"As far as we know, yeah. And all the dark, dark shit that gets done to people, the killing and the torture, started off as pictures in some weirdo's head. It all has to be imagined!
Thorne thought about what Hendricks was saying. It made sense, though how some of the horrors they'd both encountered over the years had ever been imagined by anybody was beyond him. "So?"
"So… that's the flip side of all the beautiful stuff. We get people who imagine great works of art and books and gardens and music, but the same imagination that creates that can also imagine the Holocaust, or setting fire to kids, or whatever."
"All right, Phil…"
"You want one, you have to live with the other." They sat in silence for a while.
Finally, Hendricks leaned forward to stub out what was left of the joint, and to sum up: "Basically you want Shakespeare, you also get Shipman."
Dark as the conversation had become, Thorne suddenly found the concept strangely funny. "Right." He nodded towards the stereo. "Serial killers are the price we pay for country music'
A massive grin spread slowly across Hendricks' face. "I think… that… is a very tough choice."
Moloney had decided to make a night of it. He strutted out into the freezing car park at closing time, full of Guinness and full of himself. "Don't worry, I know a few places where we can still get a drink." Moloney chuckled and threw an arm around the shoulder of his new best friend. "Actually," he said, "I know plenty of fucking places."
His drinking partner expressed surprise that Moloney was planning to drive. He asked him if he was worried about being pulled over. Moloney unlocked the Jag. "I've been stopped a few times." He winked.
"It's not normally a problem."
"After you've been drinking?"
"They tend to look the other way."
"Nice to have a bit of influence," said his friend.
"Better than nice. Get in."
They drove south through Islington, crossing the Essex Road and heading towards the City. The traffic was light and Moloney put his foot down at every opportunity. "This place I'm taking us, behind the Barbican, there's usually a bit of spare knocking about as well. We lay out a few quid, they'll give us a good night. Up for that?" It was as the Jag was moving far too fast towards the roundabout at Old Street that the man in the passenger seat placed the muzzle of the Glock against Moloney's waist.
"Go left and head for Bethnal Green."
"What? Fuck."
The gun was rammed into Moloney hard enough to crack a rib, to push him against the driver's side door. He cried out and struggled to keep his feet on the pedals.
Moloney drove, following the instructions he was given, body seizing up and mind racing. He knew that there was no way he could reach his own gun. He knew that nobody had a clue where he was. He knew, now, that he was not a brave man. Every breath was an effort. Any attempt to speak resulted in another jolt of agony as the gun was jammed hard against the broken rib.
The traffic and the lights melted away behind them as Moloney steered the Jag off a quiet road and on to a narrow, rutted path. They crossed slowly over a stretch of black water, still, like motor oil, on either side of a graffiti-covered bridge.
"Pull up over there."
As soon as the car was stationary, the man raised the gun and pressed it against Moloney's ear. He leaned across to the dashboard and turned off the headlights.
Moloney closed his eyes. "Please." He felt the man's hand reach inside his jacket, move slowly around until it had located, and removed, the gun. He opened his eyes when he heard the door open, craned his head round to watch as the man moved behind the car.
The gunman tapped on the driver's side window with the gun. He took a step away from the car as Moloney opened the door. "Move over to the other side," he said.
Moloney did as he was told, gasping in pain as he lifted himself up and over the gear stick. "Why?"
The man slid into the driver's seat. He closed the car door behind him. "Because I'm right-handed," he said. Then Moloney felt his guts go, and everything began to happen very quickly.
The gun was in his ear again, and a hand was twisting him over on to his front, pushing his head across the back of the seat. The hand was reaching down, scrabbling for something, and the seat suddenly dropped back until it was almost flat. The hand began gathering up Moloney's jacket and the shirt beneath and pushing it up his back.
"You're making such a fucking mistake." Moloney said. Then, in a rush, the breath was sucked up into him, as the man with the gun began to cut.
Thorne woke with a start, disorientated. He could hear music, and Hendricks was looming above the bed in his boxer shorts, holding something out to him and mouthing angrily.
As he tried to sit up, Thorne realised that he'd fallen asleep with his headphones on. He turned off his Walkman, blinked slowly and moaned:
"What time is it?"
"Just gone three. It's Holland, for you." Thorne reached out for his mobile, the ringing of which he'd been unable to hear, but which had clearly woken Hendricks up.
"Thanks," Thorne said.
Hendricks grunted and sloped out of the bedroom.
"Dave?"
Holland began to speak, but Thorne knew without being told that there was another body. Holland just needed to tell him which side it belonged to.
Thorne had no way of knowing it, but as he steered the BMW through the deserted streets towards the murder scene, he was following almost exactly the same route as the dead man had done a few hours earlier. Down to King's Cross and then east. Along the City Road and further, through Shoreditch and into what, forty years before, had been Kray territory. The streets of east London were much safer then, if some people were to be believed.
Marcus Moloney might well have agreed with them. The car was parked on an area of waste ground, no more than a hundred yards from the Roman Road. Here, the Grand Union Canal ran alongside a rundown piece of parkland called Meath Gardens and the railway line divided Globe Town from Mile End.
A man, asleep on a narrow boat moored further up the canal, had heard the gunshots. He'd come along five minutes later with his dog to investigate.
Thorne parked the car, walked across to do some investigating of his own.
The silver Jag was brightly lit by a pair of powerful arc-lights that had been set up on either side of it. Its doors were open. Thorne didn't know whether that's the way they had been found.
"Sir."
Thorne nodded as he passed a DC from SO7 walking quickly in the opposite direction. As he got nearer to the car, he could make out the shape of the body, folded across the front seat, like a suit carrier. Every few seconds, the white hood of a SOCO bobbed into vision through the rear windscreen. Stepping to the side, Thorne could see Holland and Stone huddled near the front wing. Holland glanced up, threw him a look he couldn't read, but which definitely didn't bode well. There were more SOCO's working in the foot wells and on the back seats. There were stills and video cameramen. There were three or four other officers with their backs to him, talking on the edge of the canal bank.
The lights showed up every scratch, every mark on the car windows, every speck and gobbet of brain matter glued to the glass with blood. Thorne grabbed a body suit from a uniform who was handing them out like free gifts. "Dave."
Holland made to come over, then stopped and nodded towards the group of officers who were now walking back in the direction of the car. There were three men in suits of varying quality: Brigstocke, Tughan and a senior press officer called Munteen. It was the man in uniform who Thorne was most surprised, and horrified, to see there. He couldn't recall the last time he'd encountered Detective Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond at a crime scene.
Jesmond pulled his blue overcoat tighter around him. "Tom."