Bloodline

‘If there is any more.’

‘On top of which, we’d be very grateful if you kept what you know to yourself.’

‘Not go ru

‘Not go ru

‘I appreciate why you’re keeping the media in the dark on this one,’ Maier said. ‘As far as the link between the murders is concerned. But someone will get wind of it eventually, you do know that? A good serial-killer story will sell a lot of papers.’

‘And books,’ Holland said.

Maier seemed to enjoy the dig. ‘Hopefully.’

‘So, we understand each other?’ Thorne asked.

‘Well, I understand you, certainly, but you need to bear in mind that I have a living to make.’

Thorne waited, hoped that the sound of his teeth grinding wasn’t carrying.

‘All I’m saying is that when you are in a position to talk a bit more freely, or if there are any major developments as far as what Anthony’s up to, I would hope that I’d be the first person you’d talk to. The first person without a warrant card, at any rate.’ He leaned forward for the final biscuit. ‘How’s that sound?’

Thorne watched Maier chew, the weak chin working, thinking that he had the sort of face you could not be satisfied with punching just the once. He said, ‘Sounds fine.’

Maier nodded and reached towards the tray again. ‘There’s plenty more coffee in the pot.’

Ten minutes later, creeping slowly north along the Holloway Road, Holland said, ‘I was thinking about how Anthony Garvey lives, you know?’

Thorne swore in frustration at the traffic, then glanced across.

‘I mean, he can’t be holding down any sort of proper job, can he? Not without leaving traces and certainly not if he needs to move about, tracking his victims. I reckon that cash he screwed out of Maier is exactly what he needs to do this.’

‘That phrase Maier used,’ Thorne said. ‘Garvey was “considering other options”.’

‘Shit, they as good as funded him.’ Holland stared out of the side window for half a minute. ‘And that tosser’s going to end up getting a book deal out of it.’

Thorne was only half listening. He was thinking about the girl in the photographs and something else Maier had said. The precise words Garvey had used.

Out of the picture.

TWENTY

H.M.P. Whitemoor

‘What’s that mark on your face?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Christ, I thought you were… protected in here. A vulnerable prisoner. ’

‘Unfortunately, it’s not just nonces I’m stuck on the wing with. All sorts are vulnerable in here, need to be kept separate. An ex-police officer gave me this. Made him feel better for a few days, I suppose. Got a few people off his back.’

‘It’s a fucking zoo!’

‘It’s not supposed to be pleasant. Mind you, we have got a PlayStation now…’

‘I was thinking, you know, about what it’s going to be like when you come out.’

‘That’s not happening, Tony, I’ve said.’

‘No harm in thinking about stuff we could do.’

‘What, you and me in the park, kicking a sodding ball about?’

‘You’ve got to be optimistic.’

‘You’re talking stupid.’

‘I’m not going anywhere, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Good. That’s good.’

‘There must be places you fancy going, though, things you want to see.’

‘Oh, yeah. Inside of a pub would be nice. A decent pair of tits that aren’t on an eighteen-stone armed robber.’

‘I don’t know how you can laugh.’

‘You’ve got to.’

‘I certainly didn’t get that from you. A sense of humour, I mean. I can’t remember the last time I found anything very fu

‘You’ve had a hard time of it, that’s all.’

‘Did I laugh when I was little?’

‘I wouldn’t know, would I?’

‘Not really little, I mean, but when you saw me?’

‘I can’t remember. It was only a couple of times.’

‘We all know whose fault that was.’

‘Don’t start all that.’

‘What?’

‘Gives me a headache when you talk about your mother. I’m serious. Last time I puked up after you’d gone.’

‘I’ve told you, I’m fine about it. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘’Course it was my fault. All those women. No excuses.’

‘It’s what you get for keeping secrets.’

‘Can we talk about something else?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘You seeing anyone?’

‘What, like girls?’

‘Girls, boys, I don’t know.’

‘Fuck off, Dad.’

‘So?’

‘On and off. Nothing serious. What’s the matter?’

‘Still does my head in. When you call me that. Dad.’

TWENTY-ONE

If a sliding scale of news was topped by being told you’d won the lottery, with a diagnosis of cancer at the bottom, the phone call Thorne received the previous evening would run the cancer diagnosis a pretty close second. Brigstocke had spoken quickly and without hesitation, not wanting to give Thorne a chance to start shouting, or crying, until he had finished.

‘Remember I mentioned they might convene a critical incident panel? Well, it’s tomorrow at ten o’clock. They’d like you to be there, so you might want to dig out a suit. Sorry, the suit…’

‘Like me to be there as in I have a choice?’

‘Like you to be there as in what do you think?’

‘You don’t reckon I could be spending my morning a bit more productively? Trying to find the girl in Maier’s photo, maybe? It’s just a thought.’

‘Tom-’

‘Having a wank?’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

‘I was thinking more “strangle”.’

‘Just don’t piss too many of them off, OK?’

‘Now you’re really pushing it.’

‘Have a nice evening.’

‘I was,’ Thorne said.

Now, twelve hours later, Thorne was sitting at a highly polished, blond-wood table in an overheated conference room at Scotland Yard. There were six other people around the table, each with a notepad and a pair of freshly sharpened pencils in front of them. There were water jugs and glasses near either end. Thorne smiled through the minute or two of small talk, wondering how people would react if he let his head drop on to the table or asked for a cold beer, and waiting for the powerful smell of bullshit to start rising on the thermal of hot air.

The Association of Chief Police Officers was responsible for bringing such panels together, and its representative, the Area Homicide Commander, was chairing the meeting. Alistair Johns was a short, stocky man in his early fifties, with a permanently pinched expression, as though he were always walking through heavy rain. He brought the meeting to order, making sure that everyone around the table knew one another. Aside from Trevor Jesmond and Russell Brigstocke, there was a surly-looking DS named Proctor from the Community Relations Unit and a woman named Paula Hughes, who Thorne gathered was a civilian press officer. Another woman, a WPC whose name he failed to catch during a stifled yawn, was taking the minutes. Thorne caught her eye. She looked as though she’d had enough already, or perhaps she was thinking about the work that lay ahead: typing up her notes, circulating endless emails and preparing a bound report for everyone from the Commissioner to the Mayor.

‘We need to crack on,’ Johns said. ‘Obviously this is an ongoing inquiry and I’m grateful to DCI Brigstocke and DI Thorne for taking the time to be here.’

Thorne looked across at Brigstocke, who suddenly appeared to find the tabletop uniquely fascinating.

‘But we may well be looking at problems down the line, as far as the public perception of our handling of the case goes, so we need to take a few decisions now. Start preparing answers for some of the questions that are bound to be asked, whether we get a result or not.’

‘We’ll get a result,’ Jesmond said. He nodded towards Brigstocke, whose interest in the tabletop seemed only to increase. Jesmond’s confidence was to be expected, of course; the last thing Johns wanted to hear was doubt or uncertainty. A bit of gung-ho positivity always went a long way with the brass.