It all came down to that, in the end. He wouldn’t bother with decorations unless he was with someone, because there didn’t seem any point. With everything that had been going on, he and Melita hadn’t had a chance to discuss how they’d be spending Christmas yet, but he didn’t think it would take him long to stick up a tree like that one in the corner.

  ‘Get in,’ Hendricks said, rubbing his hands together.

  The waiter laid the pizzas down. Spicy meat feasts for Thorne and Hendricks, something with rocket and goat’s cheese for Greg Hobbs and Tanner’s usual abomination.

  Hendricks shook his head in disgust. ‘You should be banged up for that.’

  ‘Pineapple on a pizza isn’t actually illegal,’ Tanner said. ‘I know you and Tom would like it to be.’

  ‘It’s a crime against nature.’ Hendricks reached for the chilli oil.

  ‘A crime against humanity,’ Thorne said.

  He and Tanner had not returned from Coventry until lunchtime and had immediately been summoned to a meeting, during which Russell Brigstocke had outlined the way the two forces would handle the investigation going forward. A PowerPoint presentation had already been prepared. The last few hours of the day had been taken up with the kind of operational briefings that Thorne always thought of as ‘bullshit bingo’, and in the forty minutes since arriving at the restaurant in town he and Tanner had already told Hobbs and Hendricks everything that had happened in the early hours of that morning.

  ‘Let’s try not to talk shop,’ Tanner said now.

  ‘Fine with me,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Just for fifteen minutes, just while we eat. Let’s talk about something else. Anything else.’

  Hendricks seemed keen to get the ball rolling. He nodded towards Hobbs, or more specifically to his wheelchair. ‘So, how d’you end up in that thing, then?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Phil.’ Tanner stared at him.

  Hobbs was laughing. ‘It’s cool. Most people haven’t got the bottle, but I know they’re desperate to ask.’

  ‘So?’ Hendricks shoved the best part of an entire slice into his mouth.

  ‘Driving back from a party when I was at uni,’ Hobbs said. ‘My own fault really, because I knew the bloke who was driving was pissed. He died . . . so.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Tanner said.

  ‘I’m kidding.’ Hobbs chewed, enjoying himself. ‘Jammy sod walked away with just a broken leg. Well, he didn’t walk, obviously.’

  Hendricks waved another slice of pizza in Hobbs’s direction. ‘I like this lad . . . he can stay. So, you got a girlfriend, Greg?’

  Hobbs nodded, his mouth full.

  ‘Right. Is she . . . ?’

  Thorne groaned and began shaking his head. Tanner muttered something about not being able to take Hendricks anywhere.

  ‘I’m only asking,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘My girlfriend’s legs are fully functional.’ Hobbs grinned. ‘Fully.’

  ‘Nice,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘So, what about you?’ Hobbs looked at Hendricks. ‘You got a girlfriend?’

  Thorne snorted and Tanner laughed so hard that there was genuine concern she might choke on a piece of pineapple.

  Hobbs looked at Hendricks as though seeing him for the first time and reddened a little. ‘Oh, I see. Sorry.’

  ‘How dare you.’ The two bottles of Peroni he’d necked in quick succession were making Hendricks slightly flirtatious.

  ‘You can hardly blame him.’ Thorne pointed his fork at Hendricks. ‘You are a bit . . . closety.’

  They talked about other things after that. Football, once it transpired that Hobbs was a Crystal Palace supporter and the Spurs and Arsenal fans at the table had united for once in their derision. Films, which prompted a heated discussion about whether Die Hard qualified as a Christmas movie. Cats, when, much to Hendricks’s disgust, Tanner and Hobbs began showing each other photos of their precious pets. It was only once the dirty plates had been cleared and more drinks ordered that Hobbs jerked the conversation back to the rather less controversial topic of corpses.

  ‘Have they got a time of death for Kevin Bartley yet?’

  ‘Some time on Saturday by the look of him,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Specifically, I mean.’

  Thorne said that if they had, he was yet to be told about it.

  ‘Definitely a poorer class of pathologist in the Midlands,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘I think I can help.’ Hobbs reddened again slightly when the other three looked at him. ‘Well, there are only two ways Nicklin could have sent that last email showing Bartley’s IP address. Either he somehow managed to get his Wi-Fi code . . . say he nips round to see his old friend and asks for the code because he needs to check Twitter or something . . . then he could have sent it sitting in his car outside before going back into the flat and killing him. Or, he goes round there, kills him straight away, then sends the email from Bartley’s computer.’

  ‘That sounds more likely,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Agreed,’ Hobbs said. ‘The man you’re after certainly doesn’t sound like the sort to waste time unnecessarily. Now, I received that final email at seven forty-three p.m. on Saturday, so . . . allowing maybe half an hour for Nicklin to tie Bartley up and kill him and whatever else—’

  ‘Carve his little note,’ Hendricks said.

  Thorne stared into his wine glass.

  ‘Right, the note.’ Hobbs sat back as though he’d just explained something blindingly obvious. ‘Anyway, I think we can therefore assume time of death would have been somewhere between seven and seven-fifteen that evening. Like I say, give or take.’

  Tanner nodded and nudged Hendricks. ‘I think Greg’s after your job.’

  ‘Considering he was the one who led you to Bartley,’ Hendricks said, ‘I think he’s after yours, too.’

  ‘Nicklin led us to Bartley.’ Thorne looked up at them. ‘Nicklin. Led us by the fucking nose.’

  ‘We couldn’t have known that,’ Tanner said.

  ‘I should have known. He’s been one step ahead of us the whole time . . . no, make that several steps ahead, because he always is . . . and I should have sussed it. When I saw what he’d cut into Bartley’s chest, I wasn’t even surprised, you know? Just angry at myself for being such an idiot.’ He picked up his glass and drained it. ‘Christ, you’d think I’d have worked the fucker out by now.’

  Hobbs may have been oblivious to the change in mood, or perhaps he was simply unwilling to indulge it for very long, but either way he was the one who finally broke the awkward silence.

  ‘Nicola’s right,’ he said. ‘There’s simply no way anyone could have known Nicklin was the one sending those emails. Or what he was planning to do once he’d sent them. It does beg one question, though.’

  ‘We know.’ Thorne said it rather more aggressively than he had intended. The same concern Tanner had raised back in Coventry. The question they had been wrestling with all the way back to London.

  How had Nicklin known who he was sending those emails to?

  ‘We’re going to see our two prime contenders tomorrow,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Margaret Herbert and her grandson?’ Hobbs nodded. ‘I guessed they’d be the obvious suspects.’

  ‘You are so wasted as a nerd, mate,’ Hendricks said. ‘You should seriously think about becoming a detective. Come on, it’s obvious they need all the help they can get, right?’

  ‘Well . . . ’

  ‘I mean, coppers are still not the most switched-on lot when it comes to diversity and all that. Not overly sensitive, some of them. Just saying, you’ll probably have to put up with a few idiots calling you Ironside, or whatever.’

  Tanner reached across to pat Hendricks on the arm. ‘OK, Phil, that’ll do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you’ve demonstrated your woke credentials very nicely already.’

  Hobbs started to laugh.

  ‘Listen, mate.’ Hendricks looked offended, but was clearly enjoying the attention. ‘I was . . . woke when most of these Generation Z snowflakes were still in a fucking coma.’

  Now, three of the four people at the table were laughing, but Thorne simply turned and signalled to the waiter that they were ready for the bill.

  As soon as Hobbs had driven away, waving, Thorne, Hendricks and Tanner walked through Soho towards Leicester Square tube station. It was dry, but the wind had teeth and there was ice on the pavement. Once they were underground – marginally warmer and with less chance of going arse-over-tit – Tanner said a brisk goodnight and veered off to catch the Piccadilly line back to Hammersmith.

  ‘Just thee and me, mate,’ Hendricks said.

  They managed to bag seats on a crowded Northern line train, and somewhere between Tottenham Court Road and Goodge Street Thorne leaned close so as to be heard above the noise.

  ‘We got the forensics back on that pill bottle, by the way.’

  ‘The genuine article?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Thorne said. ‘Bartley’s prints and Nicklin’s.’

  ‘Oh well, at least they weren’t trying to rip anybody off.’

  ‘What’s a bit more surprising is what had been in it.’

  Hendricks looked at him. ‘Well, I’m guessing it wasn’t Nurofen Plus.’

  ‘They found traces of MDMA.’

  ‘Bugger me.’ Hendricks let his head fall back against the window. ‘So Stuart’s developed a taste for disco biscuits, has he?’

  ‘There’s every chance.’

  ‘Scary thought.’

  Thorne said nothing, remembering what he’d said to Tanner; the pair of them eating bacon sandwiches and watching the sunrise as though everything was normal. The only thoughts he entertained about Stuart Nicklin that weren’t scary involved handcuffs, or a dock, or a prison van.

  Or a gravestone.

  Ten minutes later Hendricks stood up as the train approached Camden Town. Thorne raised a hand, told him he’d call if there was any news. The train slowed, but instead of moving towards the doors to beat the rush, Hendricks lingered, hanging on to the metal safety pole while others pushed past him.

  ‘Are you OK, mate?’

  Thorne looked up.

  ‘You seem a bit . . . off.’

  ‘I just need to catch up on some sleep.’ Thorne winced and closed his eyes as the wheels screamed, grinding suddenly against uneven rails, but in truth it was not much worse than the cacophony growing daily inside his head.

  THIRTY-SIX

  It had been quite the Saturday night up in the Midlands and now, forty-eight hours later with a pill kicking in very nicely, every memory of it was heightened – charged and bright as neon – so that Nicklin could remember exactly how he’d felt minute by minute. The noises and the colours as they’d changed. The stupid laughing for a while, then the computer stuff and the cutting; all of it, like he was back there watching it happen, from that first delicious moment when K-Man had opened the door and peered around it at him like he was a stranger.

  Fuck do you want?

  He says, Come on, Kevin, it hasn’t been that long, and he holds up the bottle he’s brought with him and grins and says, France, mate, France, and then Kevin remembers, and he’s in.

  The stink of sweat and mould and fags . . .

  Yeah, France. Good times . . .

  . . . and the vinegary smell of cooked heroin that tells him Kevin hasn’t changed a whole lot, and he’s smiling and thinking how he’s picked the perfect time, and how very much easier it’s all going to be because the idiot’s high.

  The bottle’s opened straight away and, sitting around in the rancid little kitchen, the pair of them are rattling on like they’d only seen each other the day before or something.

  We were good mates, yeah?

  Course we were, Kevin. Those few weeks we were knocking around together in France, you were always a mate, always gave me a bottle of pills when I needed one.

  Is that what you’re here for?

  I’m fine for pills, don’t you worry about that. Listen, there’s something I need to show you. You’ll piss yourself, I swear . . .

  Through to the living room then, carrying the bottle, and it couldn’t be better because the computer’s already open. It’s sitting there on a table because Kevin’s probably been looking at porn or playing some stupid game.

  He’s logged on, though, that’s the main thing, and now . . . two nights later, lying on the bed in his flat, Nicklin remembered that lovely moment when he’d checked himself. When he’d really relaxed into it, knowing he could have killed Kevin there and then, but had decided to wait just that bit longer, because he’d wanted to have a little fun first.

  He sits down and makes himself comfortable.

  A blast from the past, Kev . . .

  A few clicks on his host’s grimy laptop and voila. He calls Kevin over, patting the sofa cushion and seeing the dust fly up, watching the daft junkie drift across like he’s in a dream, then pointing so he can see it on the screen.

  Recognise that?

  It’s a bottle, right? For pills . . .

  One of yours. One of the ones you gave me when we were in France.

  Kevin leans in then, squints as he reads, not getting it. Who’s K-Man?

  That’s you, because it’s your bottle. Well, it’s me pretending to be you.

  Nicklin laughs, then Kevin laughs, without actually understanding why.

  I still don’t know what I’m looking at . . .

  Read what it says about the bottle. Who it belonged to.

  You, yeah? One of the ones I gave you, that’s what you said.

  Read it.

  So Kevin reads the full description of the bottle on the website and then he shakes his head, confused. Kevin doesn’t really take the name in the first time, only sees that it’s not the one he’s expecting.

  That’s not your name.

  I was using a different name when I was in France. I’ve used lots of names over the years. That’s my real name . . .

  Kevin looks again and now he really sees the name and of course he recognises it. This is when his face changes, and Nicklin enjoys that spasm of piss-yourself terror, but not for long enough to give Kevin time to get away or anything. To try to get away. Nicklin’s already bringing the wine bottle up, then smashing it into the side of Kevin’s head, and after that, everything’s just the way he imagined it would be.

  He sends the email, because the computer’s right there.

  The one he knows will lead them here.

  He drags Kevin into the back bedroom and ties him to the chair because he wants him sitting up nice and straight; he wants him to be seen.

  He pulls off Kevin’s shirt and takes out the knife.

  He has to hit Kevin with the bottle again, because Kevin wakes up before Nicklin’s finished working with the blade. Hits him many more times than he needs to, actually. He’s annoyed, because Kevin jerks and thrashes about when he comes round and it means that the M in that final word isn’t going to be as perfect as he would have wanted.

  Now, lying on the bed in the dark, Nicklin’s heart was racing. The pills did that anyway, but this was the rush of the memory as much as anything, and the expression he imagined on Thorne’s face when he walked into that room and saw the message.

  His less-than-perfect Tom.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Thorne did not want the Herberts to be comfortable. He did not want them to feel safe. No favourite armchair for Margaret to sink into, no doggie to fuss over and no opportunity for Cameron – Herbert by name, herbert by nature – to snuggle up close to his nan.

  Even if the old woman had grassed him up last time.

  A quick phone call first thing that morning had secured facilities at Colchester police station and two unmarked cars had subsequently been dispatched, arriving unannounced to collect their guests. By the time Thorne and Tanner pulled into the car park just before lunch, Margaret and Cameron Herbert had been sitting alone in separate interview rooms for the best part of an hour.

  Thorne decided that another half an hour wouldn’t hurt, so he and Tanner made themselves tea. They flicked through a couple of dog-eared papers in reception. They swapped gossip with the custody sergeant and ate the sandwiches they’d picked up on the way.

  ‘You take the old woman,’ Thorne said when they’d finished. ‘I’ll have a crack at her stoner technical adviser.’

  ‘Am I under arrest, then?’

  Tanner had barely closed the door of the interview room behind her. She smiled at Margaret Herbert and walked across to the table. She took off her jacket, sat down and informed the woman opposite her that although it wasn’t evidential, the interview was being recorded. ‘Now, what did you ask when I came in?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Well, I think you’d know if you were, Margaret. You sounded pretty clued up about that kind of thing last time we met. If you’re still unsure though, I’m guessing that someone would have said, “I’m arresting you for . . . ” I don’t know . . . whatever they thought you needed arresting for.’ Tanner smiled again. ‘Has that happened?’

  Herbert looked ready to spit.

  ‘I mean we can arrest you, obviously, and we still might. I suppose it depends on how this conversation goes.’

  The old woman stared back at her, clearly in no mood for pleasantries or piss-takes. ‘So, I’m free to go whenever I like, then.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Well, maybe I will.’

  ‘It’ll have to be the bus, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll call a taxi.’ Herbert was suddenly a little fuller of herself. ‘Or Cameron can order us an Uber on his phone.’

  ‘Whatever, but bear in mind we’ll be asking ourselves why you aren’t very keen to cooperate with a murder investigation.’