‘I’ve already cooperated.’ The woman sounded horrified. ‘I let you take all my stuff, if you remember.’

  ‘I can see why you’re confused,’ Tanner said. ‘That was a different murder investigation. The three men who’d been killed using that scalpel you sold . . . if you remember. Unfortunately, since we last spoke there’s been another murder, and I’m sorry to say it’s another one directly connected to an item on your website.’

  Herbert seemed to shrink into her chair as she let out a long breath.

  ‘I mean, that’s got to hurt your reviews, hasn’t it? Well, maybe not, considering the sort of people you’re catering to. Either way, you can see why we wanted another chat, right?’

  ‘It’s that pill bottle you were so interested in, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Despite her appearance and the obvious mobility issues, Tanner had never thought for one moment that Margaret Herbert was the harmless old lady she might have been mistaken for. The woman was obviously in possession of every last marble. Still, it didn’t hurt to be reminded of just how sharp she actually was.

  Unless, of course, she had known all along where the sale of that pill bottle would lead; had let Kevin Bartley’s killer know exactly who he was exchanging emails with and who would be on their way to discover the body. The message carved into it.

  ‘What happened?’ Herbert asked. ‘Who was murdered?’

  Tanner inched her chair forward. Whether Herbert knew or not, there was no reason to go into details. ‘Have you ever had any direct communication with Stuart Nicklin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s the man we believe to be responsible for the most recent murder and to have been instrumental in the previous three. He’s also responsible for countless other murders and conspiracies to murder going back almost twenty years.’ Tanner saw that Herbert was shaking her head, but pressed on. ‘He’s an extremely dangerous individual and his whereabouts are currently unknown.’

  ‘I know who he is, for God’s sake. You know full well I do. I sell his stuff, don’t I?’

  ‘His stuff?’

  ‘Things he’s . . . connected to. I sell all sorts of things connected to all manner of nutters and psychos like him. Plenty worse than him, I promise you.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Oh, there’s a lot of sick bastards in this world.’ Herbert nodded sadly; words of wisdom from an old soul.

  Ignoring the temptation to remind the woman that the sicker the bastard the bigger her profits were, Tanner simply waited a few seconds. ‘So, I’ll ask you again,’ she said. ‘Have you ever had any direct communication with Stuart Nicklin?’

  ‘Of course I bloody haven’t. Why the hell would I?’

  ‘Well, you’ve already admitted to knowing that the man selling that pill bottle was an associate of his.’

  ‘That’s hardly the same thing.’

  ‘And, bearing in mind that Nicklin is a wanted criminal, I asked you why you hadn’t informed the police of that fact.’

  ‘Yeah, and I told you why, didn’t I? Because I thought it was probably rubbish and he was just talking up his stupid pill bottle to get a bit more money for it. Happens all the time.’

  Tanner sat back, ready for one last push. ‘So, you’ve never talked to Stuart Nicklin on the phone?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Never exchanged written correspondence with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Text messages or emails?’

  ‘No. For heaven’s sake . . . ’

  ‘I need to tell you, Margaret, that this is your last chance to be straight with me. If we find out later on in the investigation that you’ve been lying to us about this, we won’t be able to help you.’ She waited until she’d found the woman’s watery blue eyes. ‘Trust me, we won’t want to help you.’

  ‘Are you done?’ When Tanner didn’t reply immediately, Herbert reached into her handbag and took out her mobile phone. She showed it to Tanner, as if she might not know what it was. ‘Because either I’m calling that taxi or I’m calling my solicitor. You choose.’

  ‘I want to start by saying how much we appreciate the help you’ve given us so far.’

  Cameron shrugged. ‘I didn’t have much choice, did I?’

  ‘Greg Hobbs was seriously impressed by your computer skills.’

  ‘Who?’

  Thorne watched Cameron lope from one end of the room to another, then lean back against the wall as though he was bored stupid. ‘It would be easier for both of us if you sat down,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Would it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I don’t have to though, do I?’

  ‘I’d rather you did.’

  ‘When am I getting all my stuff back?’

  ‘Sit down.’ Thorne’s reservoir of politeness was never particularly well stocked and it had finally run dry. He enjoyed the look of shock on the boy’s face; watched him swallow, then quickly manufacture a couldn’t-give-a-shit sneer as he ambled across to the empty chair like he was doing Thorne a favour.

  Cameron sat, stretched his legs out and brushed at the bum-fluff on his chin. ‘Happy?’ He leaned back and folded his arms. ‘So, when am I getting it back? My computer and that.’

  ‘It’s not going to be any time soon,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m guessing it’ll need an update, put it that way.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Out of my hands, Cam. Your computer’s likely to be an important piece of evidence in a murder trial. In a couple, as it happens.’

  Cameron shook his head; lost or trying very hard to appear that way.

  Thorne told him much the same thing as Tanner was telling his grandmother in a room across the corridor. Once again, watching the lad’s face change as the implication of what he was being told dawned on him, gave Thorne a moment or two of pleasure, which, of late, had been few and far between.

  ‘Surely I’m entitled to compensation or something?’ Cameron said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘My computer. It’s not my fault you need it, right?’

  ‘We don’t know that yet.’

  Cameron narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m not with you, mate.’

  ‘Well, yes, you might be able to claim the cost of replacing all your electronics,’ Thorne said, ‘but not until we can establish that you had no involvement in the murder they played a considerable part in.’

  ‘What involvement?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘How can I be . . . involved?’

  ‘You knew what the plan was.’

  Cameron took a few seconds, rubbed his face. ‘Yeah, kind of . . . I mean, no, not really.’

  ‘You knew that we would be posing as you online, sending those emails, talking to the man selling that pill bottle. You knew, because you’d met the man who’d be doing the pretending. You’d gone through all your passwords with him, all the technical stuff.’

  ‘All right, I knew what you were up to. So what?’

  ‘Because somebody else knew, and we’re keen to find out how. You understand what I’m saying, Cameron?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I still don’t know what I’m doing here, if I’m honest.’

  ‘You’re here to help, I hope.’

  ‘Not sure I can.’

  ‘You do remember who that bottle used to belong to?’

  Cameron nodded, sighed. ‘Nicklin, right? Yeah, he’s one of my nan’s top brands.’

  The casual way the boy said it caused something to twist in Thorne’s gut and he could feel the tension taking hold everywhere else. ‘Yeah . . . that’s him. A top brand. Now, the thing is, someone told him what our plan for that pill bottle was. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?’

  The penny dropped. ‘Now hang on, mate—’

  ‘The plan you’ve just acknowledged that you knew all about—’

  ‘No way.’ He sat back, shaking his head. ‘No way . . . you’re not putting this on me. Why the hell would I want to tell him? I mean, never mind how, because I wouldn’t have the first idea . . . why would I?’

  ‘Because you’re afraid of him.’ Thorne was staring, searching for a reaction. ‘Or maybe because he told you that tipping him the wink when the likes of me came knocking would be worth your while financially. He’s someone who can be very persuasive.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Did he persuade you, Cameron?’

  ‘Are you deaf or what?’

  ‘I’m saying, it would be understandable.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, because it didn’t happen, I swear.’

  ‘If it was you, I need you to tell me,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I’m telling you. Christ . . . ’

  It was Thorne’s turn to sigh, to shake his head. ‘Well, we’ve got a problem then, because I’m not convinced that you’re telling me the truth. Because you need to know that, until I am, I will not leave you or your grandmother alone. I will turn your pathetic little lives upside down and I won’t lose a moment’s sleep. I’ll probably kick off by making sure the council knows that on top of the income support you’re claiming from them, you’ve got a cushy little job going on the side with Grandma. Then I’ll tell them that not only are you failing to declare earnings, but you’re spending it all on drugs. Are you listening to me, Cameron? I will do whatever it takes. I’ll have every copper in the area banging on your door three times a day and nicking you if they find so much as a packet of king-size Rizlas.’

  ‘Shit.’ The boy smiled. ‘You’re really getting desperate, aren’t you—?’

  Thorne’s chair fell back as he jumped up, roaring, and with equal speed the boy was away from the table and scuttling back towards the wall.

  ‘You’ve got no fucking idea.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  While Margaret Herbert was still arguing with the desk sergeant about claiming back the cost of her Uber, Thorne and Tanner were already heading south on the A12.

  ‘I can’t see it.’ Thorne pulled into the outside lane and accelerated past a white van. ‘Trust me, I wish I could, but the only thing those two care about is money.’

  Tanner nodded. ‘I don’t think Margaret’s quite as useless with technology as she pretends to be, but I don’t buy her sending secret messages to Nicklin either. Cameron barely seems to know what day it is. So . . . ?’

  ‘So, Christ knows,’ Thorne said. ‘I don’t know who the hell else it could be, but Nicklin found out what we were doing somehow. Unless . . . I mean, he knew Driver would lead us to that scalpel, right? That was always the idea, and he could probably have figured out that from there we’d eventually get to murdermags48 and find that pill bottle.’ He tapped at the steering wheel, staring hard at the white lines as they were sucked beneath the wheels; reaching for some explanation of what had happened over the previous few days that might be a little less alarming. ‘So, when there’s suddenly a buyer for that bottle, it might be a reasonable assumption that it’s us.’ He glanced at Tanner. ‘So that’s when he decides to set Bartley up.’ He glanced again. ‘Do you think?’

  ‘He knew,’ Tanner said. ‘He wasn’t guessing or assuming anything.’

  Thorne leaned on the horn until the driver ahead indicated and moved over. ‘No, course he wasn’t. I’m just . . . ’

  Tanner watched Thorne’s hand tighten around the wheel. ‘Look, it could be that Margaret or Cameron or both of them are playing us every bit as much as Nicklin is. Maybe it was one of them, in which case there’s every chance they’ll make contact with Nicklin again.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘Neither do I, but we should consider the possibility, at least,’ Tanner said. ‘To be on the safe side.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We should get basic surveillance organised.’

  ‘You think Nicklin might pop round to Margaret’s place for a chat? Meet up with Cameron in the pub?’

  Tanner ignored him. ‘We’ve got the kid’s computer, so any activity using his accounts or passwords, Hobbs would know about it. Obviously, that doesn’t stop one of them just picking up the phone, so I think we should check all the land­line records and get a warrant sorted for a phone intercept on both their mobile numbers.’

  ‘It wasn’t them,’ Thorne said.

  ‘It can’t hurt though, can it?’ Tanner took the grunt she got in return as the correct response and immediately reached for her phone to set things in motion.

  Thorne drove, half-listening to the call. He thought it was almost certainly a waste of time, but was willing to accept that it was probably the right thing to do. He had overlooked the obvious so often that it was starting to seem like a pattern.

  A few miles further on, he said, ‘I lost it a bit back there, in the interview room. With Cameron.’

  Tanner turned to look at him. ‘Right . . . ’

  ‘I mean, nothing . . . bad.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Just the red mist, you know.’ Thorne saw the look on Nicola Tanner’s face, watched her turn away, and wished he’d found some other way to say it. Or hadn’t said it at all. They both knew how familiar she was with the red mist; exactly how bad it could get. ‘Felt like it’s been coming a while, if I’m honest. Ever since . . . well, when we found out who we were dealing with.’

  ‘Understandable, Tom.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m as angry with myself as I should be, because . . . well, we’re not in an episode of The Sweeney, are we?’ He laughed, but there wasn’t much to it and it died quickly enough.

  They both stared ahead for another minute or so; passed a sign that told them they were only half an hour away from London.

  ‘Do you think you should talk to someone?’ Tanner asked.

  Thorne turned to stare at her for as long as was safe. ‘I’m talking to you, aren’t I?’

  THIRTY-NINE

  As always, when they were spending the night at Melita’s place, they sat and had dinner at the island in her kitchen. She’d bought a baguette – which Thorne’s father had always called a ‘French stick’ – and laid out a selection of cheeses, though Thorne was happy enough with Cheddar. There was a small TV in the corner and as they ate they watched a documentary about an executive business programme which, in the end, had turned out to be a sex cult, and Thorne wondered when islands had become a thing.

  How had he missed that memo?

  He couldn’t remember seeing any when he was a kid. There’d been a kitchen table in his house growing up and a kitchen table in the house he’d lived in when he and Jan were married. Thinking about it, it might well have been the same kitchen table he now had in his flat. So, when did people decide to throw out their perfectly good kitchen tables and have islands installed? He guessed it was probably around the same time sheets and blankets were replaced by duvets – which his father had always called ‘continental quilts’ – and people started having showers instead of baths.

  Melita watched him slather butter on his bread before cutting off a healthy slice of Cheddar. ‘That’s very un-French,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Butter and cheese. The French think that’s appalling.’

  ‘Exactly why I’m doing it,’ Thorne said.

  On the documentary, people had begun to ask serious questions after some of the programme’s female members were branded with the leader’s initials. Melita grunted her disgust.

  ‘I should know better by now,’ she said. ‘But it still amazes me.’

  Thorne looked at her and she nodded towards the screen.

  ‘The things people are prepared to go through or do to other people when they believe in someone enough.’

  Thorne reached for more bread. He wasn’t amazed at all.

  ‘So what’s next?’ Melita asked.

  ‘You haven’t got any Branston pickle, have you?’

  She laughed. ‘With the case?’

  This was the first time Thorne had seen her since the clusterfuck in Coventry. He’d called her on the way back to London to let her know how it had gone and she’d sounded especially concerned about the message left for him on Kevin Bartley’s body. She’d asked him how he felt about it and, with Tanner sitting next to him in the car, he’d brushed it off; made some stupid joke about how a postcard would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.

  ‘Maybe he just didn’t want to pay for a stamp.’

  While Melita had been opening wine and laying out the bread and cheese, he’d told her about the fruitless trip to Colchester to talk to Margaret and Cameron Herbert. He’d told her they were still none the wiser about how Nicklin had known what they were up to. He hadn’t mentioned losing his temper in the interview room.

  How good it had felt.

  How he’d lied to Tanner about being angry with himself.

  ‘Back to Rebecca Driver, I suppose,’ he said. ‘She’s still the only genuine connection to Nicklin we’ve got.’

  ‘Really? She didn’t seem very willing to answer questions last time.’

  ‘She might be a bit more inclined to talk, now she’s had a week in prison.’

  ‘Just remember, it’s probably exactly what she wants. You going to see her. The power to withhold information, even if she hasn’t actually got any, is the only power she has left.’

  ‘I know,’ Thorne said. ‘If you’ve got any better ideas . . . ?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  A few minutes later, loading the dishwasher, Melita said, ‘Is everything all right?’

  Thorne immediately wondered if Tanner had said something; called or sent an email. After all, why would he need to talk to anybody when his girlfriend was a professional?