‘Something you stirred up.’
‘It drove him,’ Nicklin said. ‘And I can’t believe that you don’t understand exactly what that must be like. I know that if someone did that to you, if they took away someone you loved, you’d want to hurt them. More, probably…’
Thorne looked up. Nicklin was staring at him; something intense, joyful in his eyes, and Thorne had to ask himself if this was more than just free character analysis. Could Nicklin really know such things? About what had happened to Thorne’s father.
Might have happened…
There had been moments earlier, just one or two, when Thorne had looked at the man across the table; when he had asked himself, in the absence of any prison officer and in the light of what he knew Stuart Nicklin to be capable of, if he should be concerned for his safety. Now, as he felt his own reservoir of bad blood start to leak, cold into his veins, he knew that Nicklin was the one who should be afraid.
‘Your friend,’ Thorne said. ‘The one who goes through my rubbish whenever he fancies it. Tell him it’s finished, OK?’ Nicklin held the stare. ‘Tell him that if I as much as see a rat nosing round my bins, I’m going to presume it’s him in disguise. That I’m going to find him and fuck him up. Make sure he gets that message.’
Nicklin gave a small salute.
Thorne pointed. ‘And you need to do some forgetting. Whatever you know… numbers, dates, names. Anything about me, or anyone close to me, just let it go.’
Nicklin shook his head. ‘As it happens, I’ve almost forgotten your girlfriend’s address already. The number, I mean. But I’m sure the street name will go as well, eventually.’ He jabbed at his temple. ‘Maybe my mind’s going, same as your old man’s did. I’m having some trouble remembering the last two digits of Auntie Eileen’s phone number as well, so I don’t think you need to worry.’
Thorne could feel the dark blood starting to rush, singing beneath the skin. ‘You need to forget it all,’ he said.
‘It’s such a shame…’
‘Really, you do. Because even if you spend the rest of your life inside, whether or not you think you’ve got fuck all left to lose, trying to use any of this stuff would not be clever.’
Nicklin chuckled, but he suddenly looked tired. ‘Well, you were as good as your word in that playground.’ He grinned, showing Thorne his false teeth. ‘As good as your threat, I should say. But those were exceptional circumstances, weren’t they? I’m not sure you’d be up to it this time.’
Thorne leaned back, folded his arms. ‘Just take a good, long look, and remember me sitting in this chair.’
But Nicklin was already pushing his arms along the tabletop. He leaned down slowly and turned his head to lay his face on top of them. From where Thorne was sitting, he could see several small, irregular patches, dark against the baby-pink of Nicklin’s bald head. Purplish blots or lesions, like wine stains, on his scalp.
Paul Skinner steadied himself against the worktop and tried to stop the can rattling against the glasses as he poured out the beer. He stopped and took a deep breath, fought the urge to vomit.
He’d been telling himself that the sweat was a result of being frantically busy all day, but it was sounding less convincing by the minute. Not that he hadn’t been tearing around like a blue-arsed fly. He’d spent the best part of two hours persuading his wife what a nice idea it would be for her to take the kids across to her mum’s for the weekend. He’d helped them pack, loaded up the car and waved them off. Once they’d gone, he’d continued to charge around; aimlessly, he knew, but he couldn’t stop. He refused just to sit and wait for whatever was coming.
The sweat had begun to prickle the moment those two Murder Squad twats had stepped across his doorstep, and it had been pouring from him, thick and sticky, ever since. It wasn’t the same as sweat on a hot day, or after a kick-about in the garden with the kids. He’d smelled fear on plenty of people in his time, but his own sweat was richer and more rank, worse than anything he’d caught coming at him across a cell or over an interview-room table.
The stink of his own terror made him gag.
He dropped the two empty cans into the bin and told himself that things were sorting themselves out. He’d made the call as soon as Annie and the kids were out of the way, and it had calmed him down a little. He’d been told to relax, to try not to panic; that there was nothing to get worked up about. They’d been in this sort of mess before, hadn’t they? No, not this kind, he’d tried to say, and it’s not like it’s you on that fucking video clip, is it? But in the end, after some arguing, he’d been as reassured as he could have hoped for.
There had been trouble over the years, of course. That was the risk when you went the way they’d chosen to go, he knew that. A couple of colleagues had got nosey once or twice. The rubber-heelers had sniffed around on occasion, too, but to no avail. And when it came to those on the other side of the fence, there were always one or two toerags who tried to have it both ways: happy to hand over cash to get you onside, then trying to be clever and putting the squeeze on once they thought they owned you; when they thought they’d got enough to put you away.
Arseholes like Simon Tipper. Top Black Dog and stupid, greedy, dead bastard. Which was where Marcus Brooks had come into all this in the first place…
Skinner carried the beers back into the sitting room, cursing as he tripped and banged his head against the edge of the door. He pushed himself up on to one knee, moaning and puffing; rubbed at his head and at the spilled beer that was soaking into his trouser leg. He looked up at the familiar figure standing above him; saw the blood that seemed to be painted on to his hand, that was dripping on to the carpet, and realised that he hadn’t tripped at all.
That he hadn’t banged his head.
The room grew suddenly hot and bright, the whiteness screaming inside his skull, and his tongue was heavy in his mouth as he tried to speak. ‘Do we really need to do this?’
And, gasping for breath, the smell grew richer stilclass="underline" the bite of urine, the coppery smack of his own blood.
‘Yes, we really do.’
But the words never reached Skinner’s ears. They were lost in the grunt of effort as the hammer was brought down a second time.
Down to the last four in a no-limit tournament, playing as the ‘old lady’, Thorne called a ten-dollar raise with a king-queen suited, and sat back to see what Number1Razr made of it. He looked at the chair that was occupied, as always, by the huge, bald man in the Hawaiian shirt; chewing on his cigar, ready for anything. Thorne couldn’t help but be reminded of Nicklin. The figure looked as full of himself and was equally difficult to read. The major difference was that the cartoon looked a damn sight healthier.
Number1Razr lived up to his name, and when Thorne missed out on the flop completely, he got out of the hand while the going was good.
By the time his train had reached Paddington there was no point going back to the office, so he’d filled Brigstocke in over the phone. Since the call, he’d tried to convince himself that he’d simply misread the DCI’s mood, but there was no doubting the strangeness of his boss’s reaction when Thorne had suggested that Skinner was one of a pair of corrupt officers being targeted by Marcus Brooks. There had been a weariness in the long silence before Brigstocke had spoken: ‘This is based on what you’ve been told by a convicted serial killer, is it?’
‘He’s got no reason to bullshit me.’
‘He doesn’t need a reason.’
‘It makes a lot of sense,’ Thorne had said.