FORTY-ONE

Thorne guessed he was the only Spurs fan in the pub. He was certainly the only one watching the match who seemed upset about the fact that they were one down at home to Manchester City within fifteen minutes. He was starting to wish he hadn’t bothered coming. Wasn’t football supposed to be an escape from the stress and anguish of his job?

All that pain and grief.

Murder was a doddle in comparison . . .

‘Not your boys’ night by the look of it.’ Trevor Hare was collecting empty glasses.

‘Long way to go,’ Thorne said.

They watched for half a minute. Thorne winced as his team’s leaky defence almost gifted a second goal to the visitors.

‘Steve Bates was sat where you are a week or two ago,’ Hare said. ‘Watching the match, same as you.’

Thorne looked at him. Was the landlord telling him in case he fancied moving to another table? Was he about to start another of those ‘you think you know people’ routines Thorne was getting so tired of?

‘Won’t be so relaxed now, will he?’

‘I seriously doubt it,’ Thorne said.

‘Why not tell them though?’ Hare shook his head. ‘I don’t get that at all. He’s going down anyway, right? So why not put that poor girl’s parents out of their misery and just say where she is?’

Thorne stared into his glass and decided against offering up his best guess.

Because he doesn’t know.

Instead, he said, ‘I’m amazed you haven’t had the press on at you. Ex-copper running the killer’s local, bang up their street.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I have,’ Hare said. ‘And I told them where they could stick their blood money an’ all.’ He walked towards the bar, spoke over his shoulder. ‘I never liked them when I was on the job . . . ’

Thorne turned his attention back to the game.

He ordered a cheese sandwich and chips at half time and had barely finished eating it when Spurs went two down five minutes after the restart. He swore and pushed his plate away. It wasn’t hard to imagine what a passionate Arsenal fan would have to say.

He didn’t have to.

‘Only ever been one decent team in London, mate.’

Thorne looked up to see Phil Hendricks grinning at him.

‘Whichever one of us supports a shit team gets the drinks in,’ Hendricks said. ‘Oh, wait, that’s you.’

‘What . . . ?’

‘Spit it out.’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Nice.’ Hendricks seemed delighted to see his friend so lost for words. He told Thorne to shove up and squeezed in next to him. ‘You’re not the only one who needs a holiday, you know.’

‘Yeah, but . . . work?’

‘I just got my squashy banker out of the way, switched things around with a couple of colleagues and jumped in the car. I’m pretty senior, you know, I can do that sort of stuff.’

‘But you hate the countryside as much as I do,’ Thorne said.

‘Just one more in a long line of sacrifices I’ve made for you.’ The smile faltered a little; the space between them suddenly charged by the memory of what had happened on Bardsey Island. Hendricks made the necessary effort to lift the mood. ‘Listen, you don’t have to say how pleased you are to see me, you know. I mean you’re welcome to shed a tear if you want, I shan’t be embarrassed.’

‘Course I am. Just a bit gobsmacked at you showing up.’

‘You said you wanted my help.’

‘An email would have done it.’

‘I work better on the ground, mate.’ Hendricks smacked his lips theatrically. ‘Actually, I work a damn sight better with a drink in front of me, but as your wallet’s obviously welded shut, same as always, I’d better go and get them in.’ He slid out and on to his feet.

‘Where are you staying?’ Thorne asked.

‘Ah . . . haven’t quite thought that far ahead.’

‘How well do you work after a night on a park bench?’

‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

Thorne told Hendricks that he’d call Helen, see if her friend Paula was able to squeeze another guest in. ‘Obviously, I’m not bothered either way, but Helen will be pleased to see you,’ Thorne said. ‘She’s not been herself.’

Hendricks took off his jacket, tossed it at Thorne. ‘Yeah, you said.’

‘She’s starting to get on my tits, frankly.’

‘I thought that was my job.’

As Thorne took out his phone and dialled, he watched Hendricks find a space at the bar and immediately begin talking to a man with slicked back hair and a leather jacket. Hendricks turned to look at Thorne over the man’s shoulder and widened his eyes. Thorne shook his head.

Mouthed: Slag.

Helen did sound pleased to hear that Hendricks had shown up out of the blue, but didn’t say much beyond that. She told Thorne she would talk to Paula and volunteered to collect them both from the pub later on. ‘I know you’ll be making a night of it,’ she said.

Hendricks laid drinks and crisps on the table and sat down. ‘Might not need that bed at Helen’s mate’s after all,’ he said. He slurped the foam from his pint. ‘Is Leather Boy looking?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Thorne asked. ‘Everybody’s looking.’

Hendricks’ haircut was as brutal as usual. His scalp was the one part of his body (as far as Thorne was aware) that the pathologist had yet to tattoo, but it would certainly have been visible through the stubble. He was wearing a T-shirt with a diagram of human ribs on the front; cap-sleeved to emphasise the extravagant patterns of ink on his arms and tight enough to show the outlines of the nipple rings. There was plenty of other metal on show, through ears, nose and lips.

Thorne would not want to be stuck behind Hendricks in the queue at airport security, but, as always, he enjoyed the reaction to his friend’s appearance.

‘They don’t like your sort round ’ere,’ he whispered.

Hendricks was staring towards the bar. ‘I think some of them do,’ he said.

They watched the match for another ten minutes, but City seemed content to sit on their lead and Spurs seemed happy to let them.

‘So, who burns half a body?’ Hendricks asked. He might just as well have been asking Thorne to pass the cheese and onion.

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s the only interesting bit in what you told me. The rest of it’s not actually that exciting.’

‘Exciting enough for you to come all the way here.’

‘I’ve got a very dull life.’

‘The body wasn’t there long enough,’ Thorne said. ‘I think that’s pretty bloody interesting.’

‘Long enough for what? And don’t give me all that crap about dogs again. It could have been there a few days, surely.’

‘I seriously doubt it.’

‘That’s long enough for it to have been Bates who buried it.’

Thorne shook his head. ‘The body was weeks old.’

‘Doesn’t mean Bates didn’t kill her.’ Hendricks looked round, suddenly aware that a couple on the next table were leaning a little closer. He lowered his voice. ‘He kills her pretty soon after he’s snatched her, then buries her much later. No big mystery.’

‘Where’s the body in the meantime?’

Hendricks shrugged. ‘Maybe he liked having it around.’

‘Right, because that’s normal.’

‘Nilsen did. Said he killed young men for company.’

‘Yeah, but he didn’t just sit there and watch them rot in his front room, did he? He chopped them up and flushed them down the drain.’

Hendricks nodded, conceding the point. ‘Yeah, much more civilised.’

On screen, the post-match analysts were pulling every aspect of Spurs’ performance apart. The young waitress came across to collect Thorne’s plate and after chatting to her for a few minutes, Hendricks lifted up his shirt to show her his piercings. The pair on the next table were drinking in silence, as though waiting for Thorne and Hendricks to pick up their conversation again.

‘The only way your worries would make any sense is if that body wasn’t quite as old as it seemed.’ Hendricks leaned to get a better view of the bar.

Thorne looked at him. ‘Yeah?’ He waited. ‘Phil . . . ?’

Hendricks straightened up and sighed. The man he’d been talking to at the bar earlier was nowhere to be seen. ‘I tell you what, my gaydar’s well off these days.’

‘How do you mean, not as old?’

Hendricks grinned and held up his empty glass. The price of his further expertise. ‘What I said before. Who the hell burns half a body?’