Thorne’s hands were over his ears. He couldn’t hear himself screaming at his father to shut up and get out, or begging Victor for help.
‘Bloody funny-sounding ice-cream van,’ Jim Thorne said.
‘It’s a fire alarm, you stupid old bastard.’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions.’
‘We need to leave now. It’s a fire alarm.’
His father’s smile was visible in flashes through the crown of flames. The mischief in his voice was clearly audible above the spatter, and the crackle of burning hair.
‘Is it, Tom? Are you sure?’
Thorne lifted his head and reached for the phone, wiped away the string of drool that hung between his cheek and the desktop.
‘Were you asleep?’
‘No…’
‘You’re such a shit liar,’ Hendricks said. He recognised something in Thorne’s tone, or in the silence. ‘Same dream?’
Thorne sat up straight, then rose slowly to his feet. ‘More or less,’ he said. He groaned, rolling his head around. His back was complaining and he felt as if someone had been standing on his neck.
‘I wish I had time to take naps,’ Hendricks said.
‘It’s been a very long day.’
‘For you and me both, mate.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I almost forgot you were there this morning.’
‘Trust me, I’d rather not have been. There’s times I wish I’d never gone into medicine. When I think I should have listened to my parents and studied hard to be a ballerina, like they wanted.’
Spoken in Hendricks’ flat, Mancunian accent, such comments rarely failed to improve Thorne’s mood. The dream was already fading, though the smell was still strong enough…
‘No surprises on the PM?’
‘None at all in terms of cause of death. I found a large tumour in Kathleen Bristow’s stomach, though. I’ve no idea if she even knew about it.’
The woman was dead, so there was no real reason for Thorne to find this as depressing as he did.
‘What time d’you think you might be getting away?’ Hendricks asked.
Thorne looked at his watch. It was nearly half past seven. He’d slept for around half an hour, but it had been light outside when he’d closed his eyes and now it was starting to get dark. He’d check with Brigstocke, but bearing in mind he’d racked up back-to-back eighteen-hour shifts, he didn’t think there’d be much objection to him heading off. ‘I’ve got to shoot up to Arkley, but that shouldn’t take too long. Home by nine-thirty, ten o’clock, I would have thought.’
‘Fancy a late one in the Prince? Couple of games of pool?’
Thorne still didn’t know if he’d be seeing Porter later, but he reckoned Hendricks wouldn’t mind being stood up if it came to it. ‘Yeah, why not? I won’t sleep much anyway…’
‘As long as you don’t use the bad back as an excuse when I thrash you. Fiver a frame?’
The door opened, and Yvonne Kitson marched across to her desk with a face that said she was an inch from chucking it all in. She dropped her bag, switched on the light, then walked over and leaned against the wall. She looked like she wanted to talk; like she wanted Thorne to know about it.
‘I’d better go, Phil. I’ll call when I’m nearly home.’
‘Right. See you later.’
‘Everything OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m great,’ Hendricks said.
As a liar, he was no better than Thorne.
‘You’re getting far too worked up about this whole case, because you think you fucked it up last time,’ Thorne said as he replaced the receiver.
‘Wrong,’ Kitson said.
‘Which bit?’
‘I know I fucked it up last time.’
Kitson was wired; pacing the small office as though she couldn’t decide whether she’d prefer a shoulder to cry on or a face to punch.
‘You’ll get the other two,’ Thorne said. ‘You will. If Farrell won’t cough, you’ll just have to do it the hard way, that’s all.’
She stopped, looked hard at him, as though he hadn’t heard a word. ‘I really want these two, Tom. I know Farrell killed him, but the others just stood there and watched him do it. The DPS are telling me they can stick all three of the fuckers in the dock for murder. It might get knocked down to GBH in court, but we can have a bloody good try.’
‘So bring in Farrell’s mates, Nelson and Herbert, like you told him you would. It’s probably them anyway.’
‘I’ve had another idea,’ Kitson said.
‘If it’s early retirement, I might join you.’
‘I fancy stopping the clock, bailing Farrell to return tomorrow. We could get some surveillance organised and see if he gets in touch with anybody. He just might contact the other two to let them know he hasn’t said anything.’
Thorne thought it sounded like a reasonable enough idea and told her so. Then he repeated himself, as he wasn’t sure she’d believed him the first time. ‘You’ve done a good job on this, Yvonne.’
‘I went round to see Amin Latif’s parents,’ she said, ‘to tell them about Farrell.’
‘I bet that felt good.’
‘I didn’t tell them how we found him.’ Shame and resignation passed across her face in quick succession. ‘That we should have found him six months ago. I know it’ll come out and we’ll have to deal with it then, but sitting there with Mrs Latif in her living room, I didn’t want to spoil that moment. For them, I mean. Really, for them.’
Thorne just nodded, and straightened one or two things on his desk.
‘I’d better go and talk to Brigstocke about setting up the surveillance.’ She started towards the door. ‘Getting the bail paperwork together…’
After Kitson had gone, Thorne watched as rain fell through the darkness. He was grateful for a minute or two alone; for the chance to let what was left of his father’s performance roll around in his head for a while.
Don’t panic, Son. It’s not what it looks like.
Smoke that wasn’t smoke, and a fire alarm that was really a telephone.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
He walked to the doorway of his office, from where he could see Kitson talking to Karim and Stone in the Major Incident Room. As he watched, an idea sparked and flared, took hold as quickly as flames on polyester.
His father’s face was smothered in red and gold as Thorne stepped out into the corridor.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say how she died, sir.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit ridiculous?’ Lardner asked. ‘You call to tell me a woman’s been murdered, but then I have to sit here wondering if she was shot, stabbed or drowned in the bath.’
‘It’s probably a bit ridiculous, yeah,’ Holland said. ‘But that is the procedure, so…’
‘She was a nice enough woman, as far as I can remember. Fond of sticking her nose in a bit, but I suppose that went with her job. Like journalists drinking… or coppers and probation officers being cynical.’
Holland sipped his tea and grunted.
‘Right, well, not a lot else to say, I suppose.’
‘We were just concerned that you should know about Mrs Bristow’s death.’
‘Should I be?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Concerned. Are we being targeted, do you think?’ Lardner barked a humourless laugh. ‘Perhaps Grant Freestone’s come back out of hiding and is going to slaughter us all one by one.’
‘I don’t think you need to be concerned about that…’
With lunch having been just as piss-poor as Kitson had promised it would be, Wilson had scuttled away to dinner as soon as he was informed that Farrell was being bailed, having agreed to meet his client back at the station the following day.
Kitson stood with Farrell in front of the platform as the custody skipper took him through the release procedure. The sergeant was a wily old sod, and he’d looked sideways at Kitson when she’d presented herself and Farrell, being well aware that she’d been ready to charge the boy a few hours earlier. He knew she was up to something, but knew enough to keep it to himself.