Bloodline

‘One button in particular, you said.’

‘Kids,’ Dowd said quickly. ‘She wanted them and I absolutely didn’t.’

Thorne blinked. ‘Tricky.’

‘Oh, yes. A few days before I buggered off she got pissed and started talking about finding someone who did want them.’ He folded his arms and dropped his head back. ‘Maybe that bloke who washes the cars would oblige. A couple of quick squirts…’

‘Sorry,’ Thorne said. He wasn’t, not particularly, but it felt like the right thing to say.

When he stood up to leave, Thorne saw Dowd’s confident mask slip a little, saw something like disappointment that the conversation was over. There was fear in his eyes, too, as he followed Thorne towards the door.

‘You will catch this bloke, right?’

‘We’ll do our best.’

Dowd nodded fast. ‘’Course, yeah, sorry. So, talk to Sarah. See if it leads anywhere. You know, this car-washer business.’

‘I’ll let you know how we get on,’ Thorne said.

When Thorne was reaching for the door, Dowd stepped close to him. Said, ‘Why would anyone want to bring kids into a world like this? A sick world.’

Certainly a weird one, Thorne thought a little later, as he walked back to the car. When one man asks you to pass on his regards to his mates in the soup queue while another has nothing to say to his own wife.

‘How do people get like that?’ Louise asked. ‘Why would they stay together for that long if they hate each other so much?’

‘Easier than being on their own, maybe?’

‘No…’

‘Or it’s like he said and some people just enjoy conflict. Doesn’t light my candle, but what do I know?’ Thorne had told her about his conversation with Andrew Dowd, about the dysfunctional nature of his marriage. He had not bothered mentioning the central disagreement that Dowd claimed lay at the heart of it. That one button in particular.

Louise shook her head. ‘If it doesn’t work, you should get out.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Good. Because if you start pissing me off, I’ll just trade you in for a younger model.’

Thorne was on the sofa with a beer. He had been looking through his copy of Nick Maier’s book on the Garvey killings, rereading those sections that dealt with the deaths of Andrew Dowd’s and Graham Fowler’s mothers, and the harrowing chapter that detailed the murder of Frances Walsh, the mother of Simon. Her body was the third to be discovered, though it was later determined that she had been the first victim.

A spot of light entertainment after di

Louise lay on the floor, making a fuss of Elvis, moving a finger back and forth under the cat’s chin. Elvis closed her eyes and stretched her neck towards her new best friend. Thorne watched, thinking that Elvis was rarely that affectionate with him. She had been owned by a woman before Thorne got her – albeit one who didn’t know the cat was a she – so perhaps that was the reason. Or maybe it was something to do with pheromones, whatever they were. Or maybe the cat just enjoyed winding him up.

‘Seriously, though,’ Louise said, ‘life’s too short.’

Thorne glanced down at the cover of the book on the sofa next to him. He wasn’t arguing.

‘That’s one of the things that strikes you when something like this happens. You know, losing the baby. At first you think you’ve been unlucky, but you can look at it the other way too, start to appreciate what you’ve got.’

Thorne nodded, felt that lump in his chest.

‘You OK?’

He picked up the book again. ‘Just thinking about this stuff, sorry.’

‘That’s another thing,’ Louise said. ‘Since it happened, work doesn’t seem to have as much effect on me. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve had more important things to think about, or if it’s just not getting to me in the same way. Do you know what I mean?’

She said something else after that, lying there stroking the cat, but Thorne caught only half of it. It was hard to follow a train of thought with the Garveys rattling around inside his head.

Father and son.

According to Maier’s book, the detective leading the investigation had described the murders as some of the nastiest he had ever had to deal with. He talked about the level of violence meted out, how it must have been motivated by an incomprehensible level of hatred.

One powerful bloody tumour, Thorne thought.

It might not have been hatred that was motivating the son, but his killings had been every bit as brutal, and Thorne’s desire to find him and put him away was the equal of anything he had felt in many years.

Louise was talking softly now, to Thorne or the cat.

Anthony Garvey might have seen the newspapers, but there was no way he could know that both Fowler and Dowd had been found, or that Debbie Mitchell was safely tucked away. He would still be out there somewhere; searching, growing increasingly frustrated. That might just give me the edge over him, Thorne thought.

Louise sat up, pulled Elvis on to her lap. ‘This cat loves me,’ she said.

Thorne smiled and put down the book.

Or it might just make him more desperate.

TWENTY-SEVEN

H.M.P. Whitemoor

‘The ex-police officer again, was it?’

‘What?’

‘Your face?’

‘I fell.’

‘Right… ’

‘Seriously, I had some sort of fit and I hit my head on the bunk as I went down. I’ve got to go and have a few tests. Some kind of scan.’

‘What, like an epileptic fit or something?’

‘Could be, yeah. Could be all sorts. I’ve had a couple before-’

‘What?’

‘But this was the first time I got hurt. Good job really or they might not have picked it up.’

‘Christ.’

‘I’m OK, really.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

‘What about the headaches, though? Do you get headaches with epilepsy?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll go online and have a look.’

‘I can do it myself, we’ve got access to all that. Thanks, though.’

‘We can both do it. Doesn’t hurt to get as much information as possible.’

‘OK.’

‘It’s set off by flashing lights and stuff, isn’t it, epilepsy? Strobes and whatever.’

‘Should be fine, then. Not too many of those in here.’

‘It’s good news, when you think about it.’

‘What is?’

‘They’ll have to move you to a hospital, maybe permanently. Got to be better than this.’

‘I don’t know how that works.’

‘I bet the food’s a damn sight better, and there won’t be any nutcases hanging about with home-made blades.’

‘Let’s see what happens.’

‘Might turn out to be a stroke of luck, you never know.’

‘How’s things with you?’

‘I’m fine, same as always.’

‘What about work?’

‘Just bits and pieces really. I’m great though, honestly.’

‘You need to find something permanent, sort yourself out a bit. It’s all right messing about when you’re a teenager, but you should really think about getting settled.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Don’t you want a steady job and a family and all that?’

‘I’ve got family.’

‘Not just me.’

‘Look, I haven’t found anything I want to do yet, that’s all. There’s plenty of time.’

‘Listen, I’ve got more time than you have, OK, smart-arse? It tends to drag a bit when you’ve got sod all to do but dig the governor’s vegetable patch and take degrees you’ll never use. Goes by in a flash out there though, trust me.’

‘I know, don’t nag. I’ll find something.’

‘I was talking to one of the other lads, and he told me you might be able to come along when I go for these tests. You know, as a relative.’

‘Yeah, ’course.’

‘You don’t have to. Just it’s nice to have a friendly face around when you’re lying there handcuffed to a hospital bed. Never been a fan of hospitals at the best of times.’

‘You don’t have to worry about this.’

‘I’m bricking it, if I’m honest.’