Bloodline

‘I used to be good at this game,’ Thorne said.

‘You’ve lost your edge, mate. That’s what domestic contentment does for you.’

It was the first time that anything pertaining to Louise had entered their conversation. Hendricks had spent the afternoon with her, wandering around the shops in Hampstead and Highgate before lunch at Pizza Express. Thorne had stayed at home with Maier’s book and Five Live for company. Spurs had lost to a needless, last-minute penalty and Thorne’s frustration had been only marginally tempered by the smug message he had been able to leave on Yvo

‘You and Lou have a good time today?’ Thorne asked.

Hendricks stared at him. ‘Didn’t you ask Lou?’

‘Yeah, she said she enjoyed herself.’

‘So, why-?’

‘There wasn’t much chance to talk when she got back, you know. Not in any detail. She said she was tired, just wanted to crash out.’

‘We did do a fair bit of walking,’ Hendricks said.

‘How’s she doing?’

Hendricks stared again.

‘Jesus.’ Thorne banged his almost empty glass down on the table. ‘I can’t believe I’ve got to sit here asking you how Lou is.’

‘You don’t have to. You could go mad and ask her.’

‘I have.’

‘And…?’

‘She says she’s fine, but I’m not sure I believe her. This woman at work getting pregnant must have really cut her up, but she’s making out like it’s not a big deal.’

‘Maybe it isn’t,’ Hendricks said. ‘She’s tough as old boots is Lou. Well, you know.’

‘I’m not sure I know anything,’ Thorne said. He finished his beer. ‘What do you think, Phil?’

‘I think… it’s only been, what, a week and a bit? I think she probably wants a bit of space. For you to stop treating her like she’s got a terminal illness.’

‘Did she say something?’

‘Yeah… that, basically.’

‘Christ.’

‘And she said the same thing about you. That you say you’re fine, but she doesn’t know whether to believe it.’

The spiky-haired kid potted the cue-ball. The rugby player pumped his fist, bent to retrieve the white and lined up the first of his free shots.

‘Sorry you’re getting caught in the middle of this,’ Thorne said.

‘Not a problem, mate.’ Hendricks handed the empty glasses to a passing member of the bar staff. He turned back to Thorne. ‘Are you fine?’

Thorne nodded, said that he was, but the look he received in return suggested that he’d been a little too quick about it. He could not be honest, not completely. He could not tell Hendricks, or anyone else, how he felt; that it tasted burned and bitter in his mouth. ‘You just get on with it, don’t you?’

‘I suppose,’ Hendricks said.

‘What about you? Any new piercings on the horizon?’

It took Hendricks a few seconds. Things had been edgy between them – as far as this kind of conversation was concerned – for a while, since a case the previous year had driven a wedge between them. Hendricks had been targeted by the man Thorne was trying to catch and had almost been killed while cruising a series of gay bars. With Louise’s help, they had got back on a more or less even keel quickly enough, but Hendricks’ sex life had remained a touchy subject. ‘I’m doing all right,’ he said, eventually. ‘No permanent piercings.’ He smiled. ‘Just the odd clip-on.’

He asked if they were going to get any more drinks and Thorne said he was about ready for the off. ‘You stay and have another one if you want,’ he said. ‘I’ll go back and get the sofa-bed ready. Louise might still be up, so…’

Hendricks eyed the pool table again, where the game had finished and the wi

‘Don’t bother playing pool,’ Thorne said. ‘Just stick a couple of the balls in a sock and twat him.’

‘I’m seriously thinking about it,’ Hendricks said, getting to his feet. ‘Listen, if I’m not back in an hour, I’ve gone home with that girl who looks like Marilyn Manson, all right?’

NINETEEN

Nicholas Maier lived in Islington, on the ground floor of a terraced Georgian house in a quiet square behind Upper Street. Thorne parked in a residents’ bay and stuck a ‘police business’ badge on the dash of the BMW. The spell of good weather was holding.

Thorne and Holland were shown through to a large sitting room while Maier went to fetch coffee. The carpet was gaudy but clearly expensive, and the bookshelves either side of the fireplace were well stocked, though on closer inspection several contained nothing but multiple copies of Maier’s own books. The room was immaculate. There were elaborate flower arrangements in matching Chinese vases on two corner tables and the vast plasma screen above the fireplace was gleaming and dust-free. Aside from a large ginger cat asleep on a chair next to the door, there was no sign that Maier shared the flat with anyone else.

‘And he had a pot of coffee on,’ Holland said. ‘I like it when people make an effort.’

‘No effort at all,’ Maier said, nudging the door open and carrying a tray across to a low table. His voice was deep and perfectly modulated, like a late-night radio host. ‘I only got back from the States last night, so I haven’t had a lot of time to run around tidying up. My office is probably a bit more cluttered than this, but I’m not generally a big fan of mess.’

‘It’s a nice place,’ Holland said.

Maier pointed them both towards the sofa, began pouring the coffee. ‘Scribbling keeps the wolf from the door,’ he said.

‘Obviously.’ Thorne nodded, impressed, but shared a knowing look with Holland. He’d done some checking and knew very well that Nick Maier had inherited the property from his father, a wealthy businessman who had died while Maier was still taking his journalism degree.

Maier asked them both how they took their coffee and slid a plate of biscuits across the table. He was wearing khakis and an open-necked salmon-pink shirt, brown suede moccasins without socks and a touch too much gold jewellery. He looks like an upmarket estate agent, Thorne thought.

‘You’ve got a decent colour on you,’ Holland said.

‘Weather was very nice over there, when I wasn’t stuck inside bloody lecture theatres.’

‘Where?’

‘The West Coast,’ Maier said. ‘LA, Santa Barbara, San Diego. Have you been?’

Holland shook his head.

‘Thanks for seeing us so quickly,’ Thorne said.

Maier reached for a biscuit and sat back. ‘You could hardly expect someone who does what I do not to be curious.’ He looked from Thorne to Holland and held up his hands. ‘So…?’

Thorne told him about his conversation with Pavesh Kambar, the phone calls and visits the doctor had described. The relationship Maier had suggested he’d had with Anthony Garvey.

‘I hardly think I pestered him,’ Maier said. ‘But in terms of what I was trying to write, Doctor Kambar was an important person to talk to, so I… persisted. That’s the kind of job I have. The kind of job you have, too, I should imagine.’

‘Tell us about Garvey,’ Thorne said. ‘Junior.’

‘My grand folly, you mean.’

‘Sorry?’

Maier held up a hand again, as though to say he’d get there in his own time. He finished eating his biscuit, brushed crumbs from the front of his shirt. ‘Well, I’d written a book about the Raymond Garvey murders.’

Thorne pointed at his briefcase. ‘I’ve got a copy.’

‘I can sign it for you if you’d like, though I’m guessing that isn’t the main reason why you’re here. Worth at least a fiver on eBay.’ Maier laughed, but his attempt at self-deprecation was about as convincing as Thorne’s fake smile. ‘The man I later learned was Raymond Garvey’s son read it and got in touch with me.’

‘And this would have been when?’

‘Perhaps six months after Garvey died, so about two and a half years ago, I think.’