FORTY-THREE

The TV in the corner of the bar had thankfully been turned off, not that Thorne could have seen it anyway. There was standing room only, now that many of those who had been out searching for Poppy Johnston had returned from fields and woods and wasteland. They huddled together in small groups, warming up; keen to put a couple away before closing time and compare stories.

Thorne caught snippets here and there as he carefully carried drinks across to the table. Nothing much to tell, sadly, but the conversations were enough reason for Thorne and Hendricks to keep their own even more discreet than it had been.

‘I mean, burning gets rid of DNA, obviously,’ Hendricks said. He leaned forward and whispered, as though it were the punchline to a dirty joke. ‘Incriminating fluids.’

‘Presuming there were any.’

‘Even if there weren’t, there’s stray hairs, fibres, whatever. His fingerprints on her skin.’

‘So, he knows what he’s doing,’ Thorne said.

‘Bates?’

‘Whoever.’

‘Yeah, I reckon so.’

‘But somehow he still manages to drop a cigarette butt in there when he’s burying her.’

‘We all make mistakes.’

‘I’m not sure it was a mistake.’

Hendricks nodded, but it was clear he was thinking about something else. ‘Still a bit strange though, don’t you reckon, only doing half the job? So, maybe we should be asking ourselves . . . is that the only reason?’

Thorne waited.

‘For setting fire to the body.’

Thorne waited a little longer. ‘So go on then, what’s the other reason?’

‘Well, I’m working on it . . . ’

Hendricks was into his fourth pint of Guinness without having eaten anything and was becoming a little vague. Still, Thorne knew he was sharper than most people, even when he was three parts pissed.

‘You must have some idea.’

Hendricks grimaced and closed his eyes for a few seconds, fumbling to line up whatever his thoughts were in the right order. ‘It’s just weird, that’s all I’m saying. You set fire to your body, pour on the petrol, whatever, out with the Swan Vestas . . . and up she goes.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Then you rush over and put the fire out before the body’s completely burned.’ He cocked his head one way, then another. ‘I don’t know . . . maybe I’m going nowhere with this and he just couldn’t bear to see her completely burned. Maybe she was . . . precious.’

‘An hour ago you were saying he sat there watching her decompose.’

Hendricks nodded his head slowly, then shook it. He took a mouthful of beer and held it in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing it. ‘He burns the body just enough to destroy any forensics, but not enough to destroy her. See what I’m saying?’

‘Not really.’ Thorne was starting to think his friend didn’t actually have anything to say that made any sense.

‘Just enough for something else.’

‘Such as?’

After a few seconds’ frozen concentration, Hendricks sat back and shook his head. Whatever had been threatening to emerge into the light had drifted back into the murk; thick and black as the Guinness he was busily putting away. ‘So, what do you think’s going on with Helen, then?’

‘Wish I bloody knew,’ Thorne said.

Hendricks nodded, knowingly. ‘Why do you think I prefer blokes?’

‘Because they’ve got cocks?’

‘Because they’re much simpler creatures.’

‘She was fine until we got here.’

‘It was her idea to come, right?’

‘Yeah, I tried to talk her out of it.’

‘Like I said, it’s strange, going home. Memories, whatever.’

‘Nothing bad as far as I know.’ Thorne stared at his glass. ‘I mean, her mum died here, but I don’t think it’s anything to do with that.’

‘Any people from her past she might not have wanted to see?’

‘One ex-boyfriend so far,’ Thorne said.

‘Oh, I’m sorry I missed that.’

‘In here, the first night.’

‘Place is probably crawling with them,’ Hendricks said. He gestured at Thorne with his glass. ‘I mean she clearly has pretty low standards.’

‘How long did you say you were staying?’ But Thorne was smiling in spite of himself and, as far as his own relationship with Helen went, he thought that Hendricks probably had a point.

He was definitely punching above his weight.

Thorne checked his phone to see if there were any messages from Helen, and, when he looked up again, Trevor Hare was standing at their table, with a drink of his own in his hand.

‘Rushed off my bloody feet in here tonight,’ he said.

Not so busy that he couldn’t find time to wander across and check out the new face, Thorne thought. To enjoy a swift half. ‘This is Trevor,’ he told Hendricks. ‘The governor.’

Hendricks stuck out a hand and introduced himself.

‘You in a band or something?’ Hare asked.

Hendricks laughed, put him right.

‘Blimey,’ Hare said, nodding. ‘So, what, professional curiosity or something? Why you’re here, I mean.’

Hendricks pointed at Thorne. ‘Just here to keep him out of trouble.’

‘I think you might have your work cut out,’ Hare said.

‘Oh, I know.’

‘Not with me,’ Thorne said. Hare had probably read the paper, he thought, or been talking to one of his customers.

‘Only pathologists I ever knew wore suits and ties,’ Hare said. ‘Very straight, you know?’

Hendricks grinned. ‘I’m a bit of a maverick.’

‘Another round?’ Hare looked at his watch. ‘Last chance.’

‘I think we’re fine,’ Thorne said.

Hendricks was about to demur, until he clocked the disapproving look on Thorne’s face. He drained his glass then stared at it. ‘Yeah . . . ’

‘Right, let’s get this lot shifted,’ Hare said. He pushed his way back to the bar and rang the bell.

‘Do I smell bacon gone off?’ Hendricks asked.

Hare shouted, announced that it was time for everyone to get their drinks down their necks. He rang the bell again. People began doing as they were told.

‘Ex Met,’ Thorne said. ‘Why this place is full of coppers. Fuller than usual, anyway.’ He watched the landlord clearing glasses from the bar and turned in time to see Helen coming through the door. ‘Here we go. Our ride’s here.’

‘Well yours might be,’ Hendricks said. ‘Mine left ages ago.’ He grinned and waggled his eyebrows; like Groucho Marx, if he’d been born in Salford and had a thing for extreme body ornamentation.

‘Look at you pair,’ Helen said, when she reached the table. ‘Having fun?’

They stood up, grabbed jackets and downed what was left of their drinks. Helen leaned in to kiss Thorne on the cheek and was then pulled into a prolonged hug from Hendricks.

‘How you doing, gorgeous?’ Hendricks drew Helen even tighter, looked at Thorne over her shoulder. ‘You know it’s you I’ve come to see and not him, don’t you?’

Helen stepped back and said, ‘Course I do,’ and told Hendricks he was pissed.

‘I’m . . . refreshed.’

‘As a newt,’ Thorne said.

‘Come on then, Laurel and Hardy.’

‘So, have I got a bed? Hendricks asked.

‘You’ve got a sofa.’

At the door, Helen stopped and handed Thorne the car keys. ‘Car’s outside,’ she said. ‘I need to nip to the Ladies.’

Watching her go back in, Hendricks said, ‘If she’s gone to get condoms out of the machine, you know I always carry plenty, don’t you?’ He patted his jacket pocket, gave a clumsy boy-scout salute. ‘Be prepared.’

‘Don’t think I’ll need to trouble you,’ Thorne said.

Helen came out of the toilets into the small hallway that led back towards the bar. It smelled only marginally better than the toilets themselves. Wiping damp hands on the back of her jeans, she looked out through the glass doors into the garden and saw two figures emerge from one of the buildings at the far end. They walked past a table where three teenagers sat smoking and as they passed beneath one of the overhead lights, she recognised a young girl she had seen serving behind the bar, straightening her shirt and leaning close to an older man with a ratty-looking beard and glasses. They opened the door and stepped into the hall. The girl did not look at her, but the man smiled as he passed, clearly pleased with himself. She watched them walk towards the bar, trying to remember the joke about ponytails always having arseholes underneath . . .

She jumped as the door slammed behind her and turned to see that the three teenagers had come in from the garden.

‘Blimey, look at this. It’s Linda Bates’ pet rug-muncher.’ The biggest of the three stepped towards her. Dirty blond, with bad skin, the collar of his polo shirt turned up.

‘Shit!’ An Asian kid in a baggy American football shirt. ‘She’s got a nerve.’

The third one just stared, hands thrust into the pockets of his windbreaker.

Helen could smell the fags and the beer coming off them.

‘How can you show your face in here?’

‘Fucking nerve.’

‘Where’s your girlfriend then?’

‘Waiting for you at home with her legs open?’

‘Getting the strap-on oiled up.’

‘All right, lads,’ Helen said. A smile, but not in her voice. ‘Just get yourselves off home, all right?’

The boy in the polo shirt spread his legs and stuck his neck out. ‘Think you can tell us what to do?’

‘Cheeky bitch.’

‘You know I’m a copper, right?’

‘Like I care,’ the Asian kid said.

Helen glanced down to unzip her bag, rummaged for her warrant card.

‘You’re a disgrace . . . ’

She heard the phlegm being hawked up and raised her head at the same time that the gobbet hit her in the face. She tried to lift her hand to wipe it away, but for a few seconds her body refused to do as it was told. She could only watch, and let the cold slug of spittle crawl down her cheek, as the three boys tore open the door to the garden and bolted, whooping, into the darkness.