Lazybones

Karim appeared in the doorway, gave him a look.

'On my way, Sam,' Thorne said.

He would speak with real passion to the officers who were waiting for him. He wanted to catch this killer more than ever now, and he wanted to spread that desire around like a disease. He wanted to engineer that heady feeling of desperation and confidence that could sometimes make things happen all by itself.

But he would take care to hold the other feeling inside, the one that had begun to come and go, and cause something to jump and scuttle behind his ribs…

Yes, they were moving quickly. They were suddenly tearing along, they were up for it. But Thorne couldn't help but feel as if something was moving, equally as fast and with just as much determination, towards them. There was going to be a collision, but he didn't know when, or from which direction.

He wouldn't see it coming.

Thorne gathered up the photos from the desk, slipped them into a folder and walked towards the Incident Room.

TWENTY-SIX

They spoke to each other slowly, in whispers.

'Did I wake you?'

'What time is it?'

'Late. Go back to sleep…'

'It's OK…'

'I'm sorry.'

'Were you dreaming about it again?'

'Every bloody night at the moment. Jesus… '

'You never used to have dreams before, did you? I had them all the time, always did, but never you…'

'Well I'm having them now. With a vengeance.'

'That's an appropriate word.'

'Will they stop, do you think? Afterwards?'

'What?'

'The dreams. Will they stop once it's all over?'

'We'll know soon enough…'

'I'm nervous about this one.'

'No need to be.'

'We're less in control of it than with the others. You know? With them we knew what to expect, we knew everything that might happen. That was the advantage of the hotels, they were predictable…'

'It'll be fine…'

'You're right, course it will, I know. I wake up like this and I'm still thinking about the stuff in the dream and my head's all fucked up.'

'Is that the only reason you're nervous? Something going wrong?'

'What else would it be?'

'That's all right, then.'

'You'd better be there on time, though…'

'Don't be silly…'

'You'd better fucking be there, all right? Think about the traffic.'

'I never have any problems with the traffic, and I've always been there.'

'I know you have. Sorry…'

'What about Thorne?'

'Thorne won't be a problem.'

'Good '

'I'm so tired. I have to try and get back to sleep now.'

He reached for her, slid an arm across her belly.

'Come here and I'll help you…'

TWENTY-SEVEN

Not a very long time before, on a freezing night when weather and loneliness had seemed meant for each other, Thorne had dialed a number he had copied from a postcard in a newsagent's window. He'd driven round to a basement flat in 'Tufnell Park, handed over a few notes, and watched a fat, pink hand toss him off. He'd heard the woman's less-than-convincing groans and entreaties, the jangle of the charm bracelet that bounced on her wrist as she worked. He'd heard his own breath, and the low, desperate grunt as he finished. Then he'd driven home and gone to bed, where he'd done it again himself for twenty-five quid less…

Now, Thorne moved around his office, willing away the last knockings of a muggy Saturday and remembering his hands-on adventure in vice with even less pleasure than he'd felt at the time. It was a measure of how low he had felt then. Of how much he was looking forward to his evening with Eve Bloom.

He would leave Becke House feeling as positive as he had in a long time. Things had moved quickly. The few days since the woman – who might or might not be Sarah Foley – had elbowed her way to the right part of Thorne's brain and to the forefront of his investigation had yielded encouraging results.

They'd re-interviewed Howard Southern's ex-girlfriend, confirmed her story about the other woman, and quickly managed to turn up several characters claiming to have seen Southern with a woman in the days leading up to his murder. Descriptions were predictably vague and contradictory, 'slim' and 'fair-haired' being the only adjectives that turned up more than once. A barmaid told how she'd seen the woman drag Southern away into a dark corner, where she was all over him, but like she wanted him all to herself'. An e-fit had been produced, but it was flatter and even more anonymous than such things normally were. The woman was no more there – on flyers and posters and front pages – than she was in the photos she had sent the men who were to be killed.

Still, it was progress…

Another line of inquiry involved the possibility that the woman did more than just woo the victims and lure them to their deaths. Though Thorne himself was dubious, it had at least to be considered that she had been present when they were killed.

They had gone back to the hotels in Slough and Roehampton, to the doss-house in Paddington, and asked questions. Nothing exciting had turned up when CGTV footage was looked at again, but that was hardly surprising. If Mark Foley had known where the cameras were, then so would she. A woman who'd been working on reception at the Greenwood Hotel on the night Ian Welch was killed did remember seeing a blond woman hanging around. She'd thought the woman must have been with the party in the bar, but didn't see her talking to anyone. The receptionist thought she was 'funny looking'… Thorne was not sure what role the woman had played. He wondered exactly what they would charge her with when they did find her.

'Conspiracy to commit' was probably favourite. Yes, she might have turned up at the hotels, may even have answered the hotel-room doors to the victims, while Mark Foley stood hidden, tightening the length of washing line around his fingers…

Beyond that…?

If this woman was Sarah Foley, Thorne could not imagine her watching. He could not imagine her brother being watched, as he brutally raped another man…

It was dark, unnatural thoughts such as this one, which Thorne determined, at least for a night, to dismiss from his mind, as he moved through the Incident Room, saying his goodbyes. The doors opened as he reached the lift. Without breaking stride, Thorne walked in and turned to press the button. After a few seconds he watched the room, the desks, the case disappear before his eyes as the doors closed…

Thorne stepped from the lift and headed towards the car park, all the time thinking about what he was going to wear later on. He reckoned he'd have about half an hour after he got home before Eve was due. Maybe a bit more, if the traffic was as light as it should be. The BMW cruised up to the barrier, then, fifteen seconds later, moved under it and out on to the road. A Carter Family compilation was selected, and the volume turned up. He wondered what music he should put on later. Would Eve run screaming from the place as soon as she knew about the country stuff?.

He was such a daft old sod. Why had he buggered about? Why the fuck had he even subconsciously been putting this off?. Thorne was still ludicrously excited by the car, by the shape and the feel and the sound of it. He put his foot down, enjoying the noise of the engine, smiling for several reasons as he accelerated towards the North Circular, and home.