‘You’ve made your point.’ Thorne picked up another of the cans and held it towards her. ‘You can have one, surely.’

  Tanner hesitated, then reached out to take it. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  While Thorne carried the remaining cans across to the fridge, Tanner sat down and opened her laptop. By the time Thorne had joined her at the table, she had found what she was after. Thorne could see what he was looking at straight away: a pub interior in black and white, a man sitting alone in the corner of a pub.

  ‘This is CCTV footage from the Railway in Ashford,’ Tanner said. ‘The night before Driver was killed. That’s Gordon Ames, the prison officer from Bronzefield.’ She pressed play and half a minute later a second man joined Ames at the table. ‘And that’s the man who threatened his family.’

  ‘I know exactly who that is,’ Thorne said.

  Tanner turned and looked at him. ‘Really? I sort of presumed he’d paid someone to do his dirty work for him.’

  ‘Maybe he just fancied a drink.’ Thorne leaned a little closer to the screen. The image was far from pin-sharp, but he knew he was watching Stuart Nicklin. ‘He was a lot bigger the last time I saw him. Must have been on a fitness kick.’ They watched, but the image remained much the same until Nicklin got up again to walk over to the bar. ‘Jesus, what’s he done to his face?’

  ‘Surgery? It’s what I was talking to Phil about—’

  ‘Is that . . . hair?’ Thorne pointed to what certainly looked like tufts of hair, just visible at the back and sides of a baseball cap. ‘He was bald as an egg when we were on Bardsey, with scars and fucking . . . craters on his head. Fat and bald. He still looked better than that, though.’

  ‘At least we know what he looks like now,’ Tanner said. ‘We can get this blown up and get his picture out there.’

  They watched the rest of the footage; a twenty-minute conversation before Ames stood up and left. Nicklin stayed on another few minutes to finish his drink, and when he finally left he kept his head down. ‘That’s a surprise,’ Thorne said. ‘Felt sure he’d look up to the camera, same as Driver did. Give us a wink.’

  ‘Maybe he’s come over all shy and retiring.’

  ‘Sadly, that’s the last thing he is.’

  Tanner closed her laptop. ‘So . . . ’

  ‘What happens now?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Like I said, we get the picture out—’

  ‘No, with everything . . . going forward. How do I fit in?’

  ‘You don’t,’ Tanner said. ‘Not officially, anyway. Look, any developments, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know about them, OK? To be honest, I think Russell knows that’s what’s going to happen. Just . . . don’t be too obvious about it.’

  ‘You know me.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why I’m telling you.’

  They sat in silence for a while. Thorne watched Tanner perched a little awkwardly on the edge of a kitchen chair, avoiding his eye and taking small sips from her beer can. She hadn’t even taken her coat off. ‘It’s Saturday night, for God’s sake,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you be out on a hot date or something?’

  ‘What, after the last disaster?’

  ‘It didn’t sound like a disaster.’

  ‘Well . . . ’ Now she looked at him, just long enough for Thorne to catch a half-smile. ‘ . . . as it happens, I have matched with someone else.’

  ‘There you go, getting back on the horse.’

  ‘Not how I’d have put it.’

  ‘So when’s the date?’

  ‘We haven’t arranged anything yet,’ she said. ‘We’re still getting to know each other.’ She shrugged and the smile broadened. ‘Hopefully next week sometime.’

  ‘Text me with updates every fifteen minutes,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I’ll make it my top priority.’

  ‘And send pictures.’

  Tanner grunted and got to her feet. She picked up her plastic bag. ‘I’d best be getting off.’

  ‘OK.’ She’d barely touched her beer, but Thorne hadn’t really expected her to. If he’d wanted to talk about it, or thought for one minute that she did, he might even have said how stupid it was; to be nervous about driving after a few mouthfuls of piss-weak beer.

  Ridiculous, if you thought about it, considering what she’d once done.

  ‘I’m glad I came over, Tom.’

  ‘Right.’

  Tanner looked at him. ‘This is when you say that you’re glad, too.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ Thorne nodded. ‘I was running low on lager.’

  FIFTY-TWO

  Thorne had never really got walking. Walking for no other reason than the walk itself, at any rate. He had no real problem walking to the car or to the fridge and he could just about tolerate a walk outdoors if there was food or a drink at the end of it. That aside, he could think of countless more enjoyable ways to spend a day off. It was his shitty luck, he thought, that all the major relationships in his life had been with women who loved nothing better than tramping about in woods or on heaths, and Melita was no exception. After driving over to Crouch End to join her for breakfast at a Mediterranean café near her flat, his heart had sunk a little at her suggestion that they cross over into Priory Park to walk it off.

  He had tried, and clearly failed, to look enthusiastic.

  ‘It’ll do you good,’ she said.

  ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘It’s crisp.’

  ‘That’s just another word for cold,’ he said.

  ‘Come on you miserable sod. It’s . . . Christmassy.’

  Thorne knew he was fighting a losing battle, so made an effort to sound keen. ‘Ready when you are,’ he said.

  It did feel somewhat Christmassy, due in large part to the sprawling pop-up market selling Christmas trees just inside the Middle Lane entrance to the park. There was even talk of buying one there and then and carrying it back to Melita’s flat. In the end, they settled for a wreath and Melita bought a few ‘organic’ decorations, though Thorne thought she’d paid way over the odds for what were basically pine cones glued together and bits of dried fruit on a piece of string.

  She squeezed his arm and told him he was a grinch.

  He insisted that he wasn’t, but that he couldn’t bear to be ripped off.

  They talked about the arrangements – work permitting – and settled on Thorne coming over to Crouch End on Christmas Eve and staying there for two nights, before Melita went to her sister’s on Boxing Day. They agreed that nobody really liked turkey – because if they did they’d be eating it all year round – but decided to do one anyway. Melita said she’d use the leftovers to make a curry. She suggested inviting Phil Hendricks and Liam over and Thorne told her he’d ask.

  They walked past the playground and the Philosopher’s Garden and then, agreeing that they couldn’t wait for the hot chocolate, across to the café where they sat huddled at one of the outdoor tables.

  ‘I’m glad you patched things up with Nicola,’ Melita said.

  It was the first time they’d seen each other since Brigstocke’s call. Thorne had told her what had happened; his falling-out with Tanner and her visit the night before. He’d glossed over the . . . sulking, because he knew Melita would not approve. She would have thought his behaviour had been juvenile and would have told him so.

  ‘I think it’s actually worked out pretty well,’ he said. ‘Nicola’s going to keep me in the loop, but not being part of that team gives me a bit of freedom.’

  ‘To do what?’

  Thorne hadn’t got the first idea. He hadn’t thought it through. ‘To pursue leads the way I want to.’

  ‘You mean go after Nicklin without any support?’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘You tell me. You were sounding like some sort of vigilante, though, and that’s a very bad idea.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ Thorne said. ‘And it’s never going to happen, because apart from the fact that I wouldn’t know where to start, I’m not stupid.’

  They drank their hot chocolate and Melita let her head fall back to enjoy the winter sunshine. Thorne looked around, not quite as able as she was to relax. There were a lot of people enjoying the day; relishing the space and the fresh air rather more than he was. Dog-walkers, couples, joggers. The paddling pool in front of them was covered over, but away to his right there were still a few lunatics playing tennis, albeit in tracksuits, gloves and woolly hats. He watched a man standing alone beneath a tree; a long dark coat and a baseball cap. He only stopped watching when a young woman arrived with hot drinks and the pair of them moved away.

  ‘I don’t think you’re stupid,’ Melita said.

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  ‘It’s my job to worry, though.’

  ‘Talking of which . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Thorne told her about his meeting with Dave Holland, about the suggestion that Nicklin might well choose to attack him indirectly. ‘I think it’s a real possibility,’ he said. ‘That he’ll come at me through somebody else.’

  ‘Why are you so convinced he’ll come at you at all?’

  ‘It’s the only reason he’s doing any of this. It’s what he’s been working up to. Even if Driver hadn’t said anything . . . it’s what I’ve been expecting him to do.’

  ‘Maybe the fact that you are expecting it is enough for him,’ Melita said. ‘That might be all he wants. To push your buttons a bit.’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘So, what are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m suggesting we don’t ignore the risk that the people I’m closest to might be in danger, and I think you might qualify. Just about.’ She didn’t appear to find it funny. In fact, she wasn’t reacting as Thorne had expected at all. He wasn’t trying to alarm her, but he wanted her to take his concerns more seriously

  ‘You want me to stop working?’

  ‘No . . . but it wouldn’t hurt to be aware of that risk when you are.’ Thorne nodded across the park in the direction of her flat. ‘Someone rings your bell, you just buzz them in.’

  ‘Only my clients.’

  ‘You don’t always know, though.’

  ‘Yes I do. Plus, you know very well that I vet all my clients before I agree to work with them. There’s any number of phone conversations before I see them face to face, and there’s usually a referral from a GP before that ever happens. Are we really going to have this conversation again?’

  The argument they’d had several months earlier. It was territory Thorne had sworn to steer well clear of ever since, but that was before Nicklin moved the goalposts.

  ‘What about when you’re on the street or when you’re on your own at night? I’m just talking about being that extra bit cautious, that’s all. For a start, I know you don’t always put your alarm on—’

  ‘I can look after myself, Tom.’

  ‘So can I,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m a damn sight better at it than you are, but that doesn’t mean I’m not shitting myself.’ He reached for her hand, but she didn’t give it straight away. ‘Just . . . keep it in mind.’ He squeezed. ‘Why should you be the only one that’s allowed to worry?’

  She nodded, finally, conceding the point, but Thorne could see that she was irritated. He was irritated too, because nothing he’d suggested had been unreasonable. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was being caring and uncharacteristically rational and she was picking the worst possible moment to be stubborn and ignore good advice; to let him know just how strong and independent she was.

  ‘You seen those idiots playing tennis?’

  She didn’t bother to look. ‘Up to them, isn’t it?’

  Thorne was sure she’d see the good sense in what he was saying eventually. She wasn’t stupid, either. All the same, he guessed that the atmosphere would probably stay crisp for a little while longer.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Given the choice, he’d take warm weather every time, and over the past few years he’d gravitated towards places where he was more likely to get it, but a day as cold as this one was certainly handy when you didn’t want to be recognised. He had every reason to be wearing a thick coat and hat. The sunshine was doing him a favour too, because sunglasses would not look out of place.

  Nicklin knew Thorne had seen the footage from that pub, so there was no point taking chances. He wouldn’t get too close. He wasn’t ready to hand himself over on a plate just yet.

  He watched them browsing at the Christmas market, like lovebirds in some nauseating film. It was fun, watching them spend their money so pointlessly, and not just because all those chi-chi Christmas bits and bobs were overpriced. If it was a film, he thought, it would probably need to be shown after the watershed, bearing in mind how it was going to end.

  It would all be a bit much for Granny and the kids.

  He was perhaps fifty feet behind them as they passed the playground and headed for the café, so he stopped under a tree and watched them take a table outside. They were almost an attractive couple. It was odd, he thought, how Thorne had always seemed to do pretty well for himself when it came to the opposite sex. Odd, because he didn’t think Thorne could be anyone’s idea of a catch. There had been a time, many years before, when Nicklin had made a little extra cash having sex with men, and there had even been a copper or two, but looking at Tom Thorne . . . he could never imagine needing money that much.

  Not that sex of any sort was something that concerned him very much any more. He could certainly not get the kind of sex he wanted in any conventional relationship, so when he did feel the need, he was happy to splash out and pay good money for it; to treat himself perhaps once or twice a year. He was thinking that he might do so again, once his business with Thorne had played out, when he became aware of the woman watching him.

  She had a baby splayed in a harness against her chest, and she was talking quietly to a second woman with a pushchair. She looked at the playground, then at him, then back to the playground again. She looked nervous.

  She walked over. ‘Have you got a child in there?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She looked even more nervous now she was close to him. ‘In the playground.’

  In other circumstances, Nicklin’s reaction might have been somewhat different. He did decide that he would carry the picture of her pinched little face home with him and imagine doing a variety of things she would certainly not approve of. As it was, he simply smiled and said, ‘Oh, I see what you mean . . . yes.’ He pointed towards a young boy on one of the swings. ‘That’s my nephew.’

  The woman nodded, relieved and burbled an apology.

  ‘It’s fine, honestly.’ Glancing across at the café, while the woman continued to say she was sorry and that she hoped he understood, Nicklin saw that Thorne and his girlfriend were leaving. ‘I’d probably have done the same.’

  ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’ The woman’s baby had begun to grizzle and she bounced it against her chest. ‘Shocking, really, that you even have to ask the question, but . . . this day and age, you know? You can’t be too careful.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ Nicklin said. ‘It’s a sick world.’

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Monday morning, and the mood in the incident room was as positive as it had been in a while. At least, that’s how Thorne would remember it in the long and terrible weeks that were to come. A day when the fear receded a little and the sense of helplessness ceased to be ever-present; when it felt as if a positive outcome might just be more than a

  pipedream.

  The last day before it all turned to shit.

  Thorne stood looking at the picture of Stuart Nicklin that had been extracted from the pub’s CCTV footage. The image had been enhanced, blown up, and was now pasted front and centre on the case wall, arrows connecting it to photographs of Kevin Bartley and Rebecca Driver. The picture had, of course, already been sent to West Midlands police and copies distributed to every station in the Met area. Nicklin’s name would be the first one mentioned at every shift briefing and the last come knocking-off time, that photo passed around until his face was imprinted on the mind of every detective, PCSO and beat officer in

  the city.

  ‘It’s not a face you’re likely to forget, is it?’ Dipak Chall had moved to stand next to Thorne.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ Thorne said.

  ‘You’re not fooling anybody, by the way.’ Chall waited until Thorne looked at him, then winked. ‘I know Nic showed it you last night.’

  Midway through the morning, a call came through with a potential ID on the driver of the car that had killed Alistair Savage. The witness, who certainly sounded plausible, worked in Wood Green, so Thorne and Chall were given the job of driving down to interview him.

  ‘What’s he like?’ Chall asked, in the car.

  Thorne didn’t need to ask who Chall was talking about. ‘You know what he’s done, right? I mean, everything’s there on the PNC, in the relevant murder books, so you must have a pretty fair idea.’

  ‘You’ve spent time with him, though.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘So . . . if someone didn’t know what he’d done, would he come across as a normal bloke? I mean, I know he’s not, but does he seem . . . ordinary?’

  For a moment, Thorne considered telling Chall to stop asking stupid questions and to read the Stephen Campbell masterpiece if he was so interested. He might have done if he didn’t know that, like any copper, Chall would be rather more drawn to the author’s descriptions of a certain detective than he would to those of the book’s actual subject.

  Truculent, over-sensitive, foolish.

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s born bad,’ Thorne said. ‘No more than I believe you can be born good.’