Thorne had only just finished talking to Phil Hendricks when the call came through. He had been joking with Dave Holland, describing some of the pathologist’s escapades in Sweden. Now, hearing something in Thorne’s voice, Holland hovered near his desk and listened, mouthed, ‘What?’
Thorne shook his head.
‘Are you listening to me, Tom?’ Chamberlain sounded annoyed, out of breath.
‘’Course I am, but you’re not-’
‘Ray Garvey’s son is Simon Walsh.’
‘That’s not possible.’
Chamberlain took him through her conversation with Sandra Phipps as quickly as she could: the misunderstanding about her visit and, finally, the revelation that had changed everything. ‘Garvey had an affair with her sister, and they had a son. She was his first victim, Tom. Frances Walsh.’
‘Why the hell did he-?
‘He killed her because she never told him about the kid. That’s why he killed all of them. It’s got sod all to do with any brain tumour.’
Thorne was out of his chair, fighting to take it all in. ‘But Simon Walsh was battered to death. We fished him out of the bloody canal.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Chamberlain said.
‘There was ID.’ But even as he was saying it, he knew that they’d got it wrong. He thought about what Hendricks had said and knew that his friend’s concerns had been well justified. The idea had always been to leave the body unrecognisable, with the letter and the driving licence there to provide evidence that the victim was someone he was not.
But why?
Back when the body had been found, Thorne and Hendricks had also talked about the victim being dumped after being killed elsewhere. Now, Thorne was starting to wonder just how far from Camden that might have been.
‘Anthony Garvey is the son of Ray Garvey’s first victim,’ Chamberlain said. His father murdered his mother, Tom.’
Thorne’s shirt was plastered to the small of his back. He could feel the pulse ticking in his neck.
‘More importantly, though, whoever you pulled out of that canal, it wasn’t Simon Walsh.’
Thorne told Chamberlain he’d call her later and hung up. He was moving before Holland had a chance to speak. Holland followed him into the narrow corridor, started to ask the question, but Thorne cut him off.
‘We need to get rapid-response cars to Euston, as many as you can round up. And an armed-response unit.’
‘What?’
Whoever you pulled out of that canal…
Thorne knew it could have been only one of two men. That the same applied to the killer himself.
‘Now, Dave.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
H.M.P. Whitemoor
‘You ready for tomorrow?’
‘They ran me through the list of what could go wrong.’
‘They have to do that to cover themselves.’
‘I know, but you still think about it, don’t you?’
‘This bloke Kambar sounds like he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Yeah, I suppose. Not got a lot of choice really, have I?’
‘How have the headaches been?’
‘Bloody typical, isn’t it? Last few days I haven’t had so much as a twinge. Having something else to think about, maybe.’
‘You should just think about getting better, about living a damn sight longer.’
‘Right, when I’ve got so much to live for.’
‘Listen, I’ve been doing a bit more reading up, looking online and stuff, and there’s tons about this personality change business.’
‘Christ, Tony.’
‘There’s documented cases.’
‘I’ve told you-’
‘You should be excited about this, I mean it. It could get you out.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘Let me worry about it, OK? You just get well and then I’ll show you all the stuff I’ve put together.’
‘I don’t want you wasting your time.’
‘I’m not, I swear. After the op I’m going to start talking to people, get a campaign started.’
‘What people?’
‘Writers, journalists, whatever. I’ll talk to Doctor Kambar after the operation.’
‘What about the women who died?’
‘That wasn’t you. We can prove it.’
‘What about their husbands and parents? Their children? Don’t you think they might want to start a campaign of their own?’
‘We can’t get… sidetracked by that. Innocent is innocent.’
‘Not to mention-’
‘Don’t.’
‘Your own mother, Tony.’
‘She asked for what she got.’
‘None of them asked for it.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. It was the tumour. It explains the other women, can’t you understand that? You had no control. Not even with her.’
‘I’m not up to this. Any of it.’
‘I’m up to it, OK? You don’t have to worry about anything.’
‘Just having my brain cut open.’
‘I’ll be there when they put you under, OK? And I’ll be there when you wake up.’
‘If…’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Sorry. It’s just…’
‘It’s all right.’
‘I’m grateful, really I am.’
‘Don’t be stupid. It’s what families do.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Debbie was stepping back from the door before the officer’s warrant card had been fully raised. Instinctively, she reached behind her, her hand flapping, beckoning Jason from where she had left him at the foot of the stairs. Her heart lurched; fear, excitement, both.
‘Did you get him?’
The detective shook his head and looked away for a second or two, searching for the words. ‘There’s been a… development, that’s all.’
She shouted her son’s name, without turning round.
‘There’s no need to panic, Miss Mitchell.’
‘What?’
‘We just think it’s better if someone stays with you for a while. Is that OK?’
Debbie took a tentative step forward, craning her neck to see past the man on her doorstep, looking up and down the street. The nosy cow opposite was watching through a gap in her curtains. She probably had the copper down as one of Nina’s clients. Debbie stuck two fingers up.
‘Is that OK, Debbie?’ The detective’s warrant card was slipped back into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Can I come in?’
Debbie took a few seconds, then nodded and turned back into the house, looking for Jason. She heard the front door close as she walked into the sitting room, moving quickly to where her son was now hunched over a picture book next to the sofa. She knelt down beside him, feeling her heart rate slowing a little as she watched him turning the pages, listened to him mutter and grunt.
‘Is there someone else in the house?’
She turned to look up at the figure standing behind her in the doorway. He nodded towards the open door that led through to Nina’s kitchen.
‘The radio,’ she said. ‘It’s a play.’
The detective nodded and listened to the voices for a few moments. It sounded like an argument. ‘Pictures are better, right?’
‘Sorry?’
‘They say that, don’t they?’
‘Say what?’
‘Plays and what have you. That’s why they’re always so good on the radio.’ He tapped a finger against the side of his head. ‘Because the pictures are better.’
‘I’ve never really thought about it.’
Debbie turned back to Jason, but she supposed that the detective was right. She usually had the radio tuned into Capital or Heart FM. She was no great fan of the DJs, but she liked most of the music they played and Jason seemed to like it too. She occasionally caught him dancing, though few other people would have called it that. If there was a play on, though, she’d always try to sit and listen. She’d make a coffee and work her way through a packet of biscuits while Jason was glued to his video. Even when it was one of the weird ones, or some old rubbish set in India or Iraq or wherever, it was usually easy enough to get into the story and an hour would fly by without her really noticing.