The realisation that he simply hadn’t known her well enough to have the first idea had been sobering. What her demons had been, if in fact she’d had any. They had eaten and slept together, they had talked about work, but the more Thorne thought about it, theirs had been less of a relationship and more of an . . . arrangement.

  He didn’t know the names of those nieces and nephews, not because he’d forgotten, but because Melita had never told him. He had never met any of her friends. He had never so much as spoken to her sister or either of her parents, had never been there when she had spoken to them.

  Family had not been part of the arrangement.

  Thorne had briefly thought he could remedy that – that he might even find some answers – if he talked to Melita’s family at the funeral, to those who were closest to her. Now though, he wasn’t even sure he should be there at all.

  He would feel like a stranger.

  ‘Tom . . . ?’

  Hendricks’s voice sounded like it was coming from a long way away and Thorne remembered it, teasing and thick with drink; the laugh as his friend had asked the same question Thorne had not stopped asking ever since he’d found himself washing off Melita’s blood.

  What the fuck does she see in you?

  The answer didn’t matter then, of course, when it was just a wind-up, but now Thorne could not stop wondering if she had found herself drawn to the same thing in Stuart Nicklin. The thing, whatever the hell it was, that had turned a professional fascination into something else. He was convinced it hadn’t been anything physical, and in all the ways that mattered Thorne knew that he and Nicklin had nothing whatsoever in common.

  In most of the ways.

  So . . .

  ‘Tom . . . ?’

  Perhaps Melita had simply been attracted to damage.

  Thorne turned to look at Hendricks. At Tanner, smiling at him.

  ‘You any idea how long?’ she asked. ‘The two of them.’

  Something else Thorne had been torturing himself with; exactly when Nicklin and Melita had met and how long their little ‘arrangement’ had been going on for. How long she had known exactly who she had been treating. A few weeks? Longer? Now, only one person knew for sure and it was Thorne’s profound hope that he would never have to see or speak to him again.

  ‘It really doesn’t matter, does it?’ Thorne said.

  ‘Drink up, mate.’ Hendricks pointed with his bottle to Thorne’s untouched one.

  Thorne reached for the beer. ‘Any chance of turning this noise down?’

  Hendricks looked horrified. ‘This noise is “Merry Shitmas” by the fine Swedish black metal combo Gehennah.’

  ‘It’s making my ears bleed,’ Thorne said.

  Hendricks got up, muttering, and did as Thorne had asked. As soon as he was seated again, he raised his drink. ‘We can still celebrate though, can’t we?’

  Tanner stared at him. ‘Phil . . . ’

  ‘Look . . . I’m sorry she’s dead and all that, but come on.’ Hendricks nodded towards Thorne. ‘She fucking betrayed him.’ He swigged and shook his head. ‘Actually, I’m not that sorry . . . but Nicklin . . . yeah.’ He raised the bottle. ‘Fucker’s finally banged up, so I for one am going to drink to that.’

  Tanner took a sip of wine, but her eyes were on Thorne.

  Thorne nodded, like it was all OK, then finally lifted his bottle and had a drink. A good long one, but only because he needed it; because he was about to spoil everyone’s Christmas.

  He was about to spoil everything.

  He put the bottle down and told them. The price they would all be paying for Stuart Nicklin’s arrest. The secret Nicklin would be revealing and how he had found out.

  It was Hendricks who broke the long silence that followed, with a burst of hollow laughter. ‘Now I’m really not sorry she’s dead.’

  Thorne looked at him, feeling a flash of anger that was unjustified, that he could not begin to explain. Despite everything Melita Perera had done, Thorne was grieving; as messed up, as broken as the scene that would be waiting for him back at home. He said, ‘It was my own fault for telling her.’

  ‘You didn’t have much choice,’ Tanner said. ‘Once she’d overheard.’

  ‘If it’s anyone’s fault, then, it’s mine,’ Hendricks said. ‘Ringing you up and belly-aching about it.’

  ‘We’ve all done that,’ Tanner said.

  They fell silent again, looked at the floor, the walls. Tanner grunted and smiled when the sound of carol singers, tuneless but enthusiastic, drifted up from Camden Road.

  ‘So when?’ she asked.

  ‘When what?’

  ‘When’s Nicklin going to spill his guts?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘He’ll enjoy it,’ Hendricks said. ‘Us not knowing when the hammer’s going to fall, waiting for it. It’s always a power thing with him.’

  ‘He’ll do it at the trial, I reckon,’ Thorne said. ‘The full glare of the media, so maximum coverage. He’ll enjoy the theatre of it.’

  ‘If he does it at all,’ Hendricks said. ‘Maybe just having the three of us shitting ourselves is enough.’

  ‘No chance,’ Thorne said. ‘He’ll do what he promised.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘So that’s it then.’ Tanner shrugged and sat back. ‘It’s actually a relief in some ways.’ She looked from Thorne to Hendricks, back to Thorne. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t give him the pleasure, just own up to it before he can say anything.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Thorne said.

  ‘So what if he does tell?’ Hendricks sounded upbeat suddenly. ‘The only other person who can back him up is dead and it’s not like Nicklin’s word’s exactly reliable, is it? Chances are it won’t even get taken seriously.’

  ‘If it gets as far as a second post-mortem it will,’ Tanner said. ‘Once they find out French’s skull was a lot thicker than you said it was, the whole house of cards comes down.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Thorne looked at Tanner. ‘The other week you were saying how lucky it was that one of us was solid. That I was the reliable one, remember? And I’d already fucked it up.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,’ Tanner said. ‘I was the one who . . . killed him. However this plays out, I’ll make sure everyone knows that. I’ll do everything possible to carry the can for this.’

  Hendricks stared at her. ‘What, so me and Tom just get our wrists slapped?’

  ‘I promise I’ll try.’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking daft, Nic.’

  They fell silent again. Somewhere on the street below them, the carol singers were still going at it, but nobody in that room was feeling joyful or triumphant.

  ‘Fuck it,’ Hendricks said, finally. ‘I’ll find some other way to earn a crust. I was getting cheesed off with stinking of formaldehyde, anyway.’

  Thorne looked across at him. ‘Such as?’

  ‘A high-end rent boy, maybe.’ Hendricks nodded, enjoying the idea. ‘A paid companion for the more . . . discerning homosexual gentleman.’

  ‘That’s your business plan then, is it?’

  Hendricks spread his arms wide. ‘Plenty of blokes would pay top dollar for this, mate.’

  ‘I reckon you’d have to pay them,’ Thorne said.

  They both turned to look at Tanner; watched her laughing and crying at the same time.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Margaret Herbert knew that HMP Belmarsh was a high-profile place, that it had housed plenty of big name villains, but the security procedures for getting inside were much the same as they had been the last time she’d been to visit someone in prison. Scanners and searches, all that. So she’d known what to expect.

  That had been a few weeks back, when she’d been to Bronzefield, pretending to be Karen Sinclair’s mother. She still couldn’t quite believe that nobody had questioned it. It had been simple enough to get a fake ID with the right name on it, and she’d definitely looked the part. Karen Sinclair hadn’t let on, obviously. Not when the silly cow thought Herbert was there to talk about money; specifically, how much of it Sinclair would get for sorting Rebecca Driver out.

  As it was, Margaret hadn’t mentioned money at all, but she’d definitely had the same sort of conversation she’d have had if she had been the woman’s mother. Asked all the same questions. How are the kids, Karen? How are they getting on at school? She’d made it very clear that certain people knew exactly who those kids were, where they lived and what school they went to, so money hadn’t even come into it. It had been properly nerve-racking to begin with, but Margaret had enjoyed herself in the end, got right into the part.

  The man she’d come to Belmarsh to see had been delighted, told her she should have been an actress. She wouldn’t have gone quite that far, but she knew she’d done a good job.

  Today, though, she was being herself, and she was excited.

  She looked around as prisoners started filing in and the visiting area began to fill up. She knew there’d be some serious criminals in here, terrorists and killers and what have you. The sort of people whose names might make her a few quid somewhere down the line, if she got hold of the right items.

  Shame she couldn’t hand out a few business cards.

  She knew Stuart had come in when she saw other people turn to look, when she heard the whispers. However famous some of the sorts they’d had in here over the years might have been – Ronnie Biggs, Ian Huntley, whoever – they were second division compared to this bloke. He wouldn’t be here long, of course, just remanded until his trial, but while he was he’d be top of the bill. Margaret enjoyed people watching as he walked across and sat down opposite her. People looking at her and wondering who she was . . .

  Nicklin put down a bottle of water and smiled.

  ‘Nice to see you, Mags.’

  ‘You too, love.’ She hadn’t clapped eyes on him for a good while, not since he’d come back to London. He was certainly different. ‘You’re looking good.’

  Nicklin smiled again and shook his head. ‘Been a long time.’

  ‘So, how are you?’ Margaret asked. ‘Sorry, stupid question.’ She looked around. ‘I mean, considering.’

  ‘No, it’s all right, actually. I’m not . . . unhappy with the way it all turned out. Better for me than for some others, put it that way.’

  ‘That’s the main thing. I mean, as long as you’re not bored in here. A clever man like you, stuck inside.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking I might write a book.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Well, there’s one or two things I need to get off my chest anyway, so why not set the record straight?’

  ‘As long as I get a signed copy,’ Margaret said.

  ‘So, yeah, I think I’ll be all right.’ Nicklin looked at her. ‘I’m not saying there aren’t one or two things I’ll miss, mind you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘A few treats.’

  Margaret nodded and leaned forward. ‘That’s why I’ve got a little something for you. Pep you up a bit.’

  ‘You’re a star,’ Nicklin said.

  ‘Least I could do.’ She dug the tissue from her pocket, palming the bright yellow pill that was wrapped inside it before she blew her nose. She reached across to take Nicklin’s hand.

  ‘No touching.’

  Nicklin saw the guard approaching and pulled his hand away. He coughed, popping in the pill, then washed it down with a swig from his water bottle. Easy peasy.

  ‘Cameron sorted that for you, did he?’

  ‘No, actually it was a present from a bloke outside . . . gave it to me specially, said to make sure you got it. You’ve got quite a few fans out there. Some very strange-looking articles.’

  Nicklin shrugged, but she could tell he was pleased.

  ‘Not sure what they’re hanging around for. I mean it’s nice, but it’s not like they can pop in and get your autograph, is it?’

  ‘Not like you, eh?’

  Margaret felt herself blushing. ‘No.’

  ‘Talking of which, I’ll try and send a few more bits and pieces your way as soon as I can.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘Just because I’m in here, or wherever I end up after the trial, doesn’t mean business has to go on hold, does it?’

  ‘You’ve always been my favourite,’ Margaret said.

  ‘Because I make you the most money?’

  ‘Not just that.’

  ‘You’re a good actress, Mags, and a great businesswoman.’ Nicklin grinned. ‘But you’re a terrible liar.’

  Herbert shook her head and looked around again. People were still looking. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt quite this special.

  She turned back when Nicklin began to cough.

  ‘Cough it up, love. It might be a gold watch.’ Her mother always used to say that, she said it to Cameron. The coughing only got worse, though, and then it was like Nicklin couldn’t breathe properly. She reached across and nudged the water bottle towards him. ‘Here you go, get that—’

  She leaned away again when he sat bolt upright in his chair and began to convulse, like he was wired up to something.

  ‘Jesus . . . you all right, love?’

  Margaret stood up when Nicklin tumbled sideways off his chair and now everyone was looking as guards began to run across. By the time any of them had got there, Nicklin was fitting; red-faced, kicking his legs wildly, with his hands clamped to either side of his head.

  She craned her head to watch as she was marched quickly away, as more guards came in shouting and began to empty the visits area.

  ‘Is he going to be OK?’

  ‘You need to move towards the exit,’ the guard said.

  There were two guards down on the floor with him now, yelling and panicky. It was the last thing Margaret saw before she and everyone else was ushered out of the room. She asked again if Stuart was going to be OK, but didn’t get an answer.

  She hoped more than anything that he would be.

  She couldn’t bear to think what it would cost her if he wasn’t.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Phil Hendricks didn’t smoke very often any more, but he was enjoying this cigarette immensely. He mooched around the car park, watching the gate, and it was only when he saw them all coming out together that he strolled back towards his car. He recognised some of the visitors he’d seen half an hour earlier, now deep in conversation with one another.

  Clearly something had happened.

  He smiled as a couple of them walked past him, complaining; muttering about the prison being locked down.

  Hendricks tossed what was left of his cigarette away.

  As he started his car, he saw the old woman he’d been talking to before the visitors had been let in, the one into whose hands he’d pressed a special something for the man she was there to visit. A present from a fellow admirer. They’d had a very enjoyable chat as it happened, though he’d had to struggle not to react when she’d told him how she made a living.

  He’d been so tempted to say something.

  ‘The dark web, you say? Very good place if you’re looking for last-minute Christmas presents. You know, unusual ones . . . ’

  Stumping up the money had been easy enough, but he’d needed to be creative too, of course. MDMA tended to be rather more . . . colourful than a bog-standard potassium cyanide tablet. So he’d snapped on some nitrile gloves, got busy in his kitchen for a few hours and experimented with food dye until he’d got it right. The first few times the pill had crumbled, but he’d cracked it in the end and then it was just a question of using a post-mortem needle from work to etch on a nice smiley face. All a bit fiddly, and he doubted that Nicklin would even have a chance to examine his free ‘disco biscuit’ very closely, but if a job was worth doing . . .

  As soon as he’d turned out of the car park, he called Thorne.

  ‘Hey, mate . . . just wondered if you fancied a pint later on.’

  ‘Maybe.’ It sounded as though Thorne was driving, too. ‘Not sure just yet, but I’ll know one way or the other in an hour or two. Can I let you know?’

  ‘Yeah, not a problem. Be nice, though.’

  ‘So, what, are we drowning our sorrows?’

  ‘I think we’ve done enough of that,’ Hendricks said.

  Thorne ended the call and pushed the car south across Lambeth bridge. He turned the volume back up on the George Jones CD he’d been listening to when Hendricks had rung. A drink sounded great, but Thorne couldn’t commit, not yet, because the alternative, if there proved to be one, would be even better.

  He wasn’t going to make the same mistake as last time, so he had called Helen as soon as Nicklin had been taken into custody, to let her know she could cancel those nightly drive-pasts. To let her know that she and Alfie were safe. Helen had said how sorry she was about what had happened to Melita. Thorne had yet to tell her the whole story and assured her that he would, but said that he was sorry, too.

  They’d left it there.

  With only a week until the big day, they’d talked about their Christmas plans. Helen was going to stay with her dad in Sydenham, she’d said, give the old man a chance to spoil his grandson. Thorne had told her everything was a bit ‘up in the air’ as far as his own Christmas was concerned, though he already knew he’d be spending a good deal of time over the holidays trying to get his flat straight. Disposing of the wreckage and replacing the things he’d broken. He hadn’t told Helen that the time would also be spent wondering when the Directorate of Professional Standards would come calling.

  If the P45 would come before the arrest.

  Helen had suggested that he drop round once it was all over. Thorne had caught his breath, then realised she was talking about Christmas as opposed to his career.

  ‘That time between Christmas and New Year is always so dead,’ she’d said. ‘Come round here one night and we’ll have a proper catch-up.’