‘And I won’t.’ Nicklin looked at Thorne. ‘Not in the way she means, anyway.’

  Thorne could see that Nicklin’s pupils were dilated; that he was clenching his jaw after speaking. ‘Are you high, Stuart?’

  ‘I’m high on life.’ Nicklin grinned. ‘But the pills certainly help.’

  ‘Look, there’s no police coming,’ Thorne said. ‘I did what you wanted, so why don’t you just let her go?’

  ‘Let her go?’

  ‘Then it’ll just be you and me and I’m not going to do anything stupid while you’ve got that knife, am I?’

  Nicklin leaned down, his mouth close to Melita’s ear. ‘He’s a bit slow on the uptake these days, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Melita said again. ‘I didn’t know it was him, not to begin with, I swear. Then when I did, it was too late—’

  ‘How can I let her go when I’m not actually . . . holding her?’ Nicklin drew the knife away from Melita’s neck and stepped from behind the chair. ‘See? She’s free to leave any time she wants, always has been. I don’t think she will, mind you. She’s . . . invested now.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Thorne said.

  Melita stared at him, wide-eyed, as though she was every bit as high as Nicklin. ‘It’ll be all right, Tom. I promise. I promise . . . ’

  ‘We just needed to play a little trick to get you over here, that’s all. A bit of screaming and what have you.’ The look of horror and confusion on Thorne’s face brought a smile to Nicklin’s. ‘It’s a lot to take in, I can see that, so why don’t you sit down? We’ve got tons to talk about.’

  Thorne walked unsteadily towards the chair and dropped into it just before his knees gave way beneath him. He did not take his eyes from Melita’s as she meekly stood to let Nicklin take her seat, then settled herself on the arm.

  ‘Why?’ Thorne struggled to get the words out. ‘Why would you . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t get too distracted by this business.’ Nicklin nodded towards Melita. ‘You’re shocked, course you are, but it’s all fairly bog-standard, really. I think it started off as professional curiosity once she eventually found out who I was, and you can hardly blame her for that, can you? After that . . . I’m not really sure. Maybe she thought she could . . . change me, or get to the bottom of me, or something. Maybe she thought she could work a miracle cure and I’d just turn myself in. Whatever the hell she was thinking, we’ve become . . . close.’

  The surprise was giving way to something far darker as Thorne continued to stare at the woman he had trusted and been so keen to protect; whose professional advice had proved invaluable more than once in helping him catch the likes of Stuart Nicklin. A woman with whom he had shared so much more than a bed.

  He was starting to grasp the scale of her betrayal.

  He asked the question anyway.

  ‘How did you get into my flat to set that camera up?’

  ‘Someone had a key,’ Nicklin said. ‘Because you gave it to her.’

  ‘The dark web stuff, the operation at Kevin Bartley’s place . . . ’

  Another glance towards Melita, a wink. ‘I had a source.’ Nicklin nodded, understanding. ‘Oh, so you thought I found all that out through the camera? No, that was just a bit of extra mustard.’ He grinned. ‘I liked seeing you naked.’

  Just a few minutes earlier, Thorne was feeling hollowed out and unsteady, but now he could feel his strength returning; rage and adrenaline beginning to boil, to bring the fight back.

  He took out his phone and nodded towards Melita, dismissive. ‘So, if there’s no threat to her, what’s to stop me calling for backup right now?’

  Nicklin held up the kitchen knife. ‘Well, I’ve still got this.’

  Thorne stood up. He was not bothered about the knife.

  Nicklin appeared equally unconcerned. ‘You need to put your phone away and calm down, Tom, seriously. When we’ve finished you might well want to call for that backup, but you need to understand what that’s going to cost. You need to know that you have options. Trust me on this.’ He pointed to the chair. ‘You need to sit down and listen.’

  Thorne did as he was told, but he was wired and ready to go, desperate to finish this. His own safety had become unimportant. He was confident that when the time was right he could be across the room and on Nicklin in a second; that the blade of a flailing kitchen knife would not be enough to stop him.

  ‘So, you’re basically looking at two options,’ Nicklin said. ‘One is that I simply get up and walk out of here, and if I can’t promise that you won’t ever see me again, I can assure you it won’t be any time soon. The second option is that you just . . . arrest me. I wouldn’t be winning any prizes by guessing that you’d much prefer that one.’

  Thorne said nothing, because he knew there was more.

  ‘Now, obviously you’re sitting there thinking that there’s a third option and that it’s one you’d prefer even more. I do understand, because you’ve been seriously provoked, but before you get too excited about me being taken out of here in a body bag, there’s a couple of things you need to bear in mind.’ He patted Melita’s arm. ‘A witness, for a kick-off, which is not ideal. Secondly, there was quite a good offer on if you bought two of those cameras, and a bargain’s a bargain, which is why there’s another one sitting behind me on the bookshelf.’ Nicklin waited while Thorne looked. ‘Just next to the speaker . . . see it? All the footage is automatically uploaded to the cloud and easily accessible to several friends of mine who would publish it here there and everywhere if you decided to get all . . . murdery. Not that it would be the first time . . . which brings me back to that very attractive second option.’

  Melita was looking at the floor again and Thorne sensed that the hurt Nicklin had mentioned was not far away.

  ‘I swear that if you decide you’d rather not let me go and choose to arrest me, I will not offer any resistance. I’ll be meek as a lamb. What I will do, however, at some point, is unburden myself . . . pass on a horrifying story I was told about a man called Graham French. A man who had been detained, who was handcuffed to a radiator as I remember, and was then bludgeoned to death with a poker by your friend Nicola Tanner. The pair of you covered it up with some cock and bull tale about Tanner using reasonable force to protect you, then up stepped Dr Hendricks with a very convenient post-mortem report claiming that the poor man only died because of an abnormally thin skull. Phew! What a stroke of luck.’

  Thorne watched Nicklin snake an arm around Melita’s shoulders.

  ‘Only three people ever knew what had really happened to Graham French, until you chose to confide in your lovely girlfriend. Now, because she chose to confide in me . . . I know, and if you decide to arrest me, to see justice done for poor old Kevin Bartley, then I’ll make sure Graham French gets justice too. It’s only fair, I reckon.’ Nicklin sat back, took a deep breath. ‘So, in a nutshell, you can let me go, which isn’t a great look for the detective that let me escape once already . . . or you can arrest me, at a price. Prison for DI Tanner, I would have thought . . . for you too, maybe. Certainly the end of Dr Phil’s illustrious career, and I think that’s going to hurt a lot more than having a stupid tattoo sliced off.’

  He leaned forward again, all business. ‘It’s your call, Tom.’

  Thorne opened his mouth, but it was only a reflex. Right then, he was struggling to remember his name or where he was. Numb suddenly, as though he was shutting down. He could barely string an idea together that was not immediately oblit­erated by the scream inside his head. The wail and the blackness.

  He could not think, or move, or speak.

  ‘It’s a toughie, I get that,’ Nicklin said. ‘Now, I always think big decisions are a bit easier when there’s a time limit, don’t you? It’s a damn sight more fun, I know that much.’

  He stared at Thorne for a few seconds, then suddenly reached out and took Melita’s hand. She looked at him and he smiled at her. He got to his feet, bringing her with him, then yanked her arm until it was straight and drew the knife hard across her wrist.

  All at once: Melita screaming and dropping to her knees; the blood spurting, spilling, then spurting again in time with the pulse; Thorne jumping to his feet and Nicklin reaching to press the blade back against Melita’s neck.

  ‘Don’t.’

  Thorne froze, held up his hands.

  ‘Good.’ Keeping his eyes on Thorne, Nicklin nodded down at his handiwork. ‘Now that’s what I call a ticking clock.’ He wrapped his hand around the wound then released it again. Pressed and released. Melita screamed again as the blood streamed and jetted across the rugs and the glass tabletop. ‘Sorry about all the mess.’ Nicklin glanced at Melita then rolled his eyes at Thorne. ‘She wasn’t happy about a bit of chocolate on her cushions, so you can understand why she’s getting upset.’

  Thorne watched as Melita moaned and tried to pull away, then reached up and began patting at Nicklin’s hand.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Thorne said.

  Patting, not clawing.

  ‘It’s make your mind up time,’ Nicklin said.

  ‘Please, she needs—’

  Nicklin released the pressure again and the blood began to surge; a puddle at his feet. Thorne couldn’t tell if Melita was losing consciousness or had simply given up. Nicklin looked at him, waiting for a decision.

  ‘Arrest, OK? I’ll fucking arrest you.’

  ‘Good choice.’

  ‘Now just—’

  ‘Let’s hear it then,’ Nicklin said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say it . . . ’

  They were words Thorne had fantasised about saying ever since Bardsey, that in any other context would have come automatically, like breathing in and breathing out, but now he heard those words falling out of his mouth like someone receiving a terminal diagnosis.

  ‘Stuart Anthony Nicklin, I’m arresting you for the murder of Kevin Bartley. You do not have to say anything . . . ’

  It was as if everything had frozen for those ten or so seconds, and as soon as he’d finished speaking time immediately caught up with itself, and there was still . . . this. Three people in a room, the sobbing, the knife. There was still all that blood.

  ‘Right, it’s done,’ Thorne said. ‘Now she needs medical attention.’

  ‘Did you remember the handcuffs?’

  ‘For God’s sake—’

  ‘We should do things properly.’

  Thorne scrabbled for the handcuffs in his pocket, then stared at Nicklin’s hands. One was holding the knife while the other was wrapped around Melita’s wrist; the gash, still pumping blood. He took a step forward, hesitated.

  ‘Yeah, it’s tricky,’ Nicklin said. ‘I can see that. OK, what if we do this . . . ?’ He hauled Melita to her feet, dragged her across to the wall and pushed her down again, then lowered himself to the floor next to her. She was whimpering now, still struggling ineffectually to free herself, still leaking blood. ‘Cuff me to the radiator.’ Nicklin smiled and tapped the knife against the radiator pipe. ‘Just like Graham French.’

  Thorne moved quickly across, got down on to his haunches and braced himself against the floorboards. As soon as Thorne had fastened the first cuff around the radiator pipe, Nicklin released his grip on Melita’s wrist. Thorne watched as she staggered upright and ran from the room.

  Nicklin held out his own wrist, slick with Melita’s blood. ‘Come on then.’

  Thorne fastened the second cuff to Nicklin’s wrist and stared at that shiny, fucked-up face as Nicklin rattled the cuff against the pipe. More than anything, Thorne wanted to hurt him; to start hitting him and not stop until he was physically incapable of hitting him any more. Nicklin still had the knife in his free hand though and there was that camera to think about . . . but Melita, whatever she was guilty of, was still bleeding out.

  Thorne clambered to his feet and reached into his pocket for the radio he’d muted before entering the flat.

  ‘Oh no.’ Nicklin jabbed the knife in Thorne’s direction, like a child play-acting. ‘You got me. You got me . . . ’

  Thorne ran from the room, pressing the radio’s EMER button. Behind him he could hear Nicklin shouting and laughing.

  ‘Or is it the other way round, Tom?’

  He’d radioed control on his way here to pass on the suspect address. Now, the red button gave him fifteen seconds’ uninterrupted broadcast to every active unit in the city. He followed the trail of blood into the kitchen, but there was no sign of Melita.

  He rattled off his name and warrant card number. ‘Requesting an arrest team and emergency medical assistance now . . . ’

  He threw open the bedroom door. Nothing.

  He turned back into the hall, skidding in a slick of blood, calling for her.

  A few seconds later, Thorne was hammering at the locked bathroom door. He shouted Melita’s name, but got no response. He began to kick at the door and he was still kicking two minutes later when he heard the siren.

  PART FOUR

  THREE VISITS

  SIXTY-THREE

  Liam was still away at his conference, so when Thorne had suggested a get-together, without wanting to explain over the phone why it was necessary, Hendricks had been quick to volunteer his place.

  ‘I’m always game for a pre-Christmas piss-up.’

  Now, hearing laughter and music from inside as he stood, waiting to be let in, it sounded as though Tanner and Hendricks had started without him. Hendricks opened the door, pulled him into a hug, then darted away into the kitchen. Thorne walked into the living room and Tanner smiled up at him from the sofa. There was already a bottle of wine open on the table.

  ‘What was all the laughing about?’

  Hendricks came in with the beer he’d been to fetch. He handed it to Thorne, then went back to sit down. ‘Nic was just revealing a few more juicy details about the worst first date in history. Freaky Fiona.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Thorne moved across and perched on the edge of the sofa, next to Tanner. He didn’t take his jacket off. ‘How’s that working out?’

  ‘Well, first of all she’s not freaky,’ Tanner said. ‘She’s just into a bit of light S&M, that’s all, but she completely understands that I’m not. She’s sexually . . . flexible.’

  ‘Oh, that’s always handy,’ Hendricks said. ‘Bends over backwards for you, does she?’

  Tanner smiled. ‘It’s all good. We’re going to see each other again and that’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Tease,’ Hendricks said.

  Thorne looked around, putting off the painful conversation he was there to have. He guessed that Liam had a lot to do with it, but he was struck, as always, by just how tidy and organised Hendricks’s flat was. Not in Tanner’s league, obviously, but still a surprise, considering the often chaotic lifestyle of its owner. Thorne thought that minimalist was probably the right word. A few pieces of ultra-modern leather and chrome furniture, a cowhide rug; a small black Christmas tree in one corner – Liam, again – next to the vast TV and games console. There were one or two purely decorative items, though. An elaborate metal chandelier, a stuffed magpie and, for reasons Thorne had never been able to fathom, a full-sized head of the monster from Alien glaring down at them from the wall. It was still . . . neat, though, certainly by comparison with Thorne’s place which, despite his best efforts, continued to look as though it had been hit by an extremely localised tornado.

  ‘So, how’s it going, then?’ Hendricks asked.

  It had been almost exactly forty-eight hours since the events at Melita Perera’s flat in Crouch End. Two days since police and paramedics had forced entry, then helped Thorne break the bathroom door down. Stuart Nicklin had been quickly charged with Kevin Bartley’s murder, but nobody seemed quite sure to what degree he was responsible for Perera’s death. He had opened one artery and she had opened the other one herself. Locked in the bathroom with the knife she’d snatched from the kitchen.

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ Thorne said.

  It was the simple truth.

  ‘Anyway, mate . . . ’ Hendricks looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Sorry to hear about Melita.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Seriously weird, the way it all turned out.’

  Tanner nodded and leaned to lay a hand on Thorne’s arm. ‘Have you got any idea . . . ?’ She didn’t need to finish.

  Why.

  Thorne blinked slowly. His chest felt tight, a wheeze in it. He let his head fall back and gazed up at the chandelier, though he remained well aware that Tanner and Hendricks were staring at him, waiting for an answer he was incapable of giving.

  There had hardly been a moment since that night at Melita’s flat when Thorne hadn’t asked himself why she had done what she did. He’d wondered if perhaps Nicklin had threatened her family, those nieces and nephews to whom she was so devoted. It was definitely a possibility, it might well have been enough to force her hand, but it still felt like a straw Thorne was clutching at. Beyond the little he understood about Nicklin’s terrifying powers of persuasion, he would never know what had been in Melita’s mind.

  If he had ever known.

  He remembered something she’d said to him just a month or so earlier. At his place when he’d wanted to watch the football.

  ‘There’s still all sorts of things you don’t know about me, Tom.’

  He’d seen enough to know that those Nicklin had targeted, or who had chosen to come to him, were usually in need of something. The likes of Rebecca Driver, desperate and doomed. Those from whom something had been taken; the lifeless, whose frantic search for purpose had made them ripe for manipulation.

  What had Melita been missing? What could she have been looking for?