She lifted Alfie’s legs up. She pulled the dirty nappy away and dropped it into a nappy sack. She wiped him down, struggling to keep him still, then began to slather on the cream.
Within a day or two of her release, it had become obvious that nobody had told Donnelly or anyone else exactly what had gone on in that storeroom at the end. Nobody had talked about the gun being held at Prosser’s head. She racked her brain, trying to recall if Thorne or Prosser had said anything while it was happening that would have given the game away to those listening in, and began to realise that she had got away with it.
Same as she had with Mitchell.
They talked about her bravery from day one, her resilience. Holed up in there with a gun to her head, knowing that she too could be killed if she let on that her fellow hostage had already been murdered. They talked about the strength of her character.
Mentioned a medal, for God’s sake.
Tom Thorne had known that keeping Mitchell’s death secret had been her decision. When they found their first moment alone together, he told her that he’d suspected it almost as soon as he’d been sent that picture of Stephen Mitchell’s body. He hadn’t said anything. He disposed of his mobile phone as soon as he had the chance. He had enough secrets of his own, he told her, so keeping another one was hardly going to get him into any more trouble.
Thorne did not seem overly burdened by guilt at the way things had panned out, which was fine, because neither was she.
Been there, done that, bought the hair T-shirt.
The way she heard it, Nadira Akhtar was not exactly overcome with remorse either and Helen had no real problem with that. She would never forget the look on Javed Akhtar’s face though, when he had finally revealed just why his guilt was so poisonous and so all-consuming; why the ravenous cancer of it would never stop sucking at him. He had smiled at her and looked as good as dead.
‘My sweet, sweet boy,’ Akhtar had said.
Helen sat there on the edge of the bed as the music wound slowly down. She had a clean nappy in her hand, but she was happy enough just to sit and watch her son kick his fat little legs for a while.
SEVENTY-FOUR
There was light – grey and watery – creeping in through the gap where the curtains would not close properly. There were birds too – a couple of tone-deaf blackbirds with smoker’s cough – and Thorne guessed it was somewhere around four, but his watch was on the dressing table and he could not be arsed to slide across to the other side of the bed and check the clock to be sure.
Whatever time it was, awake was awake and Thorne didn’t fancy himself to get to sleep again any time soon. He hadn’t been sleeping particularly well since the siege had ended. Some nights he would wake every couple of hours, his skin slick and his brain feeling as though it were about to overheat, his internal clock shot to pieces. Not that missing out on a few hours’ sleep during the night mattered a great deal at the moment.
Not when he could catch up during the day.
‘You should take the chance to get away,’ Hendricks had said. ‘Think of it like a holiday and do something you’ve always fancied.’
‘I quite fancy doing sod all, which is handy at the moment.’
‘Seriously. You could go to Nashville… ’
‘It’s suspension without pay,’ Thorne reminded him. ‘I could barely afford half a day at Southend.’
‘So, read a few books, go to a gallery or something.’
Thorne had watched a lot of daytime television.
Even before Javed Akhtar’s wife had got busy with the storeroom scissors, Thorne had known he was likely to end up facing disciplinary action of some kind. Once Prosser had bled like a stuck pig all over last week’s Daily Express and TV Quick there had been no question about it, but Thorne would almost certainly have been in big trouble anyway, just for taking him in there.
‘There was always going to be some wrist-slapping,’ Brigstocke had told him. ‘Just for the way you did it. I know it’s stupid and you didn’t have a lot of choice, and I know that his being a judge should have bugger all to do with anything, but there you go. You might still have got away with it, but chuck in this business with the warrant and you’re properly stuffed.’ Brigstocke had at least looked genuinely upset, was genuinely upset, but it had not made it any easier to hear. ‘I’ve gone out on a limb for you before, Tom, you know I have, but not this time. Nothing I can do to help you, mate.’
In the end, the illegal search of Jonathan Bridges’ flat had put the tin lid on it and by the time the dust had settled, at least three different DPS teams had worked themselves into something of a frenzy. Whatever else happened, Thorne was determined to find out which job-pissed arse-licker had grassed him up about the warrant. To make his displeasure plain and painful. He knew, were this to happen before the brass had decided his fate, that it would not be doing his cause a great deal of good, but such things could not be helped.
Might as well be hung for a sheep as a judge.
Thorne lay listening to the birds getting louder and remembering the look Antoine Daniels had given him earlier that day, hinting at a revenge of his own.
Then I’d definitely lose my nice fancy room.
Plenty of people had lost a great deal more than that.
Stephen Mitchell, Denise Mitchell, Peter Allen.
Javed Akhtar…
Akhtar had lost his son, his wife, everything he had ever worked for. Once the body had been removed and the forensic evidence gathered, a FOR SALE sign had gone up outside his shop and those dirty metal shutters had come down for the final time.
The word MURDERER now legible underneath PAKI.
One thing Thorne had decided to do with the free time so generously granted him by the Directorate of Professional Standards was try and get the flat in Kentish Town shifted. The estate agent was talking about dropping the price a little further, but Thorne wanted to try tarting the place up a bit first. A lick of paint, the smell of fresh coffee, all that. Though the change of direction job-wise would now need to be put on hold for the immediate future, or more likely would be decided for him, he could at least make an effort as far as domestic circumstances were concerned.
Not that there hadn’t already been major changes in that area.
‘Sorry, did he wake you?’
Thorne looked up to see Helen in the doorway, carrying the baby. ‘I was awake already.’
‘Do you mind if he comes in with us?’
‘Course not,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s your bed. Are you all right with that though? I mean… ’
‘Fine with me.’ She folded back the duvet and laid Alfie down. ‘I mean we’ll have to see how jealous he gets.’ She grinned as she climbed in. ‘And believe it or not, he snores.’
‘I think I can live with that.’
‘Then again, so do you.’
‘That’s rubbish.’
‘ And you talk in your sleep.’
‘What?’
‘Should have heard yourself the other night. “Phil, Phil… ”’
‘You’re hilarious,’ Thorne said. Thinking about it, he probably had talked a good deal about Phil Hendricks since he and Helen had begun spending time together, that friendship one of the few things in his life he could still count on. Actually, they had talked about all sorts of things this last couple of weeks, the job not included. Laughed a lot too, which never hurt. ‘I don’t though, do I?’
‘Well it’s only been four nights.’ Helen turned on to her side and looked at him. ‘Didn’t Louise ever say anything?’