draft whipped into him; icy against clammy skin.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alive," Holland said.

"That's thoughtful, but it's a bit b.l.o.o.d.y early-"

"They've found another body. We haven't got anyone down there as yet."

Thorne could smell p.i.s.s and sugar, vinegar and grease. He glanced up and down the corridor, checking that there was no movement from any of the boxes. He wondered if the body might be that of Ryan Eales; if the killer had finally completed the set.

"Sir . . . ?"

"I'm listening," Thorne whispered.

"A rough sleeper, looks like the usual method, in the doorway of a theater behind Piccadilly Circus. D'you see what I'm getting at?"

Thorne saw exactly.

Just keeping it warm for you, obviously.

Now his head was clear, but the rest of him was suddenly leaden. He could feel a p.r.i.c.kly heat rising . . .

There was a grunted laugh of relief before Holland spoke again. "I just wanted to be sure," he said. "I thought it might be you . . ."

Thorne leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily. He stared down at the discarded chicken bones and scattered flakes of leprous-looking batter.

And was violently sick.

Part Three.

Luck of the Draw.

TWENTY-FIVE.

Holland and Stone stood on the platform at Stockport Station, waiting for their connection to Salford. Both had hands thrust deep into pockets, and as they gazed along the track in the hope of seeing the train's approach, they could see the rain coming down in skewed, billowing sheets.

"f.u.c.king h.e.l.l," Stone said, miserable. "I'm still wet from the other night . . ."

Holland nodded, remembering the downpour as they'd gathered at the crime scene, waiting for the sun to struggle up. The rain had hissed off the arc lights, and the only dry body there was curled up and stiffening in the theater doorway. As with the other victims, there hadn't been a great deal that was recognizable about Terence Turner. He'd finally been identified by a friend thanks to the chain and padlock around his neck. Later, this had been removed with a hacksaw by a mortuary a.s.sistant, just prior to Phil Hendricks getting to work and doing some cutting of his own . . .

"I'm going to see if I can grab some coffee," Stone said. "D'you want some?"

Holland eagerly accepted the offer and Stone walked toward the station concourse in search of what would be their third cup of the day. It was a little over twenty-four hours since they'd found the body, and Holland had slept for perhaps three of them.

It was accepted that the first twenty-four hours were "golden"; that this was when they had the best chance of picking up a decent lead. As far as Holland was aware, at that moment they still had nothing, and he'd be surprised if anything changed. It wasn't always just a killer they were up against. Care and caution could get thrown to the wind in the name of urgency, and adrenaline was easily swamped by fatigue and protocol.

After they'd wrapped things up at the murder scene, a DS from the Intelligence Team had conducted the "hot debrief " at Charing Cross police station. Every officer who'd been present had run through the notes in their incident report book and made a statement. These would need to be collated and added to the duty officer's report and the log that would later be completed by the DCI. This was all part of the procedure inst.i.tuted in the wake of the Lawrence Report. There were those who thought it would mean fewer mistakes. Others, including Tom Thorne, were more skeptical. They thought that it was less about doing the right thing than being seen to do it.

Thorne . . .

This was what, for some of them at least, had given the latest murder an unsettling significance; had brought it far closer to home. Those on the team who knew of Thorne's role in the investigation had come to an obvious, and disturbing, conclusion. Holland, Brigstocke, and Hendricks had stared at the battered body of a man in a doorway; had watched it being bagged up and loaded into a wagon; had seen the progress of the pathologist's blade through its flesh, and known, as they looked on, that it should have been the body of Tom Thorne that was suffering such indignities.

Holland looked up, watched Stone walking back toward him with the drinks, and thought about the phone conversation two nights before . . .

That's thoughtful, but it's a bit b.l.o.o.d.y early.

He'd rung from home as soon as he'd been contacted about the discovery of the body. Sophie had been woken by the initial call, and he'd gone into the living room so she wouldn't hear him talking to Thorne. He'd felt a little embarra.s.sed at how relieved he'd been to hear the miserable git's voice.

It was strange: Thorne had taken longer than anyone else to grasp the importance of just where Turner's body had been found. Maybe Holland had caught him at a bad time . . .

"Train's coming in," Stone said, still a few feet away.

Holland looked back and saw the train rounding a bend, moving toward them through rain that was getting heavier. The huge wipers were moving fast across the locomotive's windscreen.

Stone seemed to have cheered up a little. He put on a coa.r.s.e, Hovis accent: "It's grim up north," he said.

Holland smiled and took his coffee, thinking that it wasn't exactly a bed of roses back where they'd come from.

"Do you want me to tell you how many of those kicks could have killed Terry Turner on their own? How many different bones were broken? How many of his teeth were actually smashed up into his nose?"

"Only if you want to put me off my lunch," Thorne said.

They were sitting in a dimly lit pub, south of the river near the Oval. A television was mounted high on one wall. Through the Keyhole served only to highlight the lack of atmosphere in the place. Aside from a couple in their thirties who scowled at each other across scampi and chips, Brigstocke and Thorne were the only customers.

Brigstocke knew that, with Thorne looking the way he did, they'd have had a fair amount of privacy even if the place had been much busier. Though the bruises had faded to the color of nicotine stains, Thorne was still far from a pretty sight. That said, though, he had never been a GQ kind of man, and many had given him a wide berth even when he hadn't looked like a battered sack of s.h.i.+t. Brigstocke had said as much to him as they'd collected drinks and cheese rolls from the bar.

Thorne held up his Guinness and smiled. "Cheers, mate."

"Those clothes are actually starting to smell . . ."

"I think you're the one they're worried about," Thorne had said. He'd nodded toward the couple who'd given the two of them a long, blatantly curious look when they'd walked in. "They think I'm some sort of over-the-hill rent boy and you're a very pervy businessman on a limited budget."

The jokey tone hadn't lasted long . . .

"You said that going undercover would just be about gathering information," Brigstocke said. "We've got that information now. We know who the victims are, and we know why it's happening, so give me one good reason for you to carry on."

"Because the killer hasn't gone anywhere."

"We talked about this when you came to me with your stupid idea in the first place . . ."

"Things are much different now," Thorne said.

"f.u.c.king right they're different." Brigstocke glanced toward the couple, then across at the woman who stood smoking behind the bar. He lowered his voice. "The night before last, it was you he tried to kill . . ."

Thorne put the half-eaten cheese roll back onto his plate. He wasn't hugely hungry. He'd gone to the Lift early and put away a full breakfast while he waited in vain for Spike or Caroline to turn up. Thorne hadn't seen either of them since the previous morning. He'd left the subway when Holland had called with news of the murder, then returned a few hours later to wake them; to tell them that he'd been into the West End and seen the police gathered outside the theater.

To tell them that Terry was dead . . .

"You're not willing to consider the possibility that Terry Turner being kicked to death in that doorway was a bizarre coincidence, are you?" Thorne looked at Brigstocke. "I thought not . . ."

"The killer knows who you are," Brigstocke said.

"Thanks to one too many cans of Special Brew, the world and his f.u.c.king wife knows there's an undercover copper on the streets."

"Right, but this bloke knows it's you."

"I'm well aware of that . . ."

"Do you think he knows you personally? Is it someone you've met?"

Thorne stared into his beer. "He mistook Terry Turner for me, so I doubt it."

"It was dark. It was p.i.s.sing with rain. Turner might well have been out of it, asleep, with his back to the killer . . ."

"Terry was a foot taller than I am," Thorne said. "I can't see it."

The door opened and a man walked in leading a greyhound. He climbed onto a stool at the bar and the dog dropped flat at his feet. The man exchanged a word or two with the barmaid, ordered a pint, and turned to stare at the TV.

"We can skirt around the obvious question all b.l.o.o.d.y day . . ." Brigstocke said.

Over by the bar, the greyhound raised his head for a moment, yawned, and let it drop again. The dog looked like he couldn't give a f.u.c.k, and so did his owner. The man seemed far more at ease than Thorne imagined him to be behind his own four walls: he looked at home; he looked like himself.

"Tom?"

"I'm listening . . ."

"Why? That's what we need to address. Why on earth does he come after you?"

Thorne took a second to collect his thoughts. "Okay, this is the best I can come up with, and you're not going to like it. I reckon he's s.h.i.+tting himself."

"He's s.h.i.+tting himself?"

"I think he's panicking. I think he knows we're getting close. Maybe not to him, not as yet, but he doesn't feel safe because he knows we've put the nuts and bolts of it together. Like you said, we've got the names and we've got a motive. If Eales is still alive, and we can find him, the killer knows he can be identified."

"So why not just kill Eales?"

"Maybe he already has," Thorne said. "Look, all I'm really saying is that I don't think this bloke's that b.l.o.o.d.y clever. He's felt cornered, he's started to panic, and he's reacted, and I don't think there's a lot more to it than that. Who knows? Maybe he thinks I'm such a brilliant detective that he needs to get me out of the way."

"Now it's getting really far-fetched."

"Whichever way you look at it, it wasn't a very clever thing to do, but I think we're talking about someone who works on instinct, you know? If we're right about the blackmail angle, this whole thing is about him feeling threatened and trying to protect himself . . ."

The pub's business rocketed as a pair of lads came through the door. The dog barked halfheartedly and was silenced by a nudge from his master's boot. The barmaid lit another f.a.g from the b.u.t.t of the last one, and on TV, a blonde with a smile as overcooked as her tan was promising to find an elderly couple their dream home in the sun.

Brigstocke tore open a bag of crisps and leaned across the table. "All this stuff he knows. How exactly does he know it?"

"That's the bit you're not going to like," Thorne said.

"We're back to him being on the Job, are we?"

"I'm starting to think it's likely. If I'm right about why I was targeted, I can't see how else he'd know what was going on, unless he was a copper."

"If you're right . . ."