Brigstocke stepped forward again. ‘We’ve worked a lot of hours over the last few days and most of you are fucked, I know. So anyone who isn’t on a late one tonight, stay out of the pub, OK? Go home, get eight hours, then get yourselves in here first thing and put this to bed. Then we can all go back to a few nice easy domestics and drug shootings.’
With the briefing over, the assembled officers scattered fast, moving back to phones and computers. There was a good deal of upbeat hubbub. Someone shouted, ‘Come on, let’s fucking have it.’
Thorne watched the inquiry shifting up a gear.
Stone-cold sober…
Later, Brigstocke called Thorne and Kitson into his office.
‘We need to get something out of today,’ he said. ‘There was no message before he killed Cowans, so it looks like he’s decided to stop making things so easy for us.’
Kitson nudged Thorne. ‘Or maybe he’s just gone off Tom.’
Thorne summoned a smile, or something close to it.
‘Maybe he thinks he’s cleared his debt,’ she said. ‘The whole message thing was just for Nicklin’s benefit, right? Doesn’t mean Brooks has to keep doing it.’
Brigstocke agreed that it made sense. ‘Any luck with Sedat’s girlfriend earlier?’
‘I was just writing it up,’ Kitson said. ‘A big, fat “fuck all”, I’m afraid.’
‘Could be there’s fuck all to get.’
‘She might just want some attention,’ Thorne suggested.
‘I’m going to have another crack at her tomorrow.’ Kitson looked as determined as Brigstocke had done at the briefing. ‘She’s scared, that’s all. Maybe she’s scared of whoever killed Sedat, because I think she knows who that is.’
‘Get it out of her then,’ Brigstocke said. ‘See if we can get both these jobs off the books by the end of the week.’
Kitson and Thorne walked slowly back down the corridor towards their office.
‘He seems happier,’ Thorne said.
‘Seems…’
‘Maybe whatever it was has gone away.’
‘Since when do the DPS “go away”?’
‘Serious, you reckon?’
‘That’s the thing with them,’ Kitson said. ‘You never know. He might have lost it and battered someone in an interview room or he might have nicked some paper clips. They still have the same look on their faces.’
They stopped at the door and Thorne offered to go and get them both coffee.
‘You OK?’ Kitson asked.
‘Like he said at the briefing. Fucked.’
‘Well, go and have a night in with Louise. Get your end away and forget about it until tomorrow.’
Thorne seriously doubted he would be doing both. ‘Listen, if Sedat’s girlfriend does know something, I’m sure you’ll get it.’
‘I’m going to give it a go.’
‘Take it easy with her, though. Talk to her somewhere she’s more relaxed. Everyone’s scared in the bin, even if they’ve got no reason to be.’ Kitson just nodded. ‘Sorry,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m not trying to tell you how to handle it.’
‘That’s fine,’ Kitson said. ‘I’ll take any advice you’ve got. As long as you remember to take mine.’
Thorne went to fetch the coffees, thinking about how easy it was to stick your oar in, to be objective, when it wasn’t your own case. Not that he felt like the Brooks case was his any more. Not his to work, at any rate.
Walking across to the kettle, he glanced at the whiteboard; at the job mapped out in numbers, names and black lines; times of death and photographs of wounds. He almost expected to see his own name right next to those of the dead and the prime suspect. In the middle of the board, among the list of those central to the inquiry, instead of scribbled in capitals at the top.
When Thorne had called Louise to say that he wouldn’t be back late, and to ask what time she was likely to get away, they’d talked about going to see a movie. She’d seemed in a good mood, certainly relative to the one she’d been in at half past six that morning. They’d argued good-naturedly for a few minutes about what to see before deciding not to bother.
When Thorne got home he suggested trying a new Thai place that had opened on Kentish Town Road, but Louise had other ideas. She had brought stuff round and seemed determined to cook. While she was sorting dinner, Thorne nipped out to fetch a bottle of wine.
Louise looked at the bottle when Thorne got back. Asked how much it had cost, and seemed pleased when he told her.
‘Cheap beer and expensive wine,’ she said. ‘That’s one of the things I liked about you first off.’
‘One of the things?’
‘OK, the only thing,’ she said. ‘Now I come to think about it.’
They ate pasta at the small table in Thorne’s living room. Got through the wine, and listened to a June Carter Cash compilation Thorne had picked up for next to nothing on eBay.
‘That stuff the other night.’ Louise reached across for an empty plate.
‘What stuff?’ Thorne said, knowing perfectly well.
‘It didn’t mean that I wanted anything, you know? That I want to have a baby, now, this minute. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong in talking about it.’
‘It’s fine…’
‘It isn’t fine, because it obviously freaked you out. So, I just want to make sure we understand each other.’
‘Does this mean we need to get into the cheap beer?’
‘I’m serious.’
Louise explained that despite what had happened in bed that night, she really did not want to get pregnant. That wasn’t to say she wouldn’t want to have a child one day, but she had a career to put first for a few more years.
‘I look at someone like Yvonne Kitson,’ she said, ‘see her trying to juggle work around three kids, and I’m not sure I’d ever be able to do it.’
Thorne thought about Louise’s reaction when they’d talked about Kitson and he’d accused her of being jealous. He wondered if he’d touched even more of a nerve than he’d realised.
‘I’d be stupid to have a kid now.’
‘It’s fine,’ Thorne repeated.
‘You keep saying that, but I don’t think it is. I’m worried that you think I’m desperate for you to knock me up or something. That I’m some sort of nutter who’s going to stick pins in all your condoms or nick a pram from outside Tesco’s. Really, I’m happy with the way things are.’
‘Good. So am I,’ Thorne said.
‘Great. So that’s fine then.’
They moved from the table to the sofa, and when the album had finished they put the TV on and tried to lose themselves in something mindless. After fifteen minutes of saying nothing, though, Thorne wasn’t convinced that Louise was succeeding any more than he was.
She hit the mute button on the remote and was about to say something when the phone rang.
Thorne recognised the voice immediately.
‘How did you get my home number?’ he said. He pictured a glorified cupboard stuffed with recording equipment. A bored technician wearing headphones, ears pricking up on hearing his question.
‘Come on,’ Rawlings said. ‘If you wanted to get mine, how long would it take you?’
‘What do you want?’ Next to him, Louise was mouthing, Who is it? ‘I’m in the middle of something.’
‘I could do with a chat. Just five minutes.’
‘Fine, but not this five.’
There was a pause. Thorne could hear Rawlings blowing out smoke; knew that he was swearing silently.
‘What about tomorrow?’
‘Fine. Call me then.’
‘Can we meet up?’
Louise was still asking. Thorne shook his head; he’d tell her in a minute. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow. A lot of stuff happened today, and-’
‘What stuff?’
‘Right, you’ve had your chat…’
‘Come on. We can meet wherever’s easiest for you, all right? Five fucking minutes…’