FIFTY-SEVEN

Thorne was about to set off for Warwick, to collect Phil Hendricks, when he got a call from Aurora Harley.

‘Can I see you?’ she asked. ‘I went to the police, like you said, and they were horrible. I don’t know what to do.’

Helen was spending the morning at Paula’s. She said she would wait until Linda got back from visiting Steve. She said she would go and see her then, presuming Linda wanted her to and was up to it. She didn’t say any more about what had happened the night before; the late-night visit to tell Linda about Aurora, the incident with the boys at the side of the road.

Thorne had never seen Helen as angry, had been shocked by the violence. Her eyes, flat as she had meted it out. There was no doubt that the kid had deserved everything he had got, but Thorne could not help but suspect he was paying for something he had nothing to do with.

It had been coming since Helen had first set foot back in Polesford.

They met outside the abbey. The girl was wearing the same thick jacket she’d had on the night before and it was certainly cold enough for it. Thankfully, the rain had kept away again. The local newspaper Thorne had flicked through before he’d left Paula’s said that the floodwater had subsided still further, but that those areas affected by it were not out of the woods yet.

‘So, what happened?’

They walked through the archway into the graveyard. There was a couple at the noticeboard, a man walking slowly along one of the narrow paths, studying the gravestones.

‘I went to the control unit place like you told me to and a copper took all my details, then they sent a car for me crack of dawn this morning, drove me to Nuneaton.’ She shook her head. ‘Waste of time. Should have had a lie-in.’

‘Why?’

‘They didn’t believe me, that’s why.’

‘They said that?’

‘Didn’t have to. Bloke looked at me like I was five years old or something. I was only in there fifteen minutes.’

‘What was his name?’

She shrugged. ‘Some dick with one of those stupid electronic cigarettes. Thanked me for coming in, nodded a lot and asked a few questions, then told me they’d be in touch. Made it pretty obvious that nothing I’d told him made a blind bit of difference.’

They had reached the part of the graveyard that Thorne and Helen had visited a few days earlier. Thorne looked along the line of headstones, identified Sandra Weeks’ grave. The flowers Helen had laid were nowhere to be seen.

‘What kind of questions did he ask?’

‘Stuff about the pub,’ she said. ‘That night I met Steve. Wanted to know which football match was on the TV or something.’

‘Did you tell him?’

‘I don’t know the first thing about football and it wasn’t like we were there for very long anyway. It was where we’d arranged to meet, that’s all. We had one drink then got in the car and left because we had better things to do.’

‘Right.’

She looked at him, a trace of a smile. She had clearly made an effort for her early-morning visit to the police station and was wearing almost as much make-up as she had the previous evening. ‘We had sex in Steve’s car.’

‘I know what you meant,’ Thorne said.

They stopped at the entrance to the abbey and looked up. The gargoyles leered, stuck their tongues out. There was almost no wind and the flag was limp above the turrets.

‘You want to go in?’

‘If you like.’

She nodded. ‘Freezing my tits off.’

If anything it was colder inside, and certainly quieter. Their footsteps were unnaturally loud against the stone and instinctively their voices dropped to a whisper. The man Thorne had seen outside was at the far end, where steps led up to the high altar, bending to read an inscription on the font.

‘You believe in any of this?’ Aurora asked.

Thorne shook his head.

‘Me neither. Stupid. Just something to make people feel better when things turn to shit. What d’you call it? A crutch.’

‘For some people, I suppose.’

‘Nice though.’ She walked forward, staring up at the windows, motes of dust dancing in the streams of coloured light. ‘Peaceful.’

‘You never been in here before?’

‘You been to the Tower of London? Buckingham Palace?’

‘Not since I was a kid.’

‘There you go then. You never appreciate what’s on your own doorstep.’ She walked further on past the rows of wooden pews, stopped to look at a Norman tomb; a knight carved in stone, arms folded across the sword on his chest. She waited for Thorne to join her. Said, ‘So what do I do now?’

‘You could try talking to a different copper.’

She shook her head. ‘Been there, done that. I want people to know. The whole town’s talking about Steve like he’s some kind of monster, like a paedo or something. I want them to know it’s not true.’

Thorne waited, let the man who had been at the front of the abbey walk past them, back towards the entrance. ‘There’s plenty of reporters around. I’m sure they’d be interested in your story. Probably pay a fair bit, too.’

‘How much?’

‘A lot, I should think.’

The girl appeared to like the sound of that.

‘You got a job?’

She looked at him like he was stupid. ‘I’m doing A/S levels, aren’t I? English, French and drama.’

‘What do you want to do?’ Thorne asked. ‘After.’

‘Get out as fast as possible,’ she said. ‘Maybe Birmingham or somewhere.’

‘What about a job?’

‘I’d rather work in Burger King there than have a decent job here.’ She smiled. ‘Steve said he’d come with me.’

‘What about university?’

She pushed her hands into her pockets. ‘Steve said it’s a waste of time. We want to get a place together, start enjoying ourselves.’

Thorne said nothing. He’d never clapped eyes on Stephen Bates, but guessed he was the sort to say anything that might get someone like Aurora Harley into bed. That cocky chef was another one, the sort who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Making fools out of young girls with his bullshit and his books.

He watched her running a hand across the effigy, fingers tracing the smooth edges of the sandstone. She didn’t seem the sort to be impressed by the likes of Shelley or Steve Bates without good reason. Perhaps she was just a bad judge of character. Maybe she was just smart in all the ways except the one that really mattered.

‘So, you reckon I should talk to one of those journalists, then?’

‘Up to you,’ Thorne said. ‘They can twist things though.’

A shrug. ‘No more so than anyone else round here.’ She took cigarettes from her pocket and they began walking back towards the door. ‘Was all that stuff about you twisted? In the paper?’

‘Some of it,’ Thorne said.

She was flicking her lighter on and off as they walked. ‘You seem all right to me.’

Thorne thought: Terrible judge of character.