‘Fair enough.’ Thorne knew that for every weirdo, criminal, or ‘tourist’ surfing the dark web, there were many more whose presence was entirely innocent. Investigative journalists, anti-censorship and free speech campaigners or those simply seeking to keep their activities hidden from totalitarian regimes. There were a lot of pages in Russian and Chinese.

  ‘I thought I might take a look myself,’ Melita said. ‘It might give me a bit more to talk about in our sessions.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ Thorne said.

  She turned to him. ‘You seriously think anything on there could shock me?’

  ‘No, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. I think you’d just find it all a bit . . . dreary.’

  ‘You didn’t make it sound dreary.’

  ‘No, most of it really is. Dreary and bleak. It’d be a rubbish busman’s holiday for you. You’d be like someone who’s been on the world’s scariest rollercoasters stuck on a shit ghost train in Margate.’

  Melita laughed. ‘I’m quite partial to a shit ghost train.’

  ‘That’s our next weekend away sorted,’ Thorne said. ‘I like a cheap date.’

  ‘Anyway, I think it might be interesting to poke around, that’s all.’ She picked up her book again. ‘At the very least, it sounds like a good place to scout for new clients.’

  Thorne hadn’t been entirely honest, of course. Yes, a lot of what he’d seen earlier that day had been grim, yet entirely humdrum. He could not deny, though, that there were areas he’d found horribly fascinating. As far as Melita went, he just thought that someone who spent their day dealing with behaviour that was . . . transgressive, to put it mildly, deserved a break from such things when they were off work.

  Some time and space to let a little light in.

  Half an hour later, turning on to his side, he was still thinking about one thing in particular he’d seen while Hobbs had been showing them around. The Commercial Services section; the hacker for hire. I will do anything for money. I’m not a pussy. If you want me to destroy a business or a person’s life, I’ll do it! Ruining opponents or persons you don’t like. If you want someone to get known as a child porn user, no problem! That particular service was offered at a very reasonably priced 500 euros and, as Thorne drifted off in the dark, he began idly composing a list of those he might consider shelling out for.

  A Detective Chief Inspector named Trevor Jesmond.

  The lecturer his ex-wife had left him for.

  José Mourinho . . .

  There was one man, obviously, who would always top any such list, though Thorne was hopeful that he’d be able to properly fuck that man’s life up very soon without any help, and without it costing him anything.

  Financially, at any rate.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was stupid, Rebecca knew that, but still, she was a little bit disappointed that Stuart hadn’t been in touch. Stupid, because it had only been a few days, and she knew he was already busy with other things. Because even if he wanted to, it would be tricky. Yes, there was some internet access, but you couldn’t receive encrypted emails, nothing like that, so he couldn’t contact her like he normally did anyway.

  She wouldn’t want him to do anything to put himself at risk.

  She had taken a table on her own, in the corner of the canteen. She raised her head occasionally from her book, or the food she wasn’t eating, but made sure to quickly lower it again if anyone glanced in her direction. Only a few days, but she’d already learned that you did not want to attract attention. Not early on, anyway.

  Maybe when the dust had settled, he might find some other way, she thought. He might even write and get someone to post it from a different place. That would be safe enough. She knew that her mail would be intercepted, but he was far too clever to make it obvious to anyone that it was him. There would be just enough clues for her to know though, and that was all that mattered. To know that he appreciated what she’d done and that he was thinking about her. To know she’d earned his respect.

  She jumped slightly when someone sat down opposite her and she looked up to see a woman smiling and pointing at Rebecca’s lunch with a plastic fork.

  ‘I’ll have that if you’re not going to eat it.’

  Rebecca nodded and the woman reached quickly across, scraped the contents of Rebecca’s plate on to her own and began to eat.

  ‘Oh,’ the woman said, a minute or two later. ‘Just so you’re aware . . . everyone in here knows exactly what you done.’ She pointed with the fork again, at Rebecca’s face this time. ‘And if you’re going to try and be a smartarse and say that you’re on remand which means you haven’t actually done anything officially, don’t bother. Everyone knows, all right?’

  ‘OK . . . ’

  The woman cheerfully shovelled in another mouthful. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, that’s all I’m saying. Nobody cares.’ She smiled again and shook her head. ‘What you done doesn’t count for shit, and wherever you end up, it doesn’t mean you’re safe.’

  The woman wasn’t any bigger than Rebecca and didn’t seem particularly dangerous, but something in her eyes – or rather something that was missing from them – caused Rebecca’s to prick with tears.

  She blinked hard and stood up.

  She had also learned that it was a very bad idea to show weakness.

  She quickly left the canteen and walked back on to the wing. She just wanted to get back to her cell and for the door to slam shut again. Once it had, she dropped on to her bunk and let the tears come. She thought about Stuart and about those three men and about what her solicitor had told her the last time she’d seen him.

  Mad will work out better for you than bad.

  She decided then and there to change her plea after all, to go for the whole diminished responsibility thing. She wouldn’t say anything about Stuart, of course, she would never do that, but the solicitor had said that she definitely had grounds. Compelling grounds, he’d said.

  Rebecca began to feel more positive, knowing she would have a new story to tell, an even more exciting one. So she lay down, and soon she wasn’t quite as scared any more, thinking about the best way to tell it.

  A secure hospital had not been what she’d planned on, but surely it was preferable to prison. She’d be treated, for what it was worth, and she’d be safe, because it would be the same as it was with animals. She guessed it would, anyway. The way that predators stuck together to protect themselves, and carnivores didn’t eat other carnivores.

  She hoped it was the same.

  That monsters didn’t hurt monsters.

  TWENTY-NINE

  On Wednesday morning, two days after their visit to the DFU, Thorne and Tanner both received a text from Gregory Hobbs.

  We’re in business.

  He’d signed off with an emoji of a snake.

  An hour later, they were back in Wembley and Hobbs was showing them what he believed to be Margaret Herbert’s murderabilia site. ‘Wasn’t that tricky in the end,’ he said. ‘Just left a few comments saying what kind of “souvenirs” I was interested in and eventually some weirdo pointed me here.’ He highlighted a line at the top of the page. ‘She’s still using the same name, see?’

  murdermags48

  Hobbs scrolled down the page. There were pictures and descriptions of hundreds of items for sale. At the pricier end of the inventory were passports and driving licences purported to have been issued to Robert Black, Levi Bellfield and Steve Wright; a stethoscope which had apparently once belonged to Harold Shipman; a dog collar and lead described as having been worn by Dennis Nilsen’s ‘beloved dog Bleep’.

  ‘Christ on a bike,’ Thorne said.

  ‘If he had one,’ Tanner said, ‘I’m sure it’d be for sale on here somewhere.’

  ‘Now, from what I can see, Margaret Herbert’s basically just the go-between. People send her this stuff to put on the site, and, if she sells it, she takes her cut then passes on the profit. Here we go . . . ’ Hobbs highlighted and enlarged one item in particular. ‘I think that’s what you’re after.’

  Scalpel owned by Stuart Nicklin, used for unknown purpose. SOLD.

  The photographs, displaying the scalpel from several angles, clearly showed the murder weapon seized from Rebecca Driver’s flat and now safely stored in a pre-trial evidence locker. It had been purchased from murdermags48 for £2,000, corresponding almost exactly with an amount withdrawn from Rebecca Driver’s building society account two months earlier.

  ‘She must have been saving up for a treat,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Most of these places leave their sold items in the listings,’ Hobbs said. ‘To show punters the kind of stuff they can get. Free advertising, really. So, that’s your proof. That this woman sold it, at least.’

  ‘Good enough,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Hopefully,’ Tanner said. ‘Depends if we can find out where she got it from.’

  ‘OK, cool . . . oh, wait. There’s one more item on here you might be interested in.’ He scrolled again until he found what he was after.

  Empty pill bottle once owned/used by Stuart Nicklin. £750.

  ‘Still for sale,’ Hobbs said. He enlarged the image and peered at the photographs. ‘There’s no label, so God knows what your friend kept in there.’

  ‘Let’s ask the woman selling it, shall we?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Hobbs clicked off the screen and opened another. An address in Colchester. ‘Not too far away,’ he said.

  Tanner began thanking Hobbs for his help, but Thorne was already on his feet and reaching for his jacket. ‘Text it to me . . . ’

  Margaret Herbert did not seem particularly surprised to find a pair of detectives on her doorstep, or perhaps she was simply enjoying their poorly disguised shock at being confronted by a plump, white-haired woman who was well over seventy. As she stood back to let Thorne and Tanner inside, her answer to a question they hadn’t asked made it clear she had a fairly good idea why they’d come knocking at her door.

  ‘Forty-eight,’ she said. ‘In case you were wondering. My user name . . . the year I was born.’

  She showed them through to a small front room crowded with mismatched furniture. Moving slowly and with a slight limp, she made straight for the armchair that was obviously her favourite. On top of the small table next to it was a pile of magazines, a pair of reading glasses and assorted TV remotes. She sat down and waited.

  ‘Right then,’ she said.

  While Thorne and Tanner found chairs for themselves, Thorne quickly took the room in. An old glass-fronted cupboard stashed with knick-knacks; net curtains and antimacassars; framed family photographs on the mantelpiece above an iffy-looking gas fire. It looked as much like a stereotypical old lady’s room as Herbert looked like a stereo­typical old lady, but Thorne knew better than to be taken in by appearances.

  He remembered a woman known as the Duchess with whom he’d had dealings a few years earlier. Despite the candyfloss hair and the whiff of lavender, the woman had actually been a skilled drug smuggler with serious gangland connections; way more likely to be carrying a flick knife in her handbag than a packet of pear drops.

  ‘I haven’t got all day, mind you.’ Herbert grunted as she shifted in her chair. ‘I need to get my tea on and I’m not exactly quick on my feet these days.’

  ‘We’ve been looking at your website,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Course you have, but I’m not doing anything illegal.’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  ‘Unless of course you’re here because you’ve got something you want me to sell.’ The woman smiled and winked. ‘I’ve handled plenty of stuff from coppers over the years.’

  Tanner told the woman that they were not there to sell anything, that they had a number of important questions they were hoping she could answer. Margaret Herbert told them that was a shame, and promised to do her best. Thorne had just begun to talk about the one item that was of particular interest to them when there was a noisy skittering in the hall and a scruffy white dog scampered in. Thorne watched as the dog turned circles on the carpet for a few seconds, before settling down at Herbert’s feet.

  The woman reached down to rub at its ears. ‘You’re all right, he doesn’t bite,’ she said. ‘Not even coppers.’

  ‘We need to talk about this scalpel,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Oh, right, that. Sitting there for ages, that was. I finally got shot of it . . . what, two months ago?’

  ‘That’ll be about right,’ Tanner said.

  ‘We’re here, Margaret, because, after you “got shot of it”, that scalpel was used to murder three people.’

  Herbert stared at Thorne. ‘You’re kidding.’ She shook her head, looked down at the dog for a few moments. ‘Well, that’s horrible, obviously, but I don’t think it’s my fault. There’s no way that’s down to me. I mean, if you were going to do people for selling things that people went on to use for . . . something like that, you’d have to prosecute John Lewis because they sell carving knives, wouldn’t you? Every branch of B&Q. Besides which, I’m only an agent, aren’t I? People send me their items to sell because I’ve got a certain reputation.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Thorne said.

  Herbert smiled, showing a good many teeth that were almost certainly false. ‘I handle the sale of this stuff on behalf of other people, that’s all I’m saying. I take a small commission then pass the money on to them. I’m just the shop window. You can’t do me just because the nutter who bought that scalpel went out and used it on someone.’

  ‘Her name was Rebecca Driver,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Well, if you say so, love. People don’t tend to use names in this game. I mean sometimes they do, but it’s always usernames. DeathGatherer, The Reaper, all that rubbish.’

  ‘I take it you believed the scalpel was genuine,’ Thorne said. ‘That it had been used by the man you claimed it had.’

  ‘Stuart Nicklin, that the one?’

  The casual way Herbert said the name made Thorne’s gut tighten momentarily. ‘That’s right. Nicklin.’

  ‘Yeah, as far as I know. You take people on trust though, don’t you? I mean, I’m not daft, there’s plenty of chancers around, so I know some of it’s probably a bit iffy. I can’t swear that stupid stethoscope was actually Harold Shipman’s, and as for the Nilsen dog lead . . . well, I reckon someone just roughed up a new collar and got Bleep engraved on the tag. But there’s always a risk when you’re buying stuff online, isn’t there? It’s no different if you stump up a few hundred quid for Frank Sinatra’s autograph. I mean, how can you ever be sure?’

  ‘So, what about the scalpel?’ The DNA results had already made it clear that the scalpel was the one Stuart Nicklin had once used – or that had once been used on his behalf – but Thorne needed to know what the woman thought she had been selling.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon so. It certainly looked old. All rusty, you know? The people who supply the stuff for me to sell always sound convincing, but they know I’m not a mug.’

  ‘So, who supplied that scalpel?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’ll have to check my records, but like I said—’

  ‘Where are they?

  ‘Well, my grandson looks after that side of things. It was my son who used to do it, years ago when I was on the proper internet, but now Cameron does all that stuff for me. He’s always been good with computers and it’s a good job he is, because I don’t know a hard drive from a soft one.’ She nodded to the photographs. ‘I’ve only just learned how to get them on to the computer.’

  ‘Where does Cameron live?’

  ‘Oh, it’s very handy, because he’s only five minutes away. He comes over most days to go over everything . . . keeps the stock up to date, does the book-keeping.’ She smiled, looked at Tanner. ‘He’s a good lad and what I pay him keeps him in weed, so everyone’s happy.’

  ‘You need to call him,’ Thorne said. ‘Wherever he is, you need to get him over here, right now.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Tanner stood and walked across to the table next to Herbert’s armchair. She picked up a mobile phone that might well have qualified as vintage and passed it to the woman. ‘Oh, and don’t tell him why.’

  Herbert put her glasses on, then stabbed at the oversized buttons, shaking her head as if she thought it was all a bit silly.

  ‘Cam, it’s me . . . can you pop over?’ She stared resentfully at Thorne and Tanner as she spoke. ‘Oh, nothing urgent, love, but I really need your help with something. Better bring the computer with you . . . ’

  She put the phone back on the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tanner said.

  The woman shrugged. ‘There won’t be a name. I’ve already told you.’

  ‘Well, let’s wait and see.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘We’d like to ask about another item listed on your site,’ Thorne said. ‘A pill bottle . . . ’

  ‘That’s another Nicklin one, isn’t it?’

  Thorne told her that was what her listing claimed.

  ‘Surprised it didn’t get snapped up, if I’m honest,’ she said. ‘The Nicklin stuff usually is. Might need to drop the price a bit.’

  ‘You think that one’s genuine?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, a hundred per cent. The bloke who’s selling it certainly sounded kosher. Said he’d had personal contact with the bottle’s previous owner.’

  Thorne sat forward. ‘Do you have that person’s details?’

  ‘No, I told you. It’s never more than a couple of emails and they’re always . . . cryptic, or whatever the word is. Cameron knows all about that, so you can ask him in a minute. I think it was something to do with the bloke who had the bottle and Nicklin being in France together.’