SIXTY-NINE

‘Nice,’ Thorne said. Nodding approvingly, he followed Hendricks along a carpeted hallway lined with framed black and white photographs into a smart, modern kitchen. Every inch of bleached wood and stainless steel was spotless. ‘Looks like you landed on your feet.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Hendricks was barefoot, wearing a black vest and tracksuit bottoms. He padded across the tiles and loaded a capsule into a shiny Nespresso machine. ‘Not that I’ve spent a great deal of time on my feet.’ He flashed Thorne a grin. ‘On my knees, mostly.’

‘I don’t need the details.’

‘Don’t forget I’m doing all this for you.’

‘Course you are,’ Thorne said.

They took their coffees into an equally smart and tidy sitting room. Wooden floors and cowhide rugs, chrome and soft leather, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, high-end magazines and CDs which Thorne immediately began to peruse.

‘I told you I’d call,’ Hendricks said.

‘Sorry?’

‘When I heard anything from the lab.’

Thorne took out an album and examined it. He hadn’t heard of the band, but was impressed that the collection was in alphabetical order. ‘I know, but I thought I might as well come and keep you company in the meantime.’

‘Oh yeah?’

Thorne found an Emmylou Harris CD and waved it at Hendricks. The album she’d made with Daniel Lanois. ‘He’s got good taste in music, anyway.’

‘Mostly.’

‘How’s he afford all this on a lecturer’s salary and a bit of consulting work?’ Liam Southworth’s flat was on the top floor of a portered block a few miles from the Warwick University campus. Thorne had seen signs for the gym on the way in, the entrance to a private parking garage.

‘He is a senior lecturer.’

‘Still.’ Thorne put the CD back in its place and began poking around the room, touching things. He picked up a small, marble sculpture from the top of a cupboard. He had no idea what it was supposed to be, but it looked expensive. ‘Is there some kind of black market in dead beetles?’

‘I think he inherited some money,’ Hendricks said. ‘Not really talked about it.’

Thorne wandered back and sat down next to Hendricks on a sofa which looked a lot more comfortable than it felt. Hendricks passed him a wooden coaster for his cup which Thorne dutifully set down gently on the glass table next to him.

He smirked. ‘Look at you. Coasters.’

‘Not my place, is it?’

‘You weren’t wrong about the TV.’ Thorne nodded at the huge screen mounted on the wall, a built-in shelf lined with DVDs.

‘The sound’s incredible,’ Hendricks said.

‘I bet.’ Thorne had already clocked the sub-woofer, the Bose speakers high up in the corners of the room.

‘So, what you been doing with yourself?’ Hendricks sat back and sipped his latte. ‘Apart from turning up here to keep me company.’

‘I met up with Patterson, the pig farmer. Complete waste of time. After that, I went for a walk in the woods.’

Hendricks stared. If he had been at home and less concerned with not making a mess, he would probably have spat out his coffee for comic effect.

Thorne shrugged. ‘Yeah, I went back to the spot where Jessica’s body was found, hung about there for a bit. Then I just . . . walked around. You know, nice enough day.’

Now, it was Hendricks’ turn to smirk. ‘Look at you. Walking.’

‘No law against it.’

‘No, but you are normally someone who thinks there should be.’

Thorne did not want Hendricks to know that trudging through the woods for almost two hours had simply been about killing time; that although he was now enjoying himself considerably more, he was still trying to kill it.

He had no desire to talk about why.

‘So, what’s Helen up to?’

Hendricks knew him far too bloody well. Thorne guessed that his friend had known something was up from the moment Thorne had arrived out of the blue.

‘She’s just kicking around at Paula’s, I think.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘I think she wants to be on her own for a bit.’

‘Right . . . ’

Hendricks was asking the question.

‘You were . . . bang on,’ Thorne said, eventually. ‘Remember you said something about home and bad memories? Turns out that town’s got some pretty bad ones for her. So . . . ’ Thorne did not want to say any more. He knew that Helen would tell Hendricks what those bad memories were if and when she was ready; they were close enough. Seeing the look on his face now though, Thorne found himself wondering if Hendricks already knew. Or perhaps he had guessed. ‘Thing is, I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know if the things I did say were the right things.’

Hendricks put his drink down. ‘Not sure there’s ever any right things. You know . . . depends on the situation, obviously, but whatever it is . . . you just say what you’re feeling and you can’t go far wrong.’

‘I wanted her to feel better,’ Thorne said.

‘Course you did, mate. I’m sure you told her what she needed to hear.’

‘I hope so, Phil.’

‘I mean, you’re not a complete twat, are you?’ Hendricks smiled. ‘Not all the time.’

Hendricks phoned out for pizza and they ate from the boxes, in front of the TV. They talked about music and football for a while and Thorne asked a few more questions about Liam. When Brigstocke called again and Thorne dropped the call, they both enjoyed listening to the irate message the DCI left. Reading the text message that arrived from him a few minutes later, saying much the same thing.

FFS!! Maybe u should have quit after Bardsey. You’ll be lucky to end up back on the beat. Saw a vacancy for a lollipop man but that’s probably out of your league . . .

‘I think I’m getting addicted to daytime TV,’ Hendricks said.

Thorne had been enjoying his friend’s running commentary on Doctors, Win It, Cook It and especially Cash in the Attic. ‘That’s serious.’

‘I know and as far as I’m aware there isn’t a single support group, there’s no rehab centres.’

‘It’s disgusting,’ Thorne said.

They watched and took the piss, the pin-sharp images and surround-sound heightening each unintentionally comic gem and profoundly undramatic moment.

‘We could do this,’ Hendricks said.

‘What?’

‘Knock up a reality show.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Piece of piss. We just use what we know, right? How hard can it be? People love a bit of murder and forensics, don’t they? Ice ’Em, Slice ’Em, what about that?’

Thorne laughed, as he usually did. These sessions with Hendricks had often been the only time he was able to relax during some of the tougher investigations they had worked on together. A way to decompress, to forget, if only for a few hours. But there was no way he could forget what Helen had told him. The pain in the telling and the deeper pain of those events she was recalling, still eating her up after almost thirty years.

Despite Hendricks’ best efforts, Thorne was craving the simple distraction of the Bates case.

The case he was not supposed to be involved in . . .

When Liam Southworth called, Thorne enjoyed seeing his friend’s face change, soften. He watched Hendricks turn away and lower his voice and Thorne decided it might be a good time to check out the toilet.

When he came back, Hendricks held up the phone and said, ‘We’re in business, mate. We’ve got Percy Pig in our bugs. A hundred per cent match for porky DNA. Good news, right?’

Thorne nodded, his mind already racing, but unable to go anywhere.

‘One thing, though.’ Hendricks told him that Cornish had already been informed, that Liam had been given no choice in the matter.

‘Doesn’t make any difference,’ Thorne said. ‘I won’t be holding my breath for an apology, or a “thank you”.’

‘So, what’s next?’

‘I haven’t got a fucking clue,’ Thorne said.

They sat around for another ten or fifteen minutes, but Thorne was unable to settle. When Hendricks got up to carry the pizza boxes into the kitchen, Thorne announced that he was heading back to Polesford.

‘You want me to come with you?’ Hendricks asked.

‘It’s fine,’ Thorne said. ‘I’ll call and tell you what’s happening.’

‘Let me know how Helen’s doing, will you?’

Thorne pulled on his jacket and said that he would. As he was walking to the door, Hendricks shouted through from the kitchen.

‘What about Corpse in the Attic? Come on, mate, you know that’s a winner.’