He picked up the phone to call the DVLA, then put it down again.

  Could he actually blame her? Tanner had only been doing her job after all and doing it a damn sight better than he was. She was a good copper and he’d behaved like a bad one. There wasn’t much more to it than that. If he was really being honest with himself, he would probably have done exactly the same thing in her shoes: shunted the officer concerned sideways and not given it a second thought.

  He understood why Tanner had done it.

  He would never forgive her.

  Just before lunchtime, Thorne came out of the Gents to find Tanner waiting for him. He briefly broke stride, then carried on.

  ‘Tom . . . ?’

  Thorne kept on walking. It felt childish, it was childish, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  She moved quickly past him then stopped and turned to stand in his way. ‘This is ridiculous.’ There was blood rising to her cheeks and she sounded nervous, breathless. ‘I just need a minute, that’s all—’

  ‘I haven’t got a minute.’ He stepped close enough to leave her little choice but to step out of his way. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  Tanner shouted after him as he walked away, asked if they could talk later, but Thorne did not turn round.

  He’d been lying about the work, trying to make a point. There was nothing that wouldn’t wait. But he did need to be somewhere, for reasons that were far more important.

  He was having lunch with an old friend.

  FORTY-NINE

  ‘Do people ever cry?’ The man sitting in the chair opposite Melita Perera nodded down to the low table between them; the box of tissues within easy reach. ‘Really lose it, I mean. Not just a few sniffles.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Perera said.

  ‘Do you ever cry?’

  Perera said nothing.

  ‘I mean some of the things you hear must be upsetting.’

  ‘I think it’s significant that, at least once during every session, I need to remind you that we’re not here to talk about me.’

  ‘I apologise.’

  ‘You’re forgiven. Again.’

  The man smiled. ‘You can’t blame me for trying, though. I promise it’s not because I don’t want to talk about myself . . . I mean, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I’m interested, that’s all.’ He stared at her. ‘Go on, just answer that one question and I promise it’ll just be me, me, me from now on.’

  Perera sighed and shook her head. ‘Well, I’m not a robot,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think I’d be doing my job properly if I sat here weeping. It’s not exactly . . . professional.’

  The man nodded and said, ‘Thank you.’ He sat back and turned to stare for a few moments out of the large French windows in Perera’s sitting room, towards the garden at the back of the house. ‘I read somewhere that it’s supposed to be some kind of breakthrough. If you cry, I mean . . . during therapy. I haven’t cried once yet, so I was wondering if this is actually getting me anywhere, that’s all.’

  ‘I thought you were going to cry last time,’ Perera said. ‘There was a moment, when we were talking about your mother.’

  ‘You thought wrong.’

  Perera waited.

  ‘Well, if I was, they would have been tears of laughter. You suggesting that I missed her.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting anything. It was just a question.’

  ‘I don’t really want to talk about her any more.’

  ‘That’s fine. What would you rather talk about?’

  ‘Have I got to do all the work?’

  ‘You were married once, weren’t you?’

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me a bit about that?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘You’re not making this very easy,’ Perera said.

  The man shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t be of any use to either of us if it was easy,’ he said. ‘Come on, be honest . . . would you rather sit here with some loser blubbing like a baby and moaning about their childhood? Telling you their stupid dreams? Surely someone like you gets a bit more out of customers who are a bit . . . trickier?’

  ‘Clients,’ Perera said. ‘Not customers.’

  ‘It’s just an expression.’

  ‘I suppose I’m still asking myself why you’re here, that’s all. What you want to get out of this.’

  ‘It’s a fascinating voyage of self-discovery, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know you’re being sarcastic, but I’d really like to know. You came to me, and I’m happy that you did, but I really think we’d get a lot more out of these sessions if I understood why. I don’t believe that you’re unhappy.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘So is it self-indulgence?’

  ‘Oh, quite probably. I do like to spoil myself . . . well, I think you already knew that, and to be honest I’ve been deprived of decent conversation for a long time.’

  ‘It’s good to hear that this is at least . . . enjoyable for you.’

  ‘Oh, it is. Look, I’ve never seen the point of denying yourself anything you want if you have the means to go out and get it. I’ve never understood the value of that and I think people who believe they’re somehow more saintly or better human beings just because they choose to forgo certain . . . pleasures are a pointless waste of space. Life is there to be lived, wouldn’t you say? Otherwise you’re just counting down a clock.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ Perera nodded towards the clock on the wall, ‘I’ve got another client in five minutes.’

  ‘That’s another good sign,’ the man said. ‘How quickly the time always seems to go. Actually, I think I’d like to start coming more than once a week, if that’s OK with you. If you can fit me in, obviously.’

  ‘We can do that,’ Perera said.

  The man seemed delighted, though he didn’t have much more to say as their final few minutes ticked by. He simply sat, perfectly relaxed until he saw Perera glancing at the clock again. Then he leaned forward and nodded down towards the box of tissues on the table.

  ‘I bet I could tell you things that would make you cry.’

  FIFTY

  ‘You’re not seriously telling me this is the first time you’ve been bumped off a case? I always thought that was like a badge of honour with you, back in the day.’

  Thorne did not have a snappy comeback and would not have bothered even if he did. If there was one person with whom he could not pretend his disciplinary record was any better than it was, it was his former DC – now a DS – Dave Holland.

  ‘It’s not like it ever stopped you, though, did it . . . doing whatever it was you’d have done anyway unofficially? I don’t think for one minute it’s going to stop you now, either. Certainly not considering . . . who it is you’re after.’

  ‘You can say his name, Dave. He’s not fucking Voldemort.’

  Thorne had called Holland the day before and filled him in. They’d arranged to meet in a café in Islington. It was a notch up from the place Phil Hendricks was so fond of – sourdough sandwiches and no tomato-shaped ketchup dispensers – but it wasn’t poncey.

  ‘I think you should stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ Holland said. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about being booted off the investigation and get on with catching him. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here, Dave.’

  ‘Oh.’ Holland tried to look sad. ‘I thought it was just because you’d missed me.’

  Back in the day . . .

  It was hard for Thorne to equate the man on the other side of the table with the floppy-haired newbie loping towards him on the first morning they’d worked together, almost two decades before. There was no longer enough hair to be floppy and what there was had begun to grey, but there weren’t too many lines just yet and Holland certainly still looked fit enough. He looked every bit as up for it as he had been the last time they’d worked together, though by the time he’d got back from Bardsey Island he’d been every bit as battered and burned-out as Thorne had been.

  Only one man had come away from Bardsey undamaged.

  When they’d eaten, Thorne said, ‘I know we’ve never really talked about this, but I always wondered if you left because of what happened on Bardsey. Put in for a transfer. I mean, I wouldn’t have blamed you.’

  Holland shook his head. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it didn’t exactly help. It wasn’t . . . great, was it?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t great.’

  ‘I was already thinking of getting out of London, though. Sophie and I had decided to get divorced . . . you knew that, right?’

  Thorne nodded. The woman who had eventually fallen out of love with Dave Holland had hated Thorne right from the beginning, so he hadn’t been overly upset when Holland had mentioned that they were going through a rough patch. He would have felt very differently had he known it would eventually lead to Holland leaving the Met.

  ‘So we were going to have to sell the house, I heard there were better opportunities for promotion in Bedfordshire and I could just afford a place in Milton Keynes. So . . . ’

  ‘All seems to have worked out,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon so. Decent enough bunch to work with and, best of all, it’s not too much of a schlep to get back and see Chloe. Seeing her tonight, actually.’

  Holland’s daughter. ‘She must be what . . . seven?’

  ‘Nine,’ Holland said, grinning.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Yeah, she comes to stay one weekend a month, which is great. Sophie’s shacked up with a new bloke, but it’s all pretty civilised. Oh, and I’m engaged.’

  ‘What? Tell me she’s not a copper.’ Thorne was remembering his recent conversation with Tanner. Back when he and Tanner were having conversations.

  ‘Civilian support staff,’ Holland said.

  ‘That’s all right then.’

  ‘Pippa.’ Holland smiled. ‘She’s a bit more . . . easy-going than Sophie, so I think you’ll probably be getting a wedding invitation.’

  ‘Count me in.’

  ‘So, what about you, then?’

  ‘Well, Helen and I split up.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard. Nothing since?’

  Thorne told Holland about getting together with Melita Perera, went on to explain that she was someone whose input on certain cases could be invaluable. She had certainly provided useful input when it came to this one, but now, with the support of his team dragged from underneath him, Thorne felt the need to talk to someone who knew Stuart Nicklin almost as well as he did.

  Holland had seen colleagues die on Bardsey Island, had fought in vain to save at least one of their lives, but he had also been there years before that, when Nicklin had first been arrested. When a fellow officer, who had also happened to be Holland’s lover, had been gunned down in a playground.

  Dave Holland knew all too well what Nicklin was capable of.

  ‘Do you fancy a coffee or something?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘No, I’m good.’

  They sat and stared at each other for a few seconds, while people at adjacent tables laughed or chatted or tucked into fancy cakes, the past and their shared memories of it emerging from the shadows and squatting between them suddenly like an uninvited guest. A great deal of pain and a good deal of blood, much of it spilled by the same man.

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I think you’ll catch him,’ Holland said. ‘Because you have to, and you’re good at this, whether you’re getting your wrists slapped or not, and . . . when you do, if he should happen to tumble out of a window or fall in front of a train or accidentally get kicked to death, I’ll be the first person to buy you a drink. I’ll be the one at the head of a very long queue.’

  Thorne nodded, grateful for the sentiment at least. ‘Problem is, it feels like Nicklin’s the one . . . setting the agenda, you know? The ground rules or whatever.’

  ‘Because he is. It’s what he always does.’

  Thorne nodded again and let out a long slow breath, thinking about the streaks of blood on Kevin Bartley’s chest.

  ‘We need to do something to change that.’

  Thorne liked the sound of that we, though he knew that Holland didn’t mean it literally. ‘It doesn’t help that he seems to know exactly what I’m going to do before I’ve done it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Holland thought about it. ‘You said.’

  ‘All I know is that he’s going to do something.’

  ‘Those “plans” Driver mentioned . . . ?’

  ‘I feel like I’m getting fucking buried here, Dave. Like all this shit’s coming down on me and I don’t know where it’s coming from. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to stop it, not physically and not . . . ’ Thorne rubbed at an old stain on the table then leaned closer. ‘Between you and me, what happened with that prick in Ashford? It could have been a lot worse.’

  Holland’s expression made it clear that he understood, that he at least was not being judgemental. Finally, he said, ‘He’ll come after the people close to you. Like he did with Phil last time. If he wanted to kill you, he could have done it on Bardsey or he could have had it arranged before that, when he was still in prison, so I really don’t think that’s what he’s planning. What he wants more than anything is to make you suffer.’

  ‘Well, he’s already done that.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t. I don’t mean worrying about suffering, or suffering because you’ve been kicked off the case.’ Holland shook his head. ‘That’s not even going to be close.’

  Thorne managed a rueful smile. ‘Well, this is cheering me right up.’

  ‘You asked.’

  He knew that Holland was right, of course. Assuming that Nicklin was aware of it – and based on what had happened so far, it was a reasonable assumption – he would be delighted that Thorne was no longer in charge. He would enjoy knowing he had already got inside his head enough to cause such . . . erratic behaviour, but it would be a bonus, no more than that. It would put a spring in Nicklin’s step to know that Thorne was losing his way, that he was stressed out and struggling to sleep, but it was never going to be a substitute for causing genuine pain.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got,’ Holland said. ‘I’ll keep thinking about it, obviously, but for now I’d say your best bet is to keep a close eye on the people you care about.’

  Out on the street afterwards, Thorne thanked Holland for coming, told him how good it had been to catch up.

  ‘Let’s do it over a few beers next time,’ Holland said. ‘When we’ve got something better to talk about.’

  Thorne promised him they would.

  They chatted for another five minutes. Holland told Thorne what he was getting Chloe for Christmas, then talked a little more about Pippa and the plans for their wedding. He asked after a couple of old colleagues and seemed keen to know how his favourite pathologist was doing. Thorne told him that, a few more piercings and tattoos aside, Hendricks was much the same, and he shared a couple of stories, but all the time he was thinking about the advice Holland had given him.

  As they separated, Thorne said, ‘Look after yourself, mate.’

  The people you care about.

  It wasn’t a very long list, but he realised that Dave Holland was on it.

  Holland raised a thumb and they walked in opposite directions towards their cars.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Thorne’s doorbell rang just after eight o’clock. He wasn’t expecting anybody and would normally have ignored it, but he wasn’t feeling altogether normal, so instead he marched into the hall and all but threw the door open, bang up for a row with whatever crusty tea-towel seller or Jehovah’s Witness or neighbourhood watch nut-bag had been stupid enough to come calling. When he saw Nicola Tanner on the step, he was tempted to close the door just as enthusiastically, but it felt like he’d made enough childish gestures for one day. Besides, before he had a chance to do anything, she held up a plastic bag and Thorne heard the unmistakable clank of bottles and cans.

  So, with the door still wide open, he simply turned and walked back into the flat.

  Tanner followed him into the kitchen. She emptied the bag, set down a bottle of wine and four cans of lager on the table. ‘They’re all for you,’ she said. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘You can take the wine home with you.’

  She put the bottle back in the bag. ‘I drove past that Indian place you’re always banging on about, but I didn’t know if you’d eaten.’

  ‘I could always have had it for breakfast,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I didn’t tell Russell about what happened with Cameron Herbert.’ She looked at him. ‘I know you think I did, but I didn’t. He already knew, all right?’

  Thorne thought about it. ‘Did you at least fight my corner a bit?’

  ‘Course I did, but there wasn’t a lot of point,’ Tanner said. ‘He’d already made up his mind. Just so you know, Russell wasn’t thrilled about it himself, but it wasn’t like you left him a lot of choice.’

  ‘I wish I’d decked the little gobshite . . . Cameron Herbert I mean, not Russell.’ Thorne opened one of the cans and took a drink. ‘And that arsehole in Ashford.’

  ‘Then you’d have been suspended.’

  ‘Suits me. I wouldn’t be wasting my time on some stupid hit and run.’

  ‘Catching the driver of that car is every bit as important as catching Stuart Nicklin.’

  ‘Even you don’t really believe that,’ Thorne said.

  ‘OK, but that lad’s parents deserve justice for their son every bit as much as Hari Reddy’s do. Every bit as much as Richard Sumner’s wife or Thomas Bristow’s daughter. Kevin Bartley’s family—’