Lazy Bones (28 page)

HARM' S WAY

The grunting seemed to be coming from somewhere very deep down. A noise of efJbrt and of immense satisfaction. Rising up from his guts and exploding, carried on hot breath from between dirty, misshapen teeth. Beneath these animal sounds - dog-noise, monkey-noise, pig-noise - the counterpoint provided by the dul slapping of hot flesh against cold as he pushes himself harder, again and again.

Refusing to speed up. Gc'ving no sign that it might soon be over. Taking his pleasure. Inflicting his pain.

How was this al owed to happen? Naivety and trust had proved to be e perfect complements to frustration and hatred. It had happened in moment. How long ago was that? Fifteen minutes? Thirty?

There seems little point in struggling. It wil be over eventual y, it must be. No point in thinking about what happens afterwards. Probably a shy smile, maybe an apology and a cigarette and a speech about signals and crossed wires.

Fucker. Fucker. Fucker.

Until then...

Eyes that cannot bear to stay open, shut tight and a new picture presents itselJ Smal at first, and far away. Posed, waiting in a distant circle of light at the end of a tunnel.

Now it is the grunting and the slapping that begin to recede into the distance as the picture gets closer, rushing up the tunnel, sucking up the darkness until it is ful y formed and clearer than it has ever been.

Clearer even than it ever real y was. The colours more vivid: the red wetness against the white shirt; the cobalt-blue of the rope's coils around the 235

neck like an exotic snake at his throat. The sounds and smel s of the body and the rope, deafening and pungent. Creaking and faecal.

The feeling: the unique horror of seeing it. Seeing the indescribable pain in 'those eyes at being seen.

Then, at the end, watching it. Sensing something struggle to escape, and final y float free, up and away from the body that twirls slowly at the end of a frayed and oily rope.

236

SEVENTEEN

It was as grim a story of broken bodies and bruised lives as Tom Thorne had ever heard...

A week since Carol Chamberlain had sat in Thorne's office aM blown everything wide open. Hol and was at the wheel of a car-potl Laguna as they drove into Essex, heading towards Braintree. The two men were comfortable enough with each other to let silences fal between them, but today's was particularly heavy. Thorne could only hope that what was in Hol and's head was a sight less dark than what was in his own.

As grim a story...

Jane Foley was raped by Alan Franklin. Thorne was convinced of it, though if it had not been proved then, there was very little chance that the truth would emerge over twenty-five years on. What nobody doubted, then or now, were the bizarre and brutal actions taken by her husband, Dennis. What he had done to Jane, and then to himself, on the afternoon of 10 August, 1976.

Thorne would probably never know for certain exactly what had gone on in that house, what had passed between those two people and 237

led to those last, intimate moments of horror. Thorne did know that he would spend a good deal of time imagining those moments: the terror of Jane Foley as her husband draws near to her; the guilt and the anguish and the fear of a man who has just committed murder; the blood not yet dry on his hands, the tow rope slippy with it as he fashions a makeshift noose.

Worst of al , the incomprehension of the two children, finding the bodies of their parents...

Thorne started slightly as Hol and smacked his palms against the wheel. He opened his eyes to see that they'd run into a line of slow moving traffic. Ever since they'd come off the M 11 it had been snarled up. Mid-morning on a Saturday and no good reason for the jam, but it was there al the same.

'Shit,' Hol and said. It was the first word either of them had spoken in nearly an hour.

If Thorne was going to spend time thinking about what had happened between Jane and Dennis Foley, he was also going to be dwel ing on something eqtal y as painful. Something that, God help him, might have been responsible for horrors al of its own.

Thorne had fucked up. He had fucked up as badly as he could remember and, for him, that was saying something...

Carol Chamberlain had presumed that the officers working on the Franklin murder in 1996 had also fucked up. It looked as if they'd failed to check Franklin's name against the General Registry at Victoria, which would have revealed his part in the Jane Foley rape case twenty years before that.

In fact, it was a matter of record that those officers had phoned the General Registry. What was not a matter of record, what would have to remain conjecture, was that the brain-dead pen-pusher on the other end of the phone - a man long-since retired and, Thorne hoped, long since dead - had missed Franklin's name. One eye on his crossword as the other had simply skipped past it. It had been a costly mistake.

But Thorne's had been costlier.

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Unlike the officers in 1996, Thorne had not checked. Jane Foley's name had never been run past the General Registry, had never been put through the system. Strictly speaking, it had not been Thorne's job to do it, but that didn't matter. As far as Thorne was concerned, he carried the can. He never made sure, and even if he had thought of it, it would not have struck him as important.

Why would they need to check out the name of a woman who didn't real y exist? Jane Foley was the made-up name of a made-up person, wasn't it? Jane Foley was a fantasy...

Thorne knew very wel that if they.., he... anyone had checked, made one simple phone cal after they'd found Remfry's letters, that Ian Welch might stil be alive. As might Howard Anthony Southern...

The traffic had begun to move again. Hol and yanked the gearstick down, took the car up into second. 'I wouldn't mind, but there's never a decent bloody pile-up at the end of it...'

The body of the third victim had been discovered, in a hotel in Roehampton, at around the same time as the woman from the Crirtldy Squad had walked into Thorne's office and dropped her very welcome bombshel . She had stil been there when the cal came through and Thorne had invited her along to the murder scene. It had seemed the very least he could do.

In that hotel room, with SOCOs and pathologists and an honest-to goodness body, Thorne had thought that, even standing in the background as she was, Carol Chamberlain had looked as happy as a kid in a sweet factory...

In the days that fol owed, the investigation had begun to move forward in two distinct directions. While the latest victim was being processed, and the change in the pattern of the kil ings was being looked at, Thorne and those closest to him had begun to work on a new front. They would be chasing the major new lead that Carol Chamberlain had given them.

Hol and steered the car into an ordinary-looking road lined with drab sixties houses, and spindly trees which didn't help a great deal.

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They'd managed to snaffle one of the few team vehicles with air conditioning and the street felt like a sauna as they stepped out of the car. They pul ed on their jackets, grimacing.

As they walked towards Peter Foley's house, Thorne thought about leads. Why on earth did they talk about 'chasing' them? He wondered if it was because, no matter how inanimate they were, or how quick you thought you might be, some had a nasty habit of getting away from you.

Dennis Foley's younger brother, the only surviving relative of either Dennis or Jane they had yet been able to trace, was not the most gracious of hosts.

Thorne and Hol and sat perched on the edge of stained velour armchairs, sweating inside jackets they had not been encouraged to take off. Opposite them on a matching sofa, Peter Foley sprawled in baggy shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt, open to the waist. He clutched a can of cold lager which, when he wasn't drinking from it, he rol ed back and forth across his slinny chest.

'You were, what, eleven years yotinger than Dennis?' Hol and said. Foley swal owed a mouthful of beer. 'Right, I was the mistake.' 'So when it happened you'd have stil been a student?'

He shook his head. 'Nope. Least you could do is get your facts right. I was twenty-two in seventy-six. I'd left col ege the year before ...' His accent was pure Essex, the voice high, and a little wheezy.

'And you were doing what?' Thorne asked.

'I was doing fuck al . Bumming around, being a punk. I did a bit of roadying for The Clash at one point...'

Thorne had been a punk as wel , though he was six years younger than Foley, who was pushing fifty. The man sitting opposite him certainly didn't look like he listened to 'White Riot'

much any more. He was skinny, though his arms were wel muscled; worked on, Thorne guessed, to better display the Gothic tattoos. His greying hair was tied 24O

back in a ponytail and the wispy beard teased into a point. From the look of him, and the copies of Kerrang! tossed under the coffee table, Thorne figured that Peter Foley was something of an ageing heavy metal fan.

'What do you think happened to Jane?' Thorne said.

Foley lifted himself up, pul ed a pack of Marlboros from his shorts

pocket and sank back down again. 'What? You mean when Den...?' 'Before that. With Franklin.'

'Fucker raped her, didn't he.' It wasn't a question. He lit his cigarette. 'He'd have gone down for it as wel if it wasn't for you fucking lot...'

Hol and bridled a little, opened his mouth, but Thorne cut across him. 'What do you mean, Mr Foley?' Thorne knew exactly what Foley meant and he knew that he was right. The force, back then, was not exactly famed for the sensitivity with which it treated rape victims.

'You get the transcripts of that trial, mate. Have a look at some of the things they said about Jane in court. Made her sound like a total slag. Especial y that copper, talking about what she was wearing..-.'

'It was handled badly,' Thorne said. 'Back then a lot of rapists got off, simple as that. I'm sure you're right about what happened to Jane, about Franklin.'

Foley took a drag, then a drink, and leaned back, nodding. He looked across at Thorne, like he was re-evaluating him.

Thorne glanced at Hol and. Time to move on. As far as the interview went, they hadn't worked out a system - who would ask what, who was going to take the lead - they never did.

Hol and did the writing. That was about as far as it went.

'Did you know that Alan Franklin was dead?' Hol and said. 'He died in 1996.'

Now it was Thorne's turn to do the evaluating. He studied Foley's face, trying to read the reaction. Al he saw, or thought he saw, was momentary shock, and then delight.

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'Fucking good,' Foley said. 'I hope it was painful.'

'It was. He was murdered.'

'Even better. :Who do I send a thank-you letter to?'

Thorne stood up and began to wander about. Foley was getting altogether too comfortable. Thorne was not considering the man to be a suspect, not at the moment anyway, but he always preferred his interviewees on the back foot...

'Why do you think he did it, Peter?' Thorne said. 'Why did Dennis kil her?' Foley stared back at him, sucked his teeth. He emptied the last of the lager into his mouth and crushed the can in his hand.

Thorne repeated the question. 'Why did your brother kil his wife?' 'How should I know?'

'Did he believe what they said about Jane in court?'

'I don't...'

'He must have thought about it at least...' 'Den thought about a lot of things.' 'Did he think his wife wag a slag?' 'Course he fucking didn't...'

'Maybe they had problems in bed afterwards . .'

Foley leaned forward suddenly, dropped the empty can at his feet. 'Listen, Jane went weird afterwards, al right? She had a breakdown. She stopped going out, stopped talking to anyone, stopped doing anything at al . She was mates with this girl I was seeing at the time, you know, we al used to go out together, but after the trial, no... after the rape, she just wasn't there any more. Den pretended like everything was fine, but he was bottling it al up. He always did. So, when Franklin walked out of that court like Nelson fucking Mandela, like he'd been the victim...'

Thorne watched as Foley leaned back, Jel back on the sofa and began to spin one of the half-dozen silver rings on the fingers of his left hand.

'Look, I don't know what Den thought, al right? He said some

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mad stuff at the time, but he was al over the place. They make you doubt things, don't they? That was their job in that court, to make the jury doubt, and they did a bloody good job. I mean, you're supposed to trust the police, aren't you, to believe them...?'

Foley looked up and across at Hol and, then turned to look at Thorne. For the first time he looked his age. Thorne looked at the cracks across Peter Foley's face, saw hard drugs in his past and perhaps even in his present.

'Something snapped,' Foley said, quietly.

For no good reason that he could think of, Thorne took a step across the room and bent to pick up the beer can from the floor. He put it down on a dusty, chrome and glass shelving unit next to the TV, then turned back to Foley.

'What happened to the children?'

'Sorry...?'

'Mark and Sarah. Your nephew and niece. What happened to them afterwards?'

'Straight afterwards, you mean? After they found...?'

'Later on. Where did they go?'

'Into care. The police took them away and then the social services got involved. There was some counsel ing went on, I think. More so for the boy as I remember, he'd have been eight or nine...' 'He was seven. His sister was five.' 'Yeah, that sounds right.' 'So...?'

'So, eventual y, they were fostered.'

'I see.'

'Look, there was only Jane's mum and she was already knocking on. No other way, real y. I said I'd have the kids, me and my girlfriend, but nobody was very keen. I was only twenty-two...'

'And of course, your brother had just bashed their mother's brains out with a table lamp...'

'I said I'd have them. I wanted to have them...'

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'So you stayed in touch with the kids?'