‘You talking about good and evil, right?’

  ‘Yeah . . . if you like.’

  ‘You saying you don’t believe in it.’

  ‘Not really,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Well, I do,’ Chall said. ‘And I reckon if you asked around you’d find that most of us think the same way. I’m not religious or anything like that, but I mean, how can you not? Some of the evil fuckers we have to deal with.’

  ‘It’s just an expression, though, isn’t it? It’s just something people say. I don’t think I’ve ever come across a genuinely evil fucker.’ Thorne slowed, then stopped for lights. He turned to stare at people sitting in cars, drifting in and out of shops or blithely walking the pavements; men and women lucky enough to live lives that would never be blighted by the likes of Stuart Nicklin. ‘He’s probably the closest to it, though.’

  When they pulled up outside the address they’d been given in Wood Green, Chall got out of the car. He walked a few paces, then stopped and turned back. He tapped at the passenger window, confused by the fact that Thorne was showing no inclination to join him.

  Thorne pressed the button and the window slid down. ‘You OK to talk to this bloke on your own?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ Chall leaned in, intrigued. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Just a bit of business I need to deal with.’

  ‘Can I ask what kind of business?’

  ‘You can ask,’ Thorne said. ‘But I’ll only be making something up.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘I’ve had a hot lead on where Shergar might be.’

  Thorne pressed the button to close the window, then opened it again when Chall shouted, ‘How am I supposed to get back?’

  Thorne told him to get an Uber, or catch a bus, or flag down a passing motorist and say ‘Urgent police business’ the way they only ever did on television. Then he closed the window, turned the car round and headed for Crouch End.

  He parked in a resident’s bay and took out his warrant card, ready to flash it if a warden came along. He needed to be somewhere that gave him a decent view of Melita’s front door. The comings and goings.

  Just after eleven o’clock, he saw the door open and watched a young woman step out. Melita’s ten o’clock appointment. Thorne knew that the people who lived in the first- and top-floor flats worked all day, so he could be fairly certain that anybody going in or coming out of the house was one of Melita’s clients. He also knew that, on her busiest days, Melita would allow herself fifteen minutes between appointments – time to grab a coffee, to write up or read notes – so he guessed that her next client would be along fairly soon. Sure enough, within ten minutes, a middle-aged man was turning on to the drive.

  Thorne watched the man walk up to the front door; took a good long look at him as he rang the bell and waited to be buzzed in.

  Nothing about the man’s appearance or demeanour concerned him but, at the same time, Thorne realised how ridiculous this entire enterprise actually was. He asked himself what he was expecting to see. Aside from Nicklin himself sauntering up to Melita’s front door, would anyone seem . . . dangerous? And what the hell was Thorne proposing to do if he thought they were? Her eleven-fifteen certainly looked harmless enough, so Thorne just sat there wondering if this might be the fabled enema man . . .

  With an hour to kill until the next client, he walked up on to the main road and bought a couple of newspapers.

  They were still squeezing every ounce of outrage possible from the Rebecca Driver story. The murders themselves had already generated dozens of headlines: Monster’s Classroom Stories; First Date Killer’s Murder Book Hoard; Driver’s Grisly Souvenirs. Now, her death on remand had provided yet another angle. While certain higher-end papers bemoaned the levels of security in an underfunded prison system, some tabloids had worked themselves into a lather about justice being denied to the families of the victims – We Wanted Her To Rot – and others were content simply to claim that she’d got no less than she deserved.

  It was a small mercy that none of them, as yet, had made the connection to Stuart Nicklin.

  At twelve-fifteen, the man who almost certainly didn’t have a sexual fetish about enemas emerged, and just before half past a new client arrived. This one walked right past Thorne’s car and though Thorne kept his head down – riveted by a sports page he’d already read – he felt sure that the man had glanced in at him before crossing the road to the house.

  Thorne looked up from his paper and watched him. Fortyish; short but powerfully built, a red puffa jacket and trainers. The man rang the doorbell, then turned to look back towards Thorne’s car while he waited.

  Towards the car or directly at it? Thorne couldn’t be sure. He was thinking about getting out of his car and marching across to find out when the man was buzzed inside.

  Normally, Thorne would have felt frustrated. He would probably have stomped over anyway and hammered on the door, but now he was only grateful at being denied the chance to make an idiot of himself.

  Again . . .

  He walked to the main road a second time and bought himself a sandwich and a can of Diet Coke; sat and ate, listening to people argue about conspiracy theories on a phone-in show. He thought about the conversation he’d had earlier with Dipak Chall and was more convinced than ever that he was right. Aside from anything else, he felt sure that Stuart Nicklin would love to be thought of as evil, and Thorne wasn’t about to do him any favours. It also got him thinking that unless the witness in Wood Green had an awful lot to say, Chall would probably be back at the office by now. Brigstocke would want to know where Thorne had been, so he needed to come up with something. He decided that honesty was the best policy and that Brigstocke would probably be OK with it. It wasn’t like Thorne was working the case, not really. If anything, what he was doing was closer to pastoral care, and the brass always loved that.

  It was sunny again and the heating was turned up and he might even have nodded off for a few minutes, but when he sat up again and looked across at the house the man in the red puffa jacket was coming out. The man lingered, fidgety, on the doorstep. He stared across at Thorne’s car, then rang the bell to go back in. A couple of minutes later, the door opened again, but this time it was Melita herself who came out; striding up the path and straight across the road towards him.

  Hands down, the most dangerous-looking person Thorne had seen since he got there.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  ‘So, this nosy little arsehole goes straight back in and says, “I think someone’s watching your house” and the next thing I know she’s out there on the street, laying into me like she’s the one in need of some therapy, you know?’

  Phil Hendricks was struggling to keep a straight face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sure it was all very traumatic, mate, but I can’t get past how obviously piss-poor you are at surveillance. Did you miss that day at training college?’

  ‘It wasn’t . . . surveillance,’ Thorne said. ‘Not as such. I was just keeping an eye on her, that’s all.’

  ‘Now it just sounds creepy,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘I honestly don’t know why she was so pissed off. It’s not like I’m imagining Nicklin’s out there, is it? She knows what he’s capable of as much as anyone else. More than anyone else.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ Hendricks said.

  Thorne waited, keen to hear anything that might explain Melita’s confrontational attitude. Her reluctance to accept any possibility that she might be in danger.

  ‘She spends so much time dealing with nut-jobs like him, that she’s stopped being scared of them. Like these weirdos who keep wild animals as pets, lions and tigers and whatever. You know . . . “Oh, Simba would never hurt me, I’ve had him since he was a cub”.’

  ‘Right, and they invariably get eaten,’ Thorne said.

  It was half-time in the Everton versus West Ham game and the previous forty-five minutes had been less than exciting. Hendricks had turned up with fish and chips and beer which had improved Thorne’s mood enormously.

  Just after the game kicked off again, Thorne said, ‘We never really talked about what happened to you. When I got back from the island.’

  Hendricks kept his eyes on the game. ‘Yeah, we did.’

  ‘Only stupid jokes,’ Thorne said. ‘Same as usual. I never really asked you how you felt.’

  Now Hendricks turned to him. ‘How d’you think I felt?’

  ‘I don’t mean . . . the pain.’ Thorne was struggling, dancing around it. ‘I know you blamed me for what they did, and I suppose I just wanted to say that’s fair enough.’

  Hendricks turned back to the TV, said nothing for a minute, though it was clear he was thinking about it. ‘I didn’t blame you.’

  ‘That’s what it seemed like,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Well, I can’t help that, can I? I can’t help it if you were over-sensitive because you felt guilty.’

  Thorne just nodded. Over-sensitive was not something he was often accused of being.

  ‘I blamed those two fuckers who cut me,’ Hendricks said. ‘I blamed Nicklin for putting them up to it, but he wasn’t there and you were. So . . . ’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘Sorry if you felt like that, mate. If it helps, I knew I was the reason you let him go, so you weren’t the only one feeling guilty. When you think about it, I’m the reason he’s still around to put the shits up everyone.’

  ‘No, that’s not—’ There was a sudden burst of noise when, from nowhere, Everton sneaked a goal, and the excited babble in the studio, followed by a tense VAR judgement, changed the mood; put them back on more comfortable ground.

  Stupid jokes, same as usual.

  An hour later, when Thorne was cleaning up the debris, he asked the question he’d been wanting to ask for the remainder of what had turned out to be a one-all draw. ‘So, how come you’re the only one Nicklin doesn’t put the shits up? I mean, you don’t seem nearly as bothered as you should be.’

  Hendricks shrugged. ‘We’re made of sterner stuff in the north, mate. Simple as that.’

  His friend had turned away to pick up his jacket as he’d answered, so Thorne couldn’t see his face. He wasn’t convinced Hendricks was any less scared about what might happen than he was, and guessed he had simply decided that giving into it wasn’t going to help anybody. Thorne knew he was right, of course. Worrying about what Stuart Nicklin might do would make no difference in the end. Worrying would not save anyone, but no matter how often Thorne told himself that – while he lay awake coated in sweat or went looking for a fight or struggled to formulate a rational thought – he could not stop.

  It was like telling himself not to breathe.

  When Hendricks reached for his pork-pie hat, Thorne said, ‘Why don’t we open another couple of cans and make a night of it? You can kip on the sofa.’ He picked up the TV remote. ‘I can try and find some axe-throwing . . . ’

  ‘I’d best get back,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Liam’s heading off for some conference tomorrow and I want to see him before he goes.’ He looked at Thorne. ‘Well . . . I could always just ring him, I suppose . . . if you really want the company. I know your little heart breaks a bit every time I leave, but what can I say? I’m fun to have around.’

  Thorne smiled and said, ‘Go on, piss off home,’ but five minutes later, when Hendricks had left and he had closed the front door, he wished he hadn’t.

  Nicola Tanner was trying not to get too excited, but she really liked the sound of Fiona Bridges.

  Thirty-six and originally from Edinburgh, a nurse who worked at a private hospital in Bushey. She liked ‘good food and bad TV’ and didn’t make predictable jokes when Tanner told her she was a copper. She was also undeniably fit, which Tanner decided could not be a bad thing. She definitely liked the look of Fiona Bridges, too. She had short dark hair and a slightly nervous smile which was seriously sexy.

  It didn’t hurt that she looked nothing whatsoever like Susan.

  We still good for tomorrow?

  Tanner texted back straight away. Absolutely.

  I won’t be upset if you change your mind.

  Same.

  It had just been messages up to this point; texts and emails once they’d come out of the app. Coy to begin with, both of them a bit wary, but definitely . . . flirty. Well, obviously flirty, because they’d met on a dating app, but it was playful as opposed to crude, which Tanner approved of. Now they were talking about the date they’d finally arranged for the following evening. A pub, then maybe a meal somewhere afterwards, but only if they both fancied it. No pressure. Another big tick.

  No pressure, but Tanner was already thinking about what to wear and what to say – probably best to say nothing about the dead ex – and praying that she wouldn’t get held up at work. Trying not to get excited, but of course it was a big deal, because Tanner had finally decided the time was right to move on, to get out there. To start looking, at the very least.

  See you tomorrow then.

  Can’t wait, Tanner texted.

  Me neither x

  It was a good sign, Tanner decided, that she had not felt the need to ask Susan what she thought; even better that Susan had not volunteered an opinion. Maybe she’d have something to say the next day, when Tanner was botching her make-up or struggling to pick out an outfit. There might be the odd sarky comment or piece of unwelcome advice, but Tanner knew it would be coming from a place of love, same as always, because Susan would want her to be happy.

  She looked back over the text messages she’d exchanged with Fiona.

  She smiled through the tears.

  She felt sure that Susan would be wishing her well.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Thorne had not expected to spend so much of the following morning being slapped on the back, but nothing that happened on Tuesday December the seventeenth would turn out the way he had been expecting.

  A good result was a good result, though, however it was achieved, and the regulation interview with the witness in Wood Green the previous day had unexpectedly come up trumps. As it transpired, the so-called witness was actually a friend of the man responsible for the fatal hit and run in Dalston and, after his friend had reached out to him panic-stricken to confess what he’d done, the witness – not long out of prison himself and wary of trouble with the law – had decided that their friendship was not worth violating his parole for and contacted the police.

  Dipak Chall had used his initiative. He’d told the witness in Wood Green to call his ‘friend’ and let him know that somehow the police had identified him as the driver of the suspect vehicle and had come round asking awkward questions. ‘No, I don’t have a clue how they found out,’ the man had said, while Chall had listened in, nodding approvingly. ‘But they know it was you and the longer they have to spend looking, the worse it’s going to be.’

  The driver had turned himself in, and been charged, the same night.

  Thorne and Chall spent the morning accepting the congratulations for a job well done and being promised a great many drinks. Thorne decided that he actually owed Chall those and several more, for not letting on that he had conducted the interview alone, while Thorne had actually been several miles away, busy making a twat of himself outside his girlfriend’s flat.

  Chall did not look happy about it, but he played along.

  Aside from Russell Brigstocke, the only other person who knew the truth was Nicola Tanner and Thorne was fairly sure that she wouldn’t be telling anyone. They shared rather more dangerous secrets. She’d rolled her eyes and muttered, ‘Just take it, mate,’ when she passed him in the incident room first thing, then later, when they were alone in their office, she seemed far more interested in any reason why she might not be able to leave at the normal time.

  ‘Be good to get away,’ she said. And, ‘Roll on knock-off.’ And, ‘Sod’s law says we catch a big one at the last minute.’

  Thorne was every bit as keen as Tanner to head home when his shift ended, as desperate to leave work as anyone who didn’t have a screw loose, and he had to press her a little before she finally told him why it was more important than usual.

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  Tanner shrugged like it was no big deal, but she couldn’t hide the grin, and now the cat had struggled from a bag that was less than securely tied, she was a lot happier than she had been a few days earlier to talk about her hot date.

  ‘She’s called Fiona and I’m trying not to get my hopes up, and even if it doesn’t work out . . . it’s just one date, so what’s the big deal? I mean obviously I’m hoping that it does work out, because honestly, Tom, she seems really nice, which is why I’m nipping off at lunchtime to try and do something with my hair . . . ’

  There was more after that, but the words began to echo, then seemed to slide across one another and float away. Thorne could see Tanner’s mouth moving – speaking, smiling – but he couldn’t understand a word of it. He began to shiver and he couldn’t control the tremor in his legs. He was freezing suddenly and breathless. It was as if he was seeing all the familiar objects in the room from strange angles, so that they didn’t look quite the same; like he’d never been in the room before, even though he knew exactly where he was. His fingers were tingling and when he tried and failed to stand up, he was certain he was going to be sick . . .

  It was Tanner who got to her feet.

  ‘Tom . . . ?’

  She said his name again, at least it sounded like his name and then she was hurrying across to him, telling him to breathe, and he tried to tell her that he was fine, that it was just . . . fuck, he didn’t know what it was . . . but he couldn’t get the words out. His stomach was churning and he felt sick again, so he closed his eyes, panting. He took hold of Tanner’s arm, so that she couldn’t leave to fetch anyone, to tell anyone, and he did not let go until he was certain that she would stay with him.