SEVEN

Thorne had been waiting in the incident room at Nuneaton station for half an hour or so when Cornish finally appeared. Thorne didn’t mind. He had passed the time talking to as many of those working on the investigation as possible, and, even if he had not learned anything that he did not already know, the coffee was an awful lot better than the stuff that got dished out back at Becke House.

It became quickly obvious to him that the whole place was rather better equipped than the incident room he was used to at home. The computers seemed newer, the whiteboards somehow whiter.

The place did not feel quite as tired.

It was probably just a question of funding, of a more efficient distribution of available funds. Or perhaps the place just saw a lot less action. Waiting for Cornish to arrive though, Thorne could not help asking himself how much of it was down to the drive and energy of the people working here. Were some of those he worked with at home just burned out, or going through the motions these days? He wondered if the day would come when he would be guilty of ‘phoning it in’ and if it did, would anyone tell him. Holland? Probably not. Hendricks . . . ?

Yeah, he thought that Phil Hendricks would.

Cornish was easy enough to spot. The one being collared by a member of his team the moment he walked in, staring across while the man who was waiting to see him was helpfully pointed out.

Thorne stood up and Cornish beckoned him over; waved him into an office.

‘You had coffee? I’m always gasping after a couple of hours in the bin . . . ’

Cornish was a few years younger than Thorne and if there was any grey in his hair he had covered it up skilfully. He was compact and wiry, like a flyweight. In his smart suit and rimless glasses, Thorne thought that he looked like an accountant, albeit one who might knock you out if you questioned his calculations.

As soon as he had sat down behind a cluttered desk, Cornish said, ‘What took you so long?’

Thorne took the chair that had been offered. ‘Sorry?’

‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr Bond!’ Cornish took an e-cigarette from his pocket and puffed on it theatrically.

Sophie Carson had clearly given her boss a complete report on the visitors from London.

‘No big deal,’ Cornish said. ‘We’ve got a few like you round here. Can’t take a day off.’

‘I’m just killing time,’ Thorne said.

‘Course you are.’

‘Don’t know what else to tell you.’ Thorne laughed, but the remarks had hit home. Was that what he had become? ‘Job-pissed’ was what they called the type Cornish was talking about, what Thorne called them too. It was usually aimed at those who played everything by the book, who would rather die than deviate from procedure. Thorne knew that wasn’t him, but he was clearly finding it hard to leave the job behind. Perhaps being ‘job-pissed’ wasn’t the issue. Maybe it was just a question of what your tipple was.

Some people could only get pissed on the hard stuff.

Thorne pointed to the e-cigarette as Cornish took another hit. ‘What are those things like?’

‘Bloody gorgeous when you’re not allowed the real ones.’ Cornish leaned across and passed it over for Thorne to examine.

‘It’s heavy,’ Thorne said.

‘The Federation’s trying to get them banned in police buildings.’ He leaned forward again to take it back. ‘But right now . . . ’ he took another drag, blew out the smoke or steam or whatever it was, ‘it’s absolute bliss, mate. You a smoker?’

‘Was.’

‘You should try one of these.’

‘Can’t risk it,’ Thorne said. ‘A few days on those, I’ll be in the garden first thing in the morning with a packet of Silk Cut.’

‘Addictive personality.’

‘Probably,’ Thorne said. He glanced around. Even the office was nicer than the one he shared most of the time. There was a window, for a start. He sniffed, caught a hint of aftershave that he guessed had not been purchased at the market. ‘So, how’s the search going?’

‘It’s a bloody nightmare, mate,’ Cornish said. ‘The flooding means we can’t search as thoroughly as we’d like in some areas. Can’t search at all in a few. River’s so fast, it’s hard for the divers. We’ve got the fire brigade helping us out with specialist equipment, but we’re still stretched when it comes to manpower. This weather makes it all more of a pain in the arse than usual.’

‘Haven’t you got the army helping out as well?’ Thorne had read about it in the paper. ‘In the flooded areas, I mean.’

‘Yeah, but they can’t handle some of the extra crime that we’ve got to sort out.’ He saw the confusion on Thorne’s face. ‘Not the girls . . . we’ve got looting from some of the abandoned properties. Scumbags driving down from Ashby and Burton-on-Trent in four-by-fours. Obviously the missing girls are our main concern, but somebody’s got to deal with that.’

‘You think that’s where they are?’ Thorne asked. ‘In the river?’ There was no need to go around the houses. Both men had dealt with enough cases like this one. Whatever might be said publicly, both presumed that Poppy Johnston and Jessica Toms were already dead.

‘Be the obvious thing,’ Cornish said. ‘It’s flowing so fast in some places, they’d be gone like that.’ He clicked his fingers and sat back. ‘In terms of getting rid of bodies, weather like this is pretty useful.’

‘You would have thought one of them might have turned up by now though,’ Thorne said. ‘Even if it’s fifty miles away.’

Cornish looked at him, rolled his e-cig between thumb and first finger. ‘You would have thought.’

‘So, what’s Bates saying?’ Interesting as it was to learn about e-cigarettes and the logistic headaches that went with searching in bad weather, this was what Thorne had come to find out.

Cornish would have known that too, but appeared to have little problem with it. ‘He’s given us a written statement,’ he said.

‘Saying?’

‘Saying he picked Poppy up when she was heading to Tamworth on a night out and took her as far as the bus stop three miles out of town. About half past six, he reckons, though he can’t be sure. We’ve checked and the bus she would have been waiting for stopped there at six forty-seven. She wasn’t there to get on it. So, he doesn’t deny picking her up . . . well, he can’t really, there were too many people saw him do it. He wasn’t exactly hard to find.’

‘Why was she going to Tamworth?’

‘She was going to a bar. Meeting a boy.’

‘Really?’ Husbands, wives, lovers; always people worth looking at.

‘It wasn’t a serious thing, not according to any of her mates. Just someone she’d got off with a couple of times.’

‘He’s in the clear, I take it.’

Cornish nodded. ‘He waited for her, then went to the bar anyway. Plenty of people can verify he was there all night. So, that leaves Mr Bates, right at the top of a list of one.’

‘What about the first girl?’

‘Says he never picked her up, so we’re obviously keen on finding something in his crappy little car. A spot of blood, a strand of the girl’s hair, whatever. They’re pulling out the stops, top priority, all that, so I’m hoping to get some good news later tonight or first thing in the morning.’ He hit the e-cig again. ‘I get that, I’m charging him.’

‘If not?’

‘I’m probably charging him anyway. We’ve got enough.’

‘Sounds about right.’ Thorne saw Cornish glance at his watch. ‘Listen, I’ll get out of your way . . . ’

‘Bloody nasty,’ Cornish said. He puffed out his cheeks. ‘That business on the island.’

Thorne took a second or two to respond, tried not to look quite as taken unaware as he was. ‘Oh, yeah.’

‘Seriously. You OK?’

The physical injuries Thorne had sustained on Bardsey Island were not life-threatening. A patch-up at a local hospital and a couple of sessions in the dentist’s chair had been all that was needed. He knew Cornish was not talking about that.

He stood up, blinked away an unwelcome image. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘Glad to hear it.’ Cornish stood up too.

‘I like your suit,’ Thorne said, keen to take the conversation elsewhere.

Cornish glanced down, as if he’d been unaware he was wearing it. He nodded and pointed at Thorne, the e-cigarette still held between his fingers. ‘Well, clearly you flash boys in the Met can get away with not making quite as much effort.’

Thorne shrugged. He was wearing jeans and Timberlands, a brown leather jacket over a thick sweater, that dirty Hank Williams T-shirt underneath. ‘I’m on holiday.’

‘Oh yeah, course you are. I forgot.’ Cornish smiled. ‘You and your girlfriend. Detective Sergeant Weeks works on a child abuse investigation team, that right?’

Thorne blinked again, said nothing. Cornish had not got that information from the newspapers.

‘You should make the most of your free time,’ Cornish said. ‘I mean, obviously the weather’s a bit grim, but there’s still plenty to see around here.’ His eyes widened at an idea. ‘Actually, there’s a fantastic model village in Shuttington if you’re interested.’

‘Not sure that’s my thing,’ Thorne said.

Cornish laughed. ‘Yeah, well it’s under a foot of water at the moment anyway. Like a real village has been hit by a giant tidal wave or something. Bloody freaky, actually. Seriously though, head off from Polesford in any direction, get well away from the flooding obviously, there’s some gorgeous countryside. Good as anywhere.’

‘Maybe.’ Thorne put his hands in his pockets and took a step towards the door.

Cornish came around his desk, his hand outstretched. ‘Stay in touch though, whatever,’ he said.

He looked as though he meant it.