Bloodline-9 (3 page)

‘Piece of film?’ Thorne asked.

‘Could be.’

They stared at whatever was in the bag for a few more seconds, but both knew they would only be guessing until the Forensic Science Service laboratory had finished with it.

Hendricks handed the bag over for the evidence manager to log and label, then careful y fastened polythene wraps around both the victim’s hands before moving further up the body.

Thorne closed his eyes for a few seconds, let out a long breath. ‘Can you believe I had a choice?’ he said.

Hendricks glanced up at him. He was kneeling behind the victim’s head and lifting it so that it was resting against his legs.

‘Brigstocke gave me the option.’

‘More fool you.’

‘I could have let Kitson take it.’

‘This one’s got your name on it,’ Hendricks said.

‘Why?’

‘Look at her, Tom.’

Emily Walker was . . . had been early thirties or thereabouts, dark hair streaked with a little grey and a smal star tattooed above one ankle. She was no more than five feet tal , her height emphasising the few extra pounds which, judging by the contents of the fridge and the magnet on the door that said ‘ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE HUNGRY?’, she was trying to lose.

She wore a thin necklace of brown beads and there was a charm bracelet around one wrist: dice, a padlock, a pair of fish. Her shirt was denim. Her skirt was thin cotton, the same pil ar-box red as the varnish on her toenails.

Thorne looked across at the sandal that had been circled on the lino close to the fridge. At the decorative bottle a few feet away, with what looked like balsamic vinegar on the inside and blood and hair caught in a few of the glass ridges on the outside, and beyond, to the light stil winking on the front of the washing machine. His hand drifted up to his face, fingers moving along the straight, white scar on his chin. He stared until the red light began to blur, then turned and wandered away, leaving Hendricks cradling Emily Walker’s head and talking quietly into his Dictaphone.

‘There is nothing holding the plastic bag in position over the victim’s head. Assume that the kil er kept it in place around the victim’s neck with his hands. Bruises on neck suggest he held it there with a great deal of force until the victim had stopped breathing . . .’

Hol and was standing out on the patio at the rear of the house, watching half a dozen uniforms combing the flower beds. There were arc-lamps out here too, but this was only an initial sweep and more officers would be back at first light to conduct a fingertip search.

‘So, no forced entry then,’ Thorne said.

‘Which means she knew him.’

‘Possibly.’ Thorne could smel cigarettes on Hol and, wanted one himself for a second or two. ‘Or she answered the door and he produced a weapon, forced her back inside.’

Hol and nodded. ‘Let’s see if we get lucky with the house to house. Looks like the kind of street where there’s plenty of curtain-twitching.’

‘What about the husband?’

‘I only had five minutes before they took him to a hotel up the road,’ Hol and said. ‘In pieces, much as you’d expect.’

‘Trying too hard, you reckon?’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Sounds like he wanted everyone in the street to see just how upset he was. After he’d cal ed us.’

‘You heard the 999 tape?’

‘No.’ Thorne shrugged. ‘Just . . .’

‘Just wishful thinking?’ Hol and said. ‘Right?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ It was getting a little chil ier. Thorne shoved his hands inside the plastic suit and down into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘Be nice if it was . . . a simple one.’

‘I can’t see it,’ Hol and said.

Nor could Thorne, if he were being honest. He knew only too wel how domestic violence could escalate; had seen the ways a jealous boyfriend or a domineering husband could lose it. He blinked, saw the flop of the arm as the body was turned. Spots of pil ar-box red against black-and-white squares. Not a simple one . . .

‘Maybe he was just
that
upset,’ Hol and said. ‘How many of these have we done?’

Thorne puffed out his cheeks. There was no need to answer.

‘Right. And I stil can’t imagine what it must be like. Not even close.’

Hol and was fifteen years younger than Thorne. He had been working alongside him for more than seven years and though the fresh-faced newbie was long gone, Thorne stil relished the glimpses of someone who hadn’t been total y reshaped by the Job. Hol and had looked up to him once, had seen him as the kind of copper he would like to become, Thorne knew that. He knew equal y that Hol and was not the same as he was . . . not where it mattered, and that he should be bloody grateful for it.

‘Especial y when it’s a woman,’ Hol and said. ‘You know? I see the husbands and boyfriends and fathers, how it hits them, and it doesn’t matter if they’re hysterical or furious or sitting there like zombies. I’ve got no bloody idea what’s happening inside their heads.’

‘Don’t knock it, Dave,’ Thorne said.

They both looked across at laughter from further down the garden, where one of the officers had obviously stepped in something. Watched as he scraped the sole of his shoe across the edge of the lawn.

‘So, where were you skiving off to earlier, then?’ Hol and asked.

‘Sorry?’

‘When al this kicked off.’

Thorne cleared his throat.

Louise had been fine about him taking the job on, when he’d popped into the hospital to drop off her stuff. She was already in bed, working her way through a copy of
heat
and trying to tune out the incessant chatter of a woman in the bed opposite. He’d asked if she was sure. She’d looked at him like he was being stupid and asked why she wouldn’t be. He’d told her to cal if she wanted anything, if she needed him. She’d told him not to worry and said that she could get a taxi back when it was al over, if she had to.

‘Dentist,’ Thorne said. ‘An hour with the Nazi hygienist. The woman’s like something out of
Marathon Man
.’

Hol and laughed. Said,
‘Is it safe?’

‘I’m tel ing you.’

‘They remade that film, you know?’ Hol and waited for Thorne to take the bait and look at him. ‘But they had to cal it
Snickers Man
.’ He laughed again, seeing that Thorne was doing his best not to.

‘You told Sophie you’re back on the fags?’ Thorne asked.

Hol and shook his head. ‘Got a glove compartment ful of extra-strong mints.’ He leaned down and spat into a drain. ‘Stupid real y, ’cause I’m bloody sure she knows. Just doesn’t want a row, I suppose.’

Hol and and his girlfriend were another couple who had been talking about getting out of London, and about Hol and giving up the Job. Thorne wondered if that was something else that was not being mentioned for fear of reigniting an argument. He had always been convinced that Hol and should stay where he was, but he would never have said so. If Sophie so much as got wind of Thorne’s opinion, she would fight tooth and nail to do the opposite.

So he kept his mouth shut, content that Hol and was stil there.

‘We’l get the official ID done first thing in the morning,’ Thorne said. ‘Then bring the husband in for a chat.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘You never know, we might get lucky.’

Hol and snorted, nodded across to where the uniformed officer was now working at the sole of his shoe with a twig, flicking out the shit. ‘That kind of lucky,’ he said.

They both looked up as a plane passed low overhead, lights blinking, on its way to Luton. Thorne watched it move fast across a clear sky and swal owed hard. Eight weeks earlier, he and Louise had gone to Greece together for their first proper holiday as a couple. They had spent most days lying by a pool reading trashy books and done nothing more cultural y demanding than work out how to ask for beer and gril ed squid in the local taverna. They’d both tried hard not to talk about work and had laughed a lot. One day, Louise had rubbed cream into Thorne’s shoulders where he’d got burned, and said, ‘This is as far as it goes for me in terms of non-sexual intimate contact, al right? I’m not into squeezing other people’s blackheads and I wil
not
be wiping your arse if you break both your arms .’

She’d bought the pregnancy testing kit on their final morning there. Used it just before they’d gone out to dinner that last night.

Thorne was sitting in the car when Hendricks came out.

He’d checked his phone and tried both flats, but Louise hadn’t got back yet and there were no messages. He’d listened to the radio for a while then cal ed again to no avail. Louise’s mobile was switched off and Thorne guessed it was too late to ring the hospital.

Hendricks walked around to the passenger side and got in. He’d changed out of the protective suit and was wearing black jeans and a skinny-rib sweater over a white T-shirt. ‘Just about done,’ he said.

Thorne grunted.

‘You OK?’

‘Sorry . . . yeah.’ Thorne turned and looked. Nodded and smiled.

A skein of red and blue ink was just visible above the neckline, but most of Phil Hendricks’ tattoos were hidden. Much to the relief of his superiors, a good few of the piercings remained out of sight, too. Thorne was happy to have been spared the graphic details, but knew that some had been done in honour of a new boyfriend, one for each conquest. There hadn’t been a new piercing for quite a while.

It was not what many people expected a pathologist to look like, but Hendricks was the best Thorne had ever worked with; and stil - despite the many ups and downs - the closest friend he had.

‘Fancy a pint later?’ Thorne asked.

‘What about Louise?’

‘She’l be fine.’

‘No.’ Hendricks grinned. ‘I mean she’l be jealous.’

‘We’l make it up to her,’ Thorne said. In truth,
he
was the one who had suffered from jealousy. He and Louise had been together almost a year and a half, having met when Thorne was seconded to help out on a kidnap case she had been working, but it had taken her only a couple of weeks to get as close to Phil Hendricks as Thorne had managed in ten years. There were times, especial y early on, when it had been disconcerting; when he’d found himself resenting them their friendship.

One night, when the three of them were out together, Thorne had got pissed and cal ed Louise a ‘fag-hag’. She and Phil had laughed, and Phil had said how ironic that was, because Thorne was the one acting like an old queen.

‘Yeah, OK then,’ Hendricks said. He looked towards the house, from which officers had begun to drift in twos and threes. ‘Mind you, if I’m going to be elbows deep in that poor cow first thing in the morning, I’d better just have the one.’

‘Wel , I’m having
way
more than one,’ Thorne said. ‘So we’d best go to my local. I’l give you a lift.’

Hendricks nodded, let his head drop back and closed his eyes. Thorne had given up trying to find any decent country music and had tuned the radio into Magic FM. It was nearly ten o’clock, and 10cc were winding up an uninterrupted hour of easy-listening oldies.

‘He brought his own bag,’ Hendricks said.

‘What?’

‘The bag he used to suffocate her. He knew what he was doing. You can’t just grab some carrier bag out of the kitchen - they’re a waste of time. Most of them have got holes in, so your vegetables don’t sweat or whatever. You want something air-tight, obviously, and it needs to be a bit stronger, so it won’t get cut to ribbons by your victim’s fingernails, if she’s got any.’ Hendricks tapped his fingers on the dash in time to the music. ‘Also, with a nice,
clear
polythene bag, you can see the face while you’re doing it. I think that’s probably important.’

‘So, he was organised.’

‘He came prepared.’

‘He didn’t bring the vinegar bottle, though.’

‘No, I’m guessing that was improvised. First thing he could grab hold of to hit her with.’

‘Then he gets the bag out once she’s down.’

Hendricks nodded. ‘Might even have hit her hard enough to do the job before he had a chance to suffocate her.’

‘I suppose we should hope so.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Hendricks said. ‘You ask me, the bottle was just to make sure she wasn’t going to struggle too much. He wanted to kil her with the bag. Like I said, I reckon he wanted to watch.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I’l know tomorrow.’

The windows were beginning to steam up, so Thorne turned on the fan. They listened to the news for a couple of minutes. There was nothing to lift the mood even slightly and there was nothing in the sports round-up to get excited about. The footbal season was stil only a month or so old and, with neither of their teams in action, none of the night’s results proved particularly significant.

‘Six weeks until we stuff you again,’ Hendricks said. A committed Gunner, he was stil relishing the double that Arsenal had done over Spurs in the north London derbies the previous season.

‘Right . . . ’

Hendricks was laughing and saying something else, but Thorne had stopped listening. He was staring down at the screen of his mobile, thumbing through the menu and checking he hadn’t missed a message.

‘Tom?’

Making sure he stil had a decent signal.

‘Tom? You OK, mate?’

Thorne put the phone away and turned.

‘Is Louise al right?’ Hendricks waited, saw something in Thorne’s face. ‘Shit, is it the baby?’

‘What? How d’you know . . . ?’ Thorne pushed back hard in his seat and stared straight ahead. He and Louise had agreed to tel nobody for the first three months. A good friend of hers had lost one early on.

‘Don’t be pissed off,’ Hendricks said. ‘I forced it out of her.’

‘’Course you did.’

‘To be honest, I think she was desperate to spil the beans.’ Hendricks looked for a softening in Thorne’s demeanour but saw none. ‘Come on, who else was she going to tel ?’

Thorne glanced across, spat it out. ‘I don’t know, her
mother
?’

‘I think she might have told her as wel .’

‘Fuck’s sake!’

‘Nobody else, as far as I know.’

Thorne leaned down and turned off the radio. ‘This was why we agreed we wouldn’t say anything. In case this happened.’