‘Tell me you haven’t got studs in your ball-bag,’ she said.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  Tanner dug a scarf from her bag. ‘There isn’t enough booze in the world.’

  FORTY-TWO

  ‘What the fuck does plans mean, anyway?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ Tanner said. ‘This is what she wants . . . you worrying about it.’

  ‘Who’s worrying?’

  ‘Nicola’s right,’ Brigstocke said. ‘By the sound of it, she knows bugger all about bugger all. She’s just winding you up.’

  Mid-afternoon and the three of them were sitting in Russell Brigstocke’s office. It hadn’t taken very long for Thorne to run through the highlights of his trip to HMP Bronzefield. The visit with Rebecca Driver that had kicked off with an over-enthusiastic pat-down after going through the security scanner, then gone downhill from there.

  ‘That’s what I told her,’ Thorne said. ‘That I didn’t think she actually knew anything useful, but to be honest I couldn’t swear to it. I was just trying to get a read, you know?’

  ‘It’s just games,’ Tanner said. ‘It’s what they do . . . the likes of Driver and that arsehole she bows down to.’

  ‘Bang on,’ Brigstocke said.

  ‘Ask Melita what she thinks.’

  Thorne was thrown momentarily, annoyed for no reason he could put his finger on, until he realised that Tanner was talking about a professional opinion.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what she thinks,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that lad Hobbs at the DFU is still on the case,’ Brigstocke said. ‘If there is a way to get into Driver’s memory stick without a password, he’ll find it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet against him,’ Tanner said. ‘There’s nerds and there’s . . . super nerds, right?’ She smiled and looked at Thorne, but his expression didn’t change. It hadn’t changed a great deal since he’d got back from Ashford. It was not an expression she recalled seeing too many times before, but the truth was, he looked . . . cowed.

  ‘Even if he does, I doubt very much there’d be anything in those emails that would help us find Nicklin.’

  ‘Worth persevering, though,’ Brigstocke said.

  ‘Yeah, if you like.’

  If Brigstocke’s sigh wasn’t loud enough, the look on his face made his irritation clear enough, and the removal of the glasses was rarely a good sign. ‘Sorry, Tom . . . there I was thinking this was a strategy meeting. A catch-up between senior members of the team. I hadn’t realised we were basically here to cheer you up. I mean, you can sit in the corner with some crayons, if you want, and me and Nicola can get on with . . . you know, working.’

  Thorne mumbled an apology, threw in a ‘Sir’.

  ‘Look, I know this is personal for you. Our suspect, being who he is, has made it personal. I accept that, but if I start to think it’s interfering with your ability to do your job—’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  Brigstocke glanced at Tanner. ‘Or with anybody else’s.’

  ‘We’re good.’ Tanner looked at Thorne. ‘Right?’

  Thorne just stared, confused and panicky suddenly at the turn things were taking. He wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong.

  Tanner rolled her eyes at Brigstocke. ‘I think maybe Spurs lost again last night.’

  ‘Can we just crack on?’ Thorne said.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Brigstocke put his glasses back on. ‘So, the West Midlands lot are still looking at cameras near to Bartley’s flat, running every registration plate, hoping we can identify a vehicle. They’re also checking all the local taxi firms, in case Nicklin went up to Coventry by train and got a cab from the station.’

  ‘What about witnesses?’ Tanner asked.

  Brigstocke nodded and looked at his notes. ‘The house-to-house turned up a couple from the block Bartley lived in. One who reckons they saw a man arrive at a time that fits and another one who might have seen him leave. They’re putting together an e-fit.’

  ‘That’ll be huge,’ Tanner said.

  Thorne certainly looked as though he was paying close attention, but he had already begun zoning out, knowing he was not going to hear anything to get very excited about. He made the occasional supportive comment and nodded in all the right places, but it was like hearing snippets of a tune he vaguely recognised through a wash of hiss and feedback. He could focus on little else but the plans Rebecca Driver had mentioned; had been thinking about them all the way back to London.

  Fun plans.

  Yes, of course she’d been playing games and no, Thorne did not believe for one minute that she knew exactly what those plans were.

  But he was in no doubt whatsoever that Nicklin had them.

  Outside Brigstocke’s office, Thorne stopped and said, ‘What the hell was all that about?’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘“Maybe Spurs lost again last night” . . . like you’ve got to make stupid excuses for me, like I need . . . explaining away.’

  ‘Now, hang on—’

  ‘Like the way I’m feeling about all this is a joke.’

  ‘Nobody thinks it’s a joke, Tom.’

  ‘And all that “we’re great” bollocks, which was probably meant to sound reassuring and all for one and one for all or whatever, but which sounded to me very much like “don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him”.’

  Tanner looked at him. ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘It is allowed, you know,’ Thorne said. ‘To look at where we are with this . . . to count the bodies, then count up all those white-hot leads we’ve got and decide that, all things considered, we’re up against it. That’s putting a positive spin on it, by the way.’

  ‘I’m not disagreeing with you,’ Tanner said. ‘It’s pretty much what I said to Phil.’

  ‘When did you talk to Phil?’

  ‘We had lunch,’ Tanner said. ‘In the Oak.’

  ‘OK.’ Thorne tried his best to look as if it was. It would take something fairly serious to distract him – even briefly – from the Nicklin-shaped shitstorm he knew was on its way, but Tanner and Hendricks having a cosy lunchtime chinwag about a very different kind of disaster would do the job nicely. ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘Same as ever,’ Tanner said. ‘Talking filth and scaring the horses.’

  Thorne said nothing.

  She glanced up and down the corridor, shook her head. ‘We didn’t . . . ’

  Thorne nodded then walked away towards the incident room. Tanner followed a few seconds later, but made no attempt to narrow the distance between them.

  By the time Tanner caught up with him fifteen minutes later, Thorne was at the drinks station, trying to decide if the disgusting coffee might give him something else to think about for a while.

  Tanner stepped close. She said, ‘Don’t do it.’ Then, ‘Fancy a drink at close of play?’

  ‘Not sure I’d be the best company.’

  ‘Oh, stop feeling so sorry for yourself, you silly twat.’ She leaned against him, but nothing seemed to give. ‘Come on, I reckon you could do with a few beers and I know I could.’

  Thorne knew that, later on, he would need those beers, but he wasn’t so sure that he wanted anyone else around while he drank them. ‘Seriously, Nic . . . I think I’ll probably give it a miss.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Oh, and Spurs didn’t have a game last night.’ Thorne wasn’t smiling when he said it, but it didn’t much matter because Tanner had her back to him, already walking away.

  FORTY-THREE

  There were nicer pubs than the Railway; far nicer ones if he could be bothered to go into the centre of Ashford, but it was handy. It was ten minutes’ walk from work and from there – once he’d had his pint, his two pints at the most – it was only another five to the bus stop.

  You looked at it like that, the pub was on the way home.

  Gordon Ames didn’t call in at the Railway every day, nothing like, in fact, but some days were tougher than others. It was the nature of the job, he accepted that, and the day he’d just had was definitely one of those that called for a certain amount of . . . decompression. He smiled, pushing through the scarred wooden doors into the bar, because it was something Jill always ribbed him about. On those very rare occasions when he stopped off for more than one or two and eventually rolled in squiffy, she’d always be waiting up with that look on her face; shaking her head while she pulled something together from the fridge and asking him if he was feeling nice and decompressed.

  As decompressed as a newt.

  His wife didn’t mind, though; she told him often enough. She knew how hard the job could be.

  Tonight it would be just the one though, because Jill was making that chicken and pasta thing he loved, on top of which he’d promised his eldest boy that they could play a bit of FIFA 22 together. Actually, a session on the PlayStation helped take the edge off every bit as much as the beer, and he joked with some of the other officers that he was turning into something of an addict.

  ‘Pint of the usual, Gordon?’

  That was another thing that made it worth dropping in for a quick one. He felt like he was in an episode of Cheers, and even if the banter wasn’t quite up to that level it was nice that the barman knew his name and what his tipple was. Some of the things he got called at work, some of the shit that got thrown at him – literally, on several occasions – it was a relief to feel human again.

  He carried his pint of Black Swan across to an empty table. He tore open a bag of crisps, which was OK because Jill wouldn’t have the pasta ready for at least an hour yet. He took out his phone and sent a text message to his son.

  Hope you’re ready to be owned x

  He got a reply before he’d finished his crisps.

  bring it on loser

  ‘Do you mind . . . ?’

  Ames glanced up to see a man pulling out the chair opposite him. He shook his head, grunted, ‘Help yourself,’ then looked away again as the man sat down.

  He did mind, obviously. It was like when you bagged a table and four empty seats on a train, then some bugger came and sat down when there were plenty of other seats available. Ames lifted his glass and looked around; it was early, so there were loads of other tables this bloke could have chosen. It didn’t matter that much, he decided. As soon as he’d finished his drink, he’d be away.

  ‘Tough day at work?’

  Ames looked up again. ‘Sorry?’

  The man shook his head, like it didn’t matter, like he was only messing about. He raised his glass and said ‘Cheers’, so Ames did the same because it was only polite, then went back to his phone.

  ‘Rather you than me.’

  Ames looked up again.

  ‘I mean, I should imagine every day’s tough.’

  Same as on a train, it was even worse when the unwelcome companion was a talker, and Ames wondered how rude it would look if he just got up and moved to another table. He quickly decided it would be easier to just neck his beer and head out. It was a shame, because he’d wanted to savour it and relax a little, but the last thing he needed was a row.

  He took a healthy gulp.

  ‘I’m just saying, it can’t be a picnic, stuck in there, every day.’

  Ames watched the man nod in what he could only assume was the direction of the prison. ‘What?’

  ‘I certainly don’t envy you, Gordon.’

  ‘Sorry . . . do I know you?’ Ames asked.

  There was a half-smile before the stranger bobbed his head like a bird to take a drink. ‘You do now.’

  Ames looked at him. The man was wearing a dark puffa jacket and a baseball cap and there was something weird going on with his face. The nose and the chin were . . . all wrong, and his skin was far too smooth. Shiny, almost. Ames reckoned the bloke was forty or thereabouts, but it was hard to be sure and he was starting to wish he’d just got up when he’d first thought about it and marched straight out of the pub.

  ‘Listen, I don’t know what your problem is, but I think—’

  ‘Hard to come away unscathed, I would have thought. Working in a place like that. You’re on a knife-edge all the time, aren’t you? All that pent-up aggression, and women are worse than men . . . trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I mean, it can’t be good for you, can it? Being hated.’ The man shuffled his chair forward a little, hunched his shoulders and leaned across the table. ‘Because nobody likes a screw, do they?’ He shook his head, sadly. ‘Who in their right mind loves a kanga?’

  Ames knew now that he should leave, that whatever was going on, it could not possibly end well. He looked towards the bar, hoping to catch the barman’s eye and somehow let him know that there was a problem.

  ‘I can see why you’d need a little something at the end of the day, I mean, who the hell wouldn’t? Something to make you feel a little better, to make you feel normal. So you’re not carrying all that hatred home to Jill and the boys.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Ames moved to stand up, but the man quickly reached across and took hold of his wrist; squeezed it just hard enough.

  ‘Calm down, Gordon, for pity’s sake.’ There was a chuckle in the man’s voice and his tone remained perfectly calm. Perfectly reasonable. He hadn’t actually spoken in much more than a murmur since he’d sat down. He waited until Ames had settled before removing his hand and giving Ames’s a little pat. ‘Right then. Now you stay there and finish your cheese and onion, while I go and get us another drink.’

  Gordon Ames could only stare as the man got to his feet.

  ‘Black Swan, was it . . . ?’

  Sometimes even Hank Williams couldn’t do the trick.

  Yes, there had been a lifetime of physical pain and an addiction to painkillers that had lasted almost as long. There had been a toxic marriage which it had taken him far too long to escape and several thousand bottles in which he’d tried to lose himself. He had worked like a demon and died at twenty-nine looking like a man twice his age, but Thorne doubted that Williams ever had to deal with someone sending him messages carved into human flesh.

  Hank did sadness like nobody else, but he didn’t write about fear.

  Thorne briefly tried to distract himself by imagining just how the Hillbilly Shakespeare might have turned the machinations of a madman into a jaunty jukebox hit. A yodelling serial killer. He gave up when the only word he could come up with to rhyme with Nicklin was picklin’ and even the spasm of pleasure that gave him immediately soured and became unbearable.

  He got up from the sofa and turned the music off.

  He walked through to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, but left half because the bread tasted stale.

  He went back and laid down on the sofa again.

  Sometime later, Melita called, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer it, or listen to the message that she left.

  Stop feeling so sorry for yourself, you silly twat.

  Tanner was right of course, on both counts, but knowing didn’t make him feel any less sorry, did it? It didn’t shine a light that might show him the way out. So, instead he lay there and tried and failed to lose himself in somewhat fewer bottles than Hank might have reached for. He gave in to it until he became sorrier still and felt like even more of a twat, consoling himself with the thought that, unlike Hank’s, his own pain would surely not last a lifetime.

  He thought about calling Tanner to apologise, but didn’t.

  He thought about calling Phil, just to listen to him talk for a while.

  He thought about plans.

  He might even have slept at some point, it was hard to be sure. There might have been dreams, but the darkness that swirled, solidified and wrapped itself like a stinking hand around his face could just as easily have been something he’d justifiably imagined while he was wide awake. Either way, when Thorne looked at his watch, it was several hours later than it had been the last time he’d checked, and he was still staring at the spot where the wall met the ceiling.

  Watching that fucking cobweb dance.

  FORTY-FOUR

  By the time Thorne got to his office, it was apparent that Nicola Tanner had been there before him. He sauntered into the incident room and found her and Dipak Chall working at HOLMES, inputting intel on the domestic murder case they were still both working.

  He held out the box of crayons that had been left on his desk. ‘Funny,’ he said, deadpan.

  ‘I thought so,’ she said.

  ‘Russell’s idea?’

  ‘Mine.’

  Thorne couldn’t maintain the non-committal expression for very long. He smiled and nodded, rattling the box. ‘Yeah, funny.’

  Chall looked up. ‘What is?’

  ‘You had to be there,’ Thorne said, though he was rather glad that, Brigstocke and Tanner aside, no one else had been. He was embarrassed about the way he’d behaved, felt that Tanner at least was owed an apology.

  ‘How was your evening?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘I’ve had better. What about you?’

  She waited until Chall was staring at his computer screen, then looked at Thorne and nodded back towards the office they shared. Thorne talked to Chall about sod all for a couple of minutes, said ‘I’ll leave you to it’, then headed back the way he’d come and waited for Tanner to join him.

  ‘What’s the big mystery, then?’ he asked, when she’d closed the door behind her.

  She sat down at her desk, straightened some papers. ‘I had a date.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Thorne said.

  ‘See, that’s why I wasn’t sure I should tell you, because I knew you’d make a song and dance about it.’