‘He’s a “cardiologist with a nice arse”,’ Louise said. ‘That was Phil’s first description anyway.’
‘That it?’
‘He seems nice.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Only the once. Listen, relax.’
‘I am relaxed.’
‘You’re friends,’ Louise said. ‘You’ll sort it out. If it’s any consolation, Phil’s just as nervous about seeing you.’
‘I’m fine.’
Shitting himself…
Thorne wandered back into the living room and across to the shelves of CDs, Louise’s and his own. He was feeling uncomfortable in a brand-new shirt from M &S. He hadn’t been bothered to iron out the creases. ‘Shall I stick some music on?’ he shouted.
There was a clatter of pans from the kitchen. ‘What?’
Thorne took out a copy of Wrecking Ball by Emmylou Harris, put the disc into the player, and scanned through to the Lucinda Williams song that was his favourite track on the album.
Louise appeared briefly in the doorway. ‘I should have started the sauce fifteen minutes ago,’ she said. She nodded towards the computer. ‘You lose all track of time once you’re into the game.’ She jabbed scissors into a pack of tortellini and turned back into the kitchen.
Humming along with the song…
It was halfway through December. Three weeks since Thorne had made his arrest; since Marcus Brooks had been charged with the murder of Raymond Tucker.
Brooks had made a full confession.
He had detailed the killings of Ricky Hodson and Martin Cowans, and while denying any involvement in the murder of Paul Skinner, he had confessed to the attempted murder of another senior police officer. DCI Keith Bannard was on life support in St Thomas’s Hospital. Had been since being struck by the car Marcus Brooks had been driving, shortly before Brooks had telephoned DI Tom Thorne, leaving a message to say where he was and expressing a desire to turn himself in.
No mention was made of an attack on the owner of a Turkish restaurant on the same evening as his arrest…
Louise carried through a handful of cutlery and dumped it on the small, pine table. Thorne got up from the sofa and began to lay out the place settings.
Through friends on Serious and Organised – all of whom had expressed amazement at the extent of Bannard’s criminal activities – Thorne had learned that Arkan Zarif had been discovered in the early hours of the morning by one of his sons, who had quickly called an ambulance. The police had been summoned by hospital staff, but Zarif had insisted that it had all been his own fault. Both of his knees had been smashed in a nasty fall, he said, after having had a little too much to drink.
Hearing this, Thorne had remembered Louise’s drug dealer, the one who had kidnapped himself and chopped off his own fingers; had thought about how much damage people seemed capable of doing to themselves in extreme circumstances. It was not an observation he had felt able to share with Louise, of course, however much she might have enjoyed it.
He thought it was for the best. He didn’t want to get her involved. And it was not like he had actually lied…
The same old shit.
Laying out the knives and forks, Thorne thought about the prepay handset, locked away safely back at his flat; the confession preserved for posterity on its voice recorder. He knew that while it was in his possession, Zarif would not tell anyone what had happened in his restaurant that night, but he also knew it could be a very dangerous piece of insurance. He could never feel completely safe until Zarif was put away for good, and he would use what he’d been given to make sure that happened.
Without revealing his source, he had already begun feeding the information, little by little, through to those he could trust at S &O. Many of those subsequently questioned and arrested would refuse to cooperate, of course, but Thorne knew that eventually one of them would take the deal that was offered. That Arkan Zarif would pay for what he’d done in the proper way, without the evidence extracted by Marcus Brooks ever needing to see the light of day.
That Angela and Robbie Georgiou, and Jim Thorne, and God knows how many others, could rest a little more peacefully.
Thorne poured out wine for himself and Louise; took a decent-sized slurp and topped up his glass.
There had been no date set for Brooks’ trial, nor for that of Hakan Kemal, but neither defence nor prosecution in either case seemed in much of a hurry. With both as close to foregone conclusions as you could get, it was unlikely that Sam Karim would be running a book on either.
Two defendants, each on trial for murder, but only one who seemed concerned about the outcome.
Thorne had spent many hours questioning his prime suspect after the arrest, and knew that Marcus Brooks was content to go back to prison. That it was perhaps the only future that made any sort of sense for him. Thorne could recall few cases that had absorbed and disorientated him as much; but equally, he could not think of too many that had been cleared up with so little fuss.
He had settled into the abnormally pleasurable rut of pre-trial preparation; had caught three more murder cases; had got back to work.
He had told Eileen that he and Louise would be coming to her on Boxing Day, if that was OK.
He had not returned the missing training shoe he had promised to Anthony Yashere.
Thorne picked up his glass and walked into the kitchen, while Emmylou’s voice soared above a wash of guitar and Neil Young’s keening harmonica, telling someone exactly what they’d lost when they left this sweet old world.
He watched Louise at the cooker for a minute, took a swig of wine and said, ‘I don’t think it’s a completely stupid idea.’
‘I know.’
‘I just can’t promise to be any good at it.’
She nodded without turning round, kept on stirring.
‘Plus, there’s the whole age thing,’ he said. ‘By the time any kid’s a teenager, I’ll be pushing sixty. I’ll be fucked.’ Another swig. ‘I’m already fucked.’
‘Nobody’s arguing.’
‘So long as you know.’
She turned then and laid down the spoon; leaned against the edge of the worktop. ‘Look, I know you think you’ll be shit, and you don’t think you’ve got any patience and whatever, but I’m really not bothered. And I’m not convinced you’ll even make sixty, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that.’ She took a step towards him. ‘The side of you that still cares about that old man, that got upset telling me about it, that’s the side I’m interested in. That’s why I know you’ll be fine. Better than fine…’
Another step, and he opened his arms as she reached him. It was only for a few seconds, though, before she eased away again, and went back to check the sauce wasn’t boiling.
Thorne watched her flick the kettle on. Saw her pour oil then salt into a pan to cook the pasta.
There are other sides, he thought.
EPILOGUE
The Vulnerable Prisoners Wing didn’t house too many prisoners, with no more than sixty heading down to the servery come meal-time. It was certainly a more orderly process than that taking place elsewhere in the prison. But whatever the size of the queue at the hot-plate, Nicklin always wanted to be first.
He hated waiting, watching while others were served before him. He imagined that they were getting more than their fair share, that he would get second best when his turn came. He’d always been the same way when it came to food. With any of his appetites, come to that.
Dinner was dished out between six and seven, but Nicklin had been there since a quarter to. Clutching his tray and listening to the kitchen staff making banal conversation behind the metal shutter.
He banged on the shutter at one minute past. There were a dozen more in the queue behind him by now.
‘Stop pissing in the soup and open up, will you?’