‘Why “Burke”,’ Hol and asked.
Turner lobbed the rol ed-up pieces of the label into a wicker wastepaper basket in the corner. ‘It was her mum’s maiden name,’ she said. ‘She never real y had anything of her mum’s after she died. Her dad drank quite a bit afterwards, and ended up flogging anything he could find to pay for it. Her mum’s name was about the only thing of hers that Cath could keep.’
Thorne knew they were just about done. He glanced down towards his jacket, which he had dropped on to the floor by the side of the sofa. ‘How old was she when it happened?’
‘Eleven,’ Turner said. ‘Our first year at big school.’ She closed her eyes for five seconds . . . ten, then stood up and moved back to her own chair. ‘It real y messed her up.
For ever
, you know?’
‘The drugs, right?’
‘Wel , who wouldn’t?’
Reaching for the jacket, Thorne saw the eyes of the man in the armchair drift down to his feet and knew that Jamie Paice had been more than happy to keep his girlfriend company; to get out of it with her on whatever pil s Catherine had managed to smuggle out of the hospital.
‘Garvey kil ed Catherine’s mum while she was sunbathing,’ Turner said. ‘Climbed over a fence and battered her to death in broad daylight. ’ She looked at what was left in her bottle, then finished it quickly. ‘Catherine found her in the garden when she came home from school.’
Fifteen minutes later, a mile or so from the M1, Hol and said, ‘Should be back by midnight with a bit of luck.’
‘I think it’s probably best if we stay over,’ Thorne said.
‘What?’
‘Have a couple of drinks, get our heads down, then head back first thing.’
Hol and looked less than thril ed. ‘I didn’t warn Sophie.’
‘Wel , we’re both in the same boat.’ Thorne slowed down and began studying the road-signs. ‘We passed a place on the way in. Be handy for the motorway in the morning.’
‘Shit . . . I haven’t got any overnight stuff.’
‘We can get you a toothbrush from somewhere,’ Thorne said. ‘And don’t tel me you’ve never worn the same pair of pants two days running. ’
‘It’s mad though,’ Hol and said. ‘We’re only an hour and a bit away from home.’
‘I’m tired.’
‘I’m happy to drive, if you want to sleep.’
‘I want to stay over,’ Thorne said.
It was somewhere between a Travelodge and a borstal, with wood-effect plastic on every available surface, pan-pipe music coming from speakers too high up to rip off the wal and a worrying smel in the lobby. They checked in fast and tried not to breathe too much. Thorne did his best to be pleasant and jokey, failing to elicit a smile from the woman behind the desk, then as neither he nor Hol and could face seeing his room without at least one drink inside them, they moved straight from the sumptuous reception area into what passed for a bar.
It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock but the place - half a dozen tables and some artificial plants - was virtual y empty. Two middle-aged men in suits were huddled at a table by the door and a woman in her early thirties sat at one end of the bar, flicking through a magazine. There was no sign of any staff.
‘Joint’s jumping,’ Hol and said.
After a few minutes, a balding bundle of fun in a plum-coloured waistcoat materialised behind the bar and Thorne bought the drinks: a glass of Blossom Hil for himself and a pint of Stel a for Hol and. He asked about ordering some sandwiches and was told that the kitchen was short staffed. They carried their drinks to a table in the corner, Thorne grabbing half-eaten bowls of peanuts from the three adjacent tables before he sat down.
‘They’re covered in piss,’ Hol and said.
Thorne already had a mouthful of nuts and was brushing the salt from his hands. He looked across and grunted, ‘What?’
Hol and nodded down at the bowl. ‘From people who go to the bog and don’t wash their hands. I saw a thing on
Oprah
where they did these tests and found traces of piss in bowls of peanuts and pretzels, stuff they leave out on bars.’
Thorne shrugged. ‘I’m hungry.’
Hol and helped himself to a handful. ‘Just tel ing you,’ he said.
The piped music had changed to what was probably Michael Bolton, but could also have been a large animal in great pain. The wine went down easily enough, though, and Thorne enjoyed the banter when Hol and commented on the fact that he was drinking rosé. Thorne informed him that Louise had started buying it, that according to an article he’d seen, it was now extremely trendy.
‘Extremely gay,’ Hol and said.
Thorne might have said something about that kind of comment upsetting Phil Hendricks, were it not exactly what Hendricks would have said himself. Instead, he pushed his empty glass across the table and reminded Hol and it was his round. A few minutes later, Hol and returned from the bar with another glass of wine, half a lager and four packets of piss-free crisps.
‘Don’t you feel a bit guilty?’ Hol and asked. ‘About Paice, I mean. He obviously didn’t know about the Garvey thing.’
‘I don’t know about “obviously”.’
‘Did you see his face?’
Thorne took a few seconds. ‘Maybe he and his new girlfriend cooked that story up.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Buggered if I know.’
‘Wel , they deserve Oscars if they did.’ Hol and downed what was left of his pint and poured the half into the empty glass. ‘Anyway, who says she’s his girlfriend?’
‘It was the first thing I thought, I suppose,’ Thorne said. ‘As soon as I walked in.’
Hol and shook his head. ‘Never occurred to me. Some people have got nasty, suspicious minds.’
‘Difficult not to.’
‘That make you a good copper, you reckon?’ Hol and smiled, but it didn’t sound as though he was joking. ‘Or a bad one?’
‘Probably just one who’s been doing it too long,’ Thorne said.
Hol and leaned forward to see if there were any crisps left, but al the packets were empty. ‘So, how long was it before you stopped giving people the benefit of the doubt?’ he asked.
‘That’s the jury’s job, not mine,’ Thorne said.
‘Seriously.’
‘I don’t think I ever did . . . ever
do
.’ Thorne took a mouthful of wine. It was a little sweeter than the one Louise bought from Sainsbury’s. ‘If you start off assuming that everyone’s a twat, you’re unlikely to be disappointed. ’ He glanced towards the bar and saw the woman looking in their direction. He smiled, then turned back to Hol and. ‘Al right, I suppose I do feel
a bit
guilty,’ he said. ‘And stupid, for thinking this business with Jamie Paice might have been important.’
‘It might have been,’ Hol and said. He held up his glass. ‘And right now we’d be toasting our success with something a bit more expensive. ’ He swil ed the beer around, stared into it.
‘We’ve got to chase up everything, right, even if it
is
stupid, until we get lucky or this bloke makes a mistake.’
‘I’m hoping he’s already made one,’ Thorne said. ‘I don’t want to see any more pieces of that X-ray.’
A few minutes later, Hol and asked, ‘So, why are we
really
here?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Sitting in this shit-hole instead of being at home in our own beds.’ The look on Hol and’s face made it clear he was expecting to hear about how Thorne was in the doghouse with Louise, or trying to avoid some tedious dinner with her family and friends. Hoping to hear something he could laugh at or sympathise with; shaking his head in disbelief at the sil y shit their girlfriends put them through. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to say.’
Thorne was struggling to answer the question. There was some reason for his reluctance to go home that he could not quite articulate, but which nevertheless made him feel horribly guilty. He would not have felt comfortable sharing it with Hol and, or anyone else, even if he had been able to find the right words. ‘I told you,’ he said, happy to exaggerate the perfectly timed yawn. ‘I’m just knackered.’
‘Fair enough.’ Hol and stood up and said that he was ready to turn in.
They arranged to meet for breakfast at seven. Hol and said he would set the alarm on his phone. Then, instead of walking with Hol and towards the lifts, Thorne contradicted himself by announcing that he was staying up for one more: ‘It’l help me sleep.’
‘Have a couple,’ Hol and said. ‘You’l sleep like a baby.’
Thorne could guess where it was going, but just smiled, letting Hol and get to the punchline.
‘You’l wake up crying because you’ve pissed yourself.’
Thorne walked to the bar and ordered another glass of wine. The woman sitting a few stools along put down her magazine. ‘Your mate abandoned you, has he?’
‘I’ve got a dirty, suspicious mind, apparently,’ Thorne said. He nodded towards the optics. ‘You want one?’
The woman thanked him and moved across. She asked for a rum and Coke and when she spoke it was obvious that it was not going to be her first. She was pale, with shoulder-length dark hair, and wore a cream denim jacket over a shortish brown skirt. The barman in the plum-coloured waistcoat, whose name tag said TREVOR, set about pouring the drinks and raised his eyebrows at Thorne when the woman wasn’t looking.
‘I’m Angie,’ she said.
Thorne shook the woman’s outstretched hand and felt himself redden a little as he told her his name.
‘What business you in then, Tom?’
‘I sel nuts,’ Thorne said. ‘Crisps, nuts . . . I’m basical y a snack salesman.’
She nodded, smiling slightly, as though she wasn’t sure whether to believe him. When the barman had put down the drinks she picked up her glass and waited until he’d moved away.
‘Listen, Tom, it’s almost midnight, and we can sit here getting hammered if you want. Or we could just take these up to your room.’
She did not take her eyes from his as she sipped her drink. Now Thorne felt himself
really
redden. He could also feel the blood moving to other parts of his body and was grateful that he was sitting down.
He had cal ed Louise earlier from the car-park, at the same time as Hol and was speaking to Sophie. She’d said she had no problem with him staying over; had even sounded slightly annoyed that he would think she might have. She’d said that she’d be happy to get an early night and when he’d asked how her first day back had been, she’d told him it was fine; that he had been worrying for nothing.
‘I’ve . . . got a girlfriend,’ Thorne said. He nodded, like it was self-explanatory, but the woman just stared, as though waiting for him to elaborate. He was trying to swal ow, dry-mouthed, thinking that he didn’t real y fancy her very much and wondering how he would be reacting if he did. ‘You know,
otherwise
. . .’
The woman raised her hands and spun slowly away on her stool. ‘Not a problem.’
Thorne was stil nodding like an idiot. She’d said it the same way that Louise had: casual and frosty. He opened his wal et and took out a ten-pound note to pay for the drinks; turned when he heard the woman cursing.
She pointed to the warrant card, shaking her head. ‘I can normal y spot you bastards a mile away.’
From the corner of his eye, Thorne could see Trevor smirking as he dried glasses at the end of the bar. Realising now that the woman’s proposition had been a purely commercial one, Thorne did his best not to look overly shocked.
‘Don’t worry about it, love,’ he said. ‘I’m not local, and if it makes you feel any better, I think my professional radar’s working about as wel as yours.’ He listened to the music for a few seconds, drumming his fingers on the bar, then he raised his glass. ‘Cheers, Angie.’
‘It’s Mary, actual y.’
‘Slow night, Mary?’
‘Cata-fucking-tonic,’ she said.
TEN
They hit the rush hour coming out of Leicester, ran into the tail end of another as soon as they got within commuting distance of London, and the drizzle didn’t help. When Brigstocke cal ed just before ten, they were stil twenty miles from the city, and stil regretting the hideously greasy breakfast they’d eaten two hours earlier.
‘Should have just had the muesli,’ Hol and said.
Thorne turned down the radio. ‘And you take the piss out of
rosé
?’ He pressed the button on his phone that activated the loudspeaker, and passed it to Hol and. It was the closest he came to hands-free.
‘How did it go with Paice?’ Brigstocke asked.
‘Nothing to get excited about,’ Thorne said. ‘Catherine Burke never told him about her mum, that’s al .’
‘Worth checking though,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Providing your expenses claims aren’t too stupid.’
‘There might be a claim later on for food poisoning,’ Hol and said.
Brigstocke told them that Hendricks was due to perform the first of the Macken post-mortems later that morning, and that, as they had already confirmed a DNA match, he’d asked FSS to prioritise the examination of the two newest X-ray fragments, to see if they could get any more information.
‘Every chance, I reckon,’ Thorne said. ‘He’s leaving them for us to find, so he must want us to know what they are.’
‘Or waste our time trying to find out,’ Hol and added.
Another phone had started ringing in the background and there was a hiatus while Brigstocke answered it; then a minute or two of muffled conversation over the loudspeaker.
‘Is that what you think?’ Hol and turned to Thorne. ‘He’s leaving them for us. It’s not . . . ritualistic?’
Before Thorne could say that he had no idea, he was distracted by the car behind. ‘Look at this idiot up my arse,’ he said. He stared hard into his rear-view, stepping on the brake a few times until he thought the driver behind had got the message.
Brigstocke was back on the line, asking them how far away they were, then tel ing them not to bother coming into the office. ‘Get yourselves straight down to the Hol oway Road,’ he said. He explained that they had done a door-to-door across some of the university accommodation first thing and managed to track down a few of the students who had been at the Rocket Club on Saturday night. ‘We may as wel save ourselves some time and interview them al together.’
‘Makes sense,’ Thorne said. It would also be a chance to see the last place where anyone, save for their kil er, had seen Greg or Alex Macken alive.