And boom! There it was. The tune he'd been unable to place. That had been what was bothering him all along, lurking at the back of his brain, slippery and elusive. She was right, of course. Why had none of them ever really sat down and spoken to a fucking doctor? How could they have missed it? How could he have missed it?
Easy: he hadn't wanted it to be there.
Hendricks: You've got blinkers on and I'm fucking sick of it.
He felt like the breath had been taken from him. Beaten out of his body. Christ, it was all coming apart in front of him.
'I'm sorry, Tom.'
He closed his eyes. Screwed them shut. He knew it wasn't Anne who should be apologising. There were people he needed to say sorry to.
The first time he'd laid eyes on him, he thought he'd looked like the doctor from The Fugitive. That doctor had been innocent as well.
'I got thinking it was him and wanting it to be him mixed up, I think…'
'Ssssh…' She was kneeling beside the settee, stroking his hair.
'It got too personal. There wasn't enough distance.'
'Tom, it doesn't matter now. Nobody was hurt.'
'I was so sure, Anne. So sure Calvert was the killer…'
He felt her hand stop moving. Shook his head. Tried to laugh it off.
Slip of the tongue. 'Bishop, I mean. Bishop.'
'Who's Calvert?'
Whisky, piss and gunpowder. And freshly washed nightdresses. Oh, luck, no…
'Tom, who's Calvert?'
Then the tears came. And he dredged it all up, every heart stopping, malodorous moment of it. For the first time in fifteen years he took himself back completely. Jan never had the time or the stomach for all of it but now he was going to skip nothing. No edited highlights with a warning for those of a sensitive nature.
Thorne fought to bring the sobbing under control. Then he told her.
TWENTY-ONE
Friday, 15 June 1985. Nearly going-home time. It's a big one. The biggest since the Ripper. Fifteen thousand interviews in eighteen months and they've got nothing. The press are going mental, but not that mental, obviously. It's not like he's killing women or straight blokes, after all. Just the right amount of moral outrage with a smattering of self-righteousness and occasional comments about 'the risks inherent in choosing that kind of lifestyle'.
No lurid nicknames, though if the Sun could have got away with 'Poof Killer' they would certainly have used it. Just 'Johnny Boy'.
The fourth victim had told a friend he was meeting a man called John for a drink. This was an hour or so before his heart was cut out and his genitals were removed. An approximation of what might be Johnny Boy's face stares down from the wall of every nick in the country. He's got dirty-blond hair and a sallow complexion. His eyes are blue and very, very cold.
It's a big one.
Detective Constable Thomas Thorne leans against the wall of the interview room at Paddington station and stares at a man with dirty-blond hair and blue eyes.
Francis John Calvert. Thirty-four. Self-employed builder from North London.
'Any chance of a fag? I'm fucking gasping…' Calvert smiles. A winning smile. Perfect teeth.
Thorne says nothing. Just watching him until DI Duffy comes back.
'Surely I'm allowed one poxy fag?' The film-star smile fading just a little.
'Shut up.'
Then the door opens and Duffy comes back in. The interview resumes and Tom Thorne doesn't say another word.
None of it is riveting stuff. Duffy is way past his best. It's purely routine anyway. Calvert is only there because of what he does.
A week before he died, the third victim told a flat mate that he'd met a man in a club. The man had said he was a builder. The flat mate made a joke about tool-kits and builders' bumcrack. Seven days and one body later, the joke wasn't funny any more but the flat mate remembered what his dead friend had said.
Thousands and thousands of builders to be interviewed. Some are seen at their home. Some are questioned at their place of work. Calvert gets a phone call and comes into Paddington for a chat.
Later, of course, it will emerge that he'd been chatted to before.
Duffy and Calvert get on like a house on fire. Duffy gives Calvert his fag.
He wants to get home.
Thorne wants to get home too, he's been married less than a year. He's only got one ear on the answers Calvert reels off.
At home with his wife.., three little girls are a right handful.., wishes he could go out at night gallivanting about… not to those sort of places obviously. Another flash of that smile. He's helpful, concerned. Wife only too happy to talk to you if you want. He hopes they find this nutter and string him tp. It doesn't matter what these pervs get up to in their private lives, what this killer's doing's disgusting… Duffy hands Calvert the short statement to sign and that's that. Another one crossed off the list. He thanks him. One of these days they'll strike it lucky.
Duffy stands and heads for the door. 'Show Mr. Calvert out, would you, Thorne?' The DI leaves to begin the tedious process of writing it all up. The investigation is awash with paperwork. There are distant rumblings about the arrival of computers that, one day, will simplify all this. But that's all they are. Distant rumblings. Thorne holds open the door and Calvert steps out into the corridor. He strolls casually past more interview rooms, hands in pockets, whistling. Thorne follows. He can hear a distant radio, probably in the locker room, playing one of his favourite songs – 'There Must Be An Angel' by the Eurythmics. Jan bought the record for him last week. He wonders what she'll have organised for dinner. Maybe he can go and get a takeaway.
Through the first set of swing doors and a left turn along another corridor, which sweeps round towards main reception. Calvert waits, allowing Thorne to catch up. He holds the doors for him. 'Bet you lot are making a fucking mint in overtime.'
Thorne says nothing. He can't wait to see the back of the cocky little fucker. Past another Johnny Boy poster. Somebody's drawn a speech bubble. It says, 'Hello, sailor.' Thorne's humming the Eurythmics song as he walks.
Then the final set of doors. The desk sergeant gives Thorne a nod. Thorne steps ahead of Calvert, pushes open the doors and stops. This is as far as he goes. This isn't a hotel and he isn't a fucking concierge. Calvert steps through the doors, stops and turns. 'Cheers, then…'
'Thanks for your help, Mr. Calvert. We'll be in touch if we need anything else.'
Thorne holds out his hand without thinking about it. He's looking towards the desk sergeant, who's trying to catch his eye and mouthing something about a party for one of the secretaries who's leaving. Thorne feels the large, callused hand take his and turns to look at Francis John Calvert.
And everything changes.
It isn't the resemblance to the photo fit. He'd registered that the instant he'd clapped eyes on Calvert and forgotten it again moments later. It isn't the resemblance but it is the face.
Thorne looks at Calvert's face and knows.
He knows.
It lasts no more than a second or two but it's enough. He can see through to what lies behind those deep, blue eyes, and what he sees terrifies him.
He sees boozing, yes, and football on a Saturday and wolf-whistles with the lads and an incandescent rage that is barely kept in check inside the cosy conformity of a loveless, sexless marriage.
He sees something deep and dark and rotting. Something fetid. Something spilling into the earth and bubbling with blood.
He cannot explain it but he knows beyond a shadow of the smallest doubt that Francis John Calvert is Johnny Boy. He knows that the man in front of him, the man shaking his hand, is responsible for stalking and slaughtering half a dozen gay men in the last year and a half.