He didn't bother stifling an enormous yawn. When he'd finished, he caught the eye of a woman sitting opposite and smiled. She looked equally knackered and smiled back.
He'd heard plenty about parenting. From seasoned campaigners like Russell Brigstocke and Yvonne Kitson. From Dave Holland, who still had milky sick-stains on his lapels. Everything they'd told him seemed suddenly relevant to his situation.
Nobody could prepare you for it.
You never stopped learning.
There was no right way and no wrong way.
Thorne knew from talking to these people, from listening to their conversations, that there were times when you needed to come down hard. And times when you did, only to feel shitty later, when you realised that you'd got it wrong. Now, Thorne understood what they meant. Sometimes, though they might not like what their children were doing, or the effect that their behaviour was having on other people, it was important to accept that the child was simply having fun. He pictured the look on his father's face as he was shouting out obscenities. Thorne wondered if it was too late to call Alison Kelly. He decided it probably was. Then he reached for his phone and dialed anyway.
"Hi, it's Tom. Hello.?"
"Hi."
"Sorry if it's late. I was wondering how you were."
"I'm tired."
"Me too. It was quite a night."
She laughed. "Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Thorne pictured her naked. Pictured her crying. Pictured her turned away from him, trying to take in what he'd said. "I was wondering how you were about what I told you."
Static crackled on the line. Thorne thought he'd lost the signal, looked at the screen on his phone.
"I'm fine about it," she said finally. "I'm.. grateful."
"I shouldn't have said anything."
"You told me the truth."
"You were upset."
"I needed the truth. I need the truth." Thorne noticed the woman opposite turning her head away. He lowered his voice. "Some truths are harder to handle than others." There was silence.
"Alison?"
"I'm a big girl," she said. Another laugh, humourless. "At least I got to be a big girl."
"Do you want to do it again? Go out?" He heard a breath let out slowly. "Why do I think you're just being nice?"
"No, really."
"Let's give it a few days, shall we?" she said. "See how we feel."
Because of the darkness on the other side of the window, it took Thorne a few seconds to realise that they'd entered a tunnel. He checked the phone. This time he had lost the signal. He stared into space for a few minutes, then reached across the aisle for a newspaper that had been discarded on a table. He turned it over and began to read. He was asleep before he'd finished the back page.
NINETEEN
The waitress slid a plate of perfectly arranged biscuits into the middle of the table. She picked up the empty tray and moved back, stopping at the door to cast a somewhat perplexed glance back towards the group of men and women gathered in the conference room. It was certainly an odd collection.
Detective Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond cleared his throat noisily and waited for silence. "Shall we get started, ladies and gentlemen?" Tea and coffee were poured as Jesmond made the introductions.
There were seven people around the long, rectangular table. Jesmond was at the head, with a Turkish-speaking uniformed WPC adjacent to his right. Further down the same side of the table sat Memet Zarif, who was next to an elderly man, described as a well-respected Turkish community leader. Opposite them sat Stephen Ryan and a smartly dressed woman named Helen Brimson, introduced by Jesmond as the solicitor representing Ryan Properties. The last person to be introduced sat sweating beneath his leather jacket, a pen in his hand and a sheaf of paper in front of him.
"DI Thorne will be taking notes. Keeping minutes of the meeting."
Helen Brimson sat forward and cut in: "I presume these proceedings will be subject to a valid Public Interest Immunity Certificate?" Jesmond nodded, and kept on nodding as she continued.
"I want it confirmed that any notes taken will form the basis of an internal police document only, that they will not be disclosed in open court should any action arise at a later date." Thorne scribbled without thinking, hoping that there wouldn't be too much more of this legal bullshit to wade through.
"This meeting is purely part of an ongoing process of community consultation," Jesmond said. He held out his arms. "I'm grateful that everyone has agreed to take part, and to come here this morning."
"Here was a bland and anonymous hotel just outside Maidenhead. A businessman's hotel, like any one of a hundred others around the M25. Easy enough to reach and far enough away from the spotlight. This was what Tughan had been talking about a little over a week before getting them around the table, trying to put an end to it. Zarif placed a hand on the shoulder of the man next to him, the 'well-respected community leader'. The pair of them wore smart suits and tidy smiles. "My brothers and I have been asked, through our good friend here, to assist the police in any way we can," he said. "I would like to think that we were already doing everything in our power to aid these investigations, but if there is anything else we can do, of course we shall be happy to do it."
Jesmond nodded. Thorne scribbled. There was clearly going to be a lot of bullshit flying around.
"The same goes for myself," Stephen Ryan said. A thick gold chain hung at his throat. A pricey suede jacket over the open-necked shirt. "It goes for my father and for everyone connected with Ryan Properties. An important business meeting has meant that my father can't be here today, but he wanted me to stress his disgust at these killings." Thorne could barely believe his ears. He thought about Alison Kelly. It had been just over a week since their phone conversation on the train. There had been no contact between them since.
'…and his desire to prevent any further bloodshed." Ryan looked along the table at Thorne. "Are you going to write that down?" Thorne thought, I'd like to take this pen and write something across your face, you smug little shitehawk.
He wrote: Ryan. Disgust. Desire.
Jesmond snapped a biscuit in half, careful to shake the crumbs on to the plate. "I don't need to tell any of you that this is what we want to hear. But we need action if anything's going to change. If this bloodshed you refer to is really going to stop."
"Of course," Zarif said.
Ryan held up his hands: Goes without saying.
Jesmond put on his glasses, reached for a piece of paper and started to read the names printed on it. "Anthony Wright. John Gildea. Sean Anderson. Michael Clayton. Muslum Izzigil. Hanya Izzigil. Detective Sergeant Marcus Moloney." Jesmond paused there, looked around the table. "Most recently, Francis Cullen, a long-distance lorry-driver and two as yet unidentified bodies found along with his." Thorne looked at Ryan, then at Zarif. Both wore serious expressions, suitably sombre in response to the roll-call of victims. Those they had lost. Those they had murdered.
"These are the deaths we know about." Jesmond said. "These are the murders we are currently investigating, all of which, to some degree, have involved your families or your businesses." Ryan's solicitor tried to cut in.
Jesmond held up a hand. "Have, at the very least, affected your families or your businesses. Miss Brimson?"
"I have advised my client that, for the purposes of this meeting, he should say nothing in relation to any specific case on which you might ask him to comment."
"Who's being specific?" Thorne asked. He received an icy smile. '"Might", I said. Might."
"I'll make sure I underline it," Thorne said. Zarif poured himself a second cup of coffee. "It's a shame that this is your attitude, Mr. Ryan. It is people's refusal to speak about these things, to get involved, that is so dangerous. It's what makes these murders possible."