The Dying Hours (17 page)

‘Been to see the widow, then?’ Hackett asked. ‘Interesting.’

Thorne settled back into the soft cream leather of the BMW’s passenger seat. So, Hackett was the officer Susan Jacobson had been expecting. The man who was leading the team looking into the circumstances of her husband’s death. Thorne was not sure if this was good news for her, but he could not see any way in which it would work out well for him.

Like Hackett said.

Interesting
.

‘Just popped by to see if she wanted a patrol car to look in for the next few evenings,’ Thorne said. The same think-on-his-feet bullshit that had seemed to work half an hour earlier with Susan Jacobson. ‘Keep an eye on her.’

‘That’s extremely thoughtful.’

‘Community policing,’ Thorne said.

Hackett shifted his considerable bulk and leaned forward to adjust the temperature. It was certainly nice and cool in the car, but clearly not cool enough for him. Thorne had no idea how long Hackett had been leaning against his car, but there was a trickle of sweat running from his ear down to the collar of his expensive-looking shirt. He turned the dial a notch further into the blue zone. ‘OK for you?’

‘Fine,’ Thorne said.

‘Some music?’ Hackett said. Without waiting for an answer he leaned forward again and turned on the sound system.

Thorne braced himself for the inevitable onslaught of soft rock; a nice Bryan Adams power ballad would be the perfect way to make him feel even more uncomfortable than he was already. He was pleasantly surprised to hear the opening chords of a familiar Johnny Cash track. His cover version of a Tom Petty number, ‘I Won’t Back Down’.

Thorne smiled, unable to shake the suspicion that there was a less than subtle message in Hackett’s choice of song. If so, were the words meant to be a dig at Thorne or a description of Hackett himself? An accusation or a warning?

Hackett nodded his head in time with the music. ‘This your kind of stuff, isn’t it? Country.’

‘Is there anything you don’t know about me?’ Thorne asked. ‘My inside leg measurement in some file?’

Hackett smiled, drummed his palm against his thigh.

‘You brought this along deliberately, did you?’ Thorne nodded towards the sound system control panel.

Hackett shook his head, laid it back against the headrest, both palms now tapping out the rhythm. ‘I didn’t even know I was going to be seeing you,’ he said. ‘Someone’s getting paranoid.’

‘So, just a coincidence.’

‘Well, I know why
I’m
here,’ Hackett said. ‘I had an appointment. So I think the coincidence is that you’re here. That’s right, isn’t it? I mean, it is a coincidence?’

‘Like I said.’

‘Right. The caring face of Uniform.’ He left a beat. ‘Oh, and it’s thirty inches.’

‘What?’

‘Your inside leg measurement.’ Another smile. ‘Just a guess…’

They said nothing for ten, fifteen seconds. ‘So, what are you going to tell her?’ Thorne asked. ‘Suspicious death or not?’

Hackett turned to look at him. Thorne could not be sure if the DCI was deciding whether or not to answer or simply picking his words. Choosing a lie, perhaps. Looking back at Hackett, Thorne suddenly found himself hoping – despite everything – that the man would simply say, ‘Yes, it was murder and we know who did it.’

Nice and simple. The choice made for him, the truth out in the open and his own future in the lap of the gods, or at least the Top Brass. Would that not be better for all concerned?

‘Waste of bloody time,’ Hackett said. It sounded like he meant it.

‘How come?’

‘Haven’t we already had this conversation?’ Hackett said. ‘What’s that little thing we were talking about before? Oh yeah, evidence.’ He shook his head. ‘Bugger all of that as far as this one’s concerned.’

It was more or less what Thorne had been expecting. Mercer had been jailed a year or two before DNA profiling came in, so he would have no worries on that score. His fingerprints would be on record, but Thorne was sure that a man who had planned his killing spree so carefully would not have jeopardised it for want of a pair of rubber gloves. While watching his victims he would have taken careful note of where any CCTV cameras were, along with the movements of any potentially nosy neighbours.

Not that being noticed once or twice would have worried him a great deal.

It was something else Terry Mercer had going for him.

People would always remember the menacing-looking gang of youngsters or the kid in the hoodie, but an old man was as good as invisible.

‘Still, I suppose we had to go through the motions,’ Hackett said. ‘I mean it
was
an unusual one. Plus he was a QC, so there’s always the chance someone he put away had a score to settle.’

Not someone he put away, Thorne thought.

‘And he had some powerful friends, did our Mr Jacobson. Some judge ringing up to give us grief every day.’

Thorne took a quick decision. ‘Alastair Howard?’

Hackett turned and looked at him.

‘I still have friends on the MIT,’ Thorne said. ‘I hear things.’

If Hackett was bothered by what Thorne was telling him, he didn’t show it. It just seemed like a good idea to Thorne that if and when the you-know-what hit the fan, it would appear that he had been fed certain information rather than gone digging for it. He dried a sweaty palm in front of the air vent, wondering suddenly if he might just have inadvertently implicated Dave Holland and Yvonne Kitson.

Too late now.

‘Anyway, nothing’s panning out,’ Hackett said, leaning back again and mouthing a few of Cash’s words. ‘So His Honour can carry on calling all he bloody well likes. Forensics have got sod all, nothing on CCTV, neighbours didn’t see or hear anything. Looks like the poor bastard finally found some use for that collection of useless old crap in his garage.’

‘That what you’ve come to tell her?’

Hackett nodded. ‘Make all the right noises, you know. Assure her that we’ve done everything we can. At least she can have the body back now, get on and sort the funeral out.’ He glanced at Thorne. ‘Mind you, he’s already done the cremation bit.’ He waited for the laugh that didn’t come, then sat forward. ‘So, what the hell is it with you and suicides anyway?’

‘No idea,’ Thorne said.

‘Whenever some nutcase tops himself, up you pop. Not thinking of going that way yourself, are you?’

‘Coincidence, like you said.’

‘Maybe you should look for a vacancy at the Samaritans.’ Hackett did not bother waiting this time and just went ahead and laughed himself. He hauled himself forward and checked his hair in the mirror. ‘Listen, maybe we could have a pint later on. Have a natter.’

‘You serious?’

‘Why not? Now we know we’ve got the same taste in music.’

‘I’ve got to go to work.’

Hackett was still smoothing down a strand of hair that stubbornly refused to lie flat. ‘Right,’ he said, nice and slowly. ‘So you have.’

It was plain enough that his audience with the DCI was at an end, so Thorne climbed out of the car. Walking away, the afternoon seemed even hotter and he was aware of the driver’s door opening slowly behind him. He turned and watched Hackett lock the BMW, then amble across the road towards Susan Jacobson’s house, hoisting up his trousers and straightening his tie.

Pasting on his best give-a-shit expression.

Halfway back to his own car, Thorne felt the vibration of an alert from his phone. He pulled it from his back pocket, turned off the silent mode and read a message from Ian Tully.

how’s it going?
 

fancy another walk?
 

i think my dog liked you!
 

It’s the last one he’s most nervous about.

Mostly because it
is
the last one – though he knows there’s going to be a spot of clearing up needed as well – and he’s not really sure how he’s going to feel afterwards. Bound to be an anti-climax, he knows that. How could it be anything else after thirty years, but it’s more a question of what he’s going to do with himself when it’s finished. Find himself a suitable hobby? Evenings at the bingo hall? A spot of fishing or a friendly game of dominoes with the other coffin-dodgers?

Fat fucking chance.

It’s also because it’s been the trickiest of them all to arrange, because finding the individual in question has not been easy. He never thought it would be, of course. The man has spent the best part of that same thirty years trying very hard not to be found.

Thirty years, though? You get careless eventually, don’t you?

Mercer is on his way to meet the man who’s going to help him. He’s counting on being able to stop worrying and start making plans. He’s hoping for good news.

Driving south on the A21, he tries to stay calm and keep his temper, but it isn’t easy. When the hell did London traffic get so ridiculous? When did people start driving like idiots? It was like trying to get anywhere in one of those stupid cities you saw on the news like Shanghai or Calcutta. He’s half expecting someone to pull up next to him at the traffic lights on a donkey.

When he does have to stop at a pedestrian crossing, he watches, hands clamped tight around the steering wheel, as an old dear with candy-floss hair steps out into the road in front of him. One pavement to the other, twenty feet or whatever it is, and it might as well be a marathon. Shuffling and hunched, slower than a pallbearer, as though the weight of the world is pushing down on her narrow shoulders.

He’s tempted to jam his fist down on the horn, give the old girl a fright. Anything to put some bloody life into her. She’s probably younger than he is, for heaven’s sake, and she looks like she’s doing nothing but waiting for death.

What happened to people?

Why did they reach a certain age and promptly give up?

You had to find
something
to make it worth struggling out of bed in the morning. Surely to God. He’d spent almost half his life shitting in a metal bucket – or as good as – and he still managed to stay alert and keep on fighting.

He knew people who’d thrown the towel in, course he did, but some people just weren’t cut out for a life inside. Even when he was out he’d known a few who’d hit sixty or sixty-five and turned into the walking dead. He can’t understand it, never could.

She’s still only halfway across. Slippers on, for crying out loud and a coat when it’s shirtsleeves weather. Head down, like she’d be happy enough for some lorry to come ploughing into her.

Yes, the bloody government didn’t make life easy. Went without saying. Tough for some of them to survive on what passes for a pension and the whole world seems designed for kids these days. You had to adapt, though, you needed to find things to keep the blood pumping if you didn’t want to shrivel up. You were just taking up space otherwise and there was no excuse for that.

Finally the old woman reaches the pavement on the other side. She takes a few seconds to catch her breath when she gets there, then totters slowly away.

Mercer puts his foot down.

Maybe staying angry is what keeps him feeling young. Maybe it was losing so much so early on. Either way, he didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter and yes, it’s done him a few favours. He knows he’s luckier than most in having enough stashed away so he doesn’t have to dress like a scarecrow or live on dog food and Cup-a-Soup.

Nothing you can do about illness, he knows that. Nobody’s fault if bits and pieces start to pack up, let you down or whatever. But as long as you were fit enough and still had all your marbles, you owed it to yourself to stay useful. Who the hell needs a corpse on legs?

Come the day he’s got sweet FA to live for, he won’t think twice. Ironic, all things considered, but he’ll have the Scotch and the sleeping pills open smartish.

Talking of which.

He looks at his watch. He’s going to be a few minutes late for his meeting, which needles him. Can’t be doing with that, not when you’ve spent most of your life doing what bells tell you.

Now he’s
really
hoping it’s going to be a worthwhile trip, that the man he’s meeting will tell him what he wants to hear.

Then he can crack on.

He’ll enjoy getting rid of someone who’s been taking up space for far too long.

The weather was on the turn yet again by the time Thorne pulled off the small road that ran behind Bromley Museum. Tully was standing with his dog beneath one of the trees at the edge of the car park, peering up at a sky which had been all but cloudless half an hour before and was now darkening by the minute.

He had a suggestion and two observations to make.

‘Sod this for a game of soldiers,’ he said. ‘It’s going to piss down and she’s already had a walk this morning, so why don’t we just go back to the house?’ Then he squinted at Thorne and said, ‘You look rough as arseholes, mate.’

Thorne followed Tully’s car to a house on a quiet street behind the leisure centre. Tully lived in the flat on the ground floor: a kitchen diner, one bedroom and a small bathroom. Tully walked through and opened the back door, let the dog out on to a patio half the size of the Jacobsons’ terrace, then came back and put the kettle on.

‘Used to have somewhere a lot bigger,’ he said. ‘Then my mother got taken ill. Police pension’s all right, long as something like that doesn’t come along. Had to sell the house just to keep her looked after.’ He told Thorne to sit down and reached up for mugs, a jar of coffee. ‘Fifty grand plus every year for a care home! They’re having a laugh if you ask me, and God knows how they’re actually treating her. Far as I know they could be feeding her on boiled rice and keeping her locked in her room all day… cleaning her up and slapping on a bit of lipstick when they know I’m coming to visit.’

‘You’ll go mad, thinking like that,’ Thorne said.

Tully took milk from the fridge. ‘Don’t get old, mate.’

Once he’d delivered Thorne’s coffee, Tully opened the back door for the dog who was scrabbling to be let back in. The promised rain had now arrived, though it was not particularly heavy. The dog trotted across and lay down at Thorne’s feet.

‘Fancy a sandwich?’ Tully asked. ‘I’ve got a decent bit of cheese.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘There’s a can of tuna somewhere.’

‘I’m fine.’ If he’d had any appetite to begin with, the smell coming off the dog at his feet would have been enough to kill it stone dead, but even though Thorne had not managed to eat very much of his fry-up six hours earlier, he was too tired to think about eating anything. In truth, he was already dreading the moment when he would have to get out of the chair he had dropped into.

He was hoping the coffee would wake him up a little.

Tully made himself a sandwich anyway. He talked about his dog while he put it together; cheaper than a wife or girlfriend, probably a damn sight more loyal, etc., etc. Thorne chuckled along, wondering when Tully was going to get to the reason he’d called. He was on the point of asking when Tully brought his lunch across and saved him the trouble.

‘So, come on then, what’s the state of play? I’m guessing you haven’t caught our friend Terence yet.’ Tully sat down and took a bite and when Thorne did not respond immediately, he swallowed quickly. ‘Look, my offer still stands, you know, but when you didn’t get back to me wanting any…
practical
help, I just thought you might be grateful for the chance to knock some ideas around. Talk it through, bounce stuff off me, whatever.’

‘He’s killed another one,’ Thorne said. ‘The pupil barrister on his defence team. Set fire to himself.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I just came from there.’

‘That can’t have been easy.’

‘His wife’s in bits. I mean, she’s trying her best
not
to be.’

Tully licked his fingers. ‘I meant for you.’

Thorne said nothing. The dog got up, padded over to the other chair and dropped back down at her master’s feet.

‘You know,’ Tully said, ‘what with you worrying about whether it might have happened at all if you’d said something. Gone back to the Murder Investigation boys with everything you’ve found out. I mean, feeling guilty, that’s only natural.’

‘Is it?’

‘I understand, all right?’ Tully held out his arms. ‘Listen, I’m on your side, mate. I know what they’re like.’ He took another bite and chewed noisily for a few seconds. ‘And I know why you’re doing this.’

‘I’m all ears,’ Thorne said.

‘You got knocked back. That hurts.’

‘That’s not what it’s about.’

‘Trust me,’ Tully said. ‘I know how it feels. The number of times I’ve gone to them, told them I’m available. They’ve got all these cold case units now, right? I’d be perfect for one of those, but I’ve never had so much as a sniff. They haven’t got the funding or I’m not sufficiently up to speed with the new technology, some crap like that. Like I’ve never worked a computer or something! I’m not even sixty, for God’s sake.’ He held tight to what was left of his sandwich, a sliver of cheese sliding from between the slices of white bread. ‘So, I do know what it feels like to get ignored.’

‘It’s not the same thing,’ Thorne said.

‘Course it is. You were offering them expertise… your professional opinion. They chose to turn their backs.’

‘Like I said. That’s not what this is about.’

Tully shrugged and carried his empty plate across to the sink. He tore off a strip of kitchen towel and wiped his hands.

‘So, where do you suggest I go from here?’ Thorne asked. ‘With Terry Mercer.’

‘Tricky.’ Tully walked back and sat down again. ‘You’ve got no idea who he’s targeting next and none of the obvious ways of tracking him. All you could do last time was hope for a bit of luck or wait for him to do something.’

Thorne nodded. It felt good to hear it.

‘He’s not exactly giving you a lot to work with, is he? Then again, he was always careful, even when he was just turning over banks and building societies. He always thought about the details.’

‘How did you catch him?’

‘We received intelligence,’ Tully said. ‘We knew when and where the job was going to be. It just went wrong when we tried to grab him, that’s all.’

‘You knew the officer that was killed?’

Tully gave a small nod and reached down to rub the dog’s head for a few seconds. ‘Listen, all I’m saying is that even if you had gone back and said something, the MIT wouldn’t have been able to do a lot more than you did yourself. There’d just have been a few more of them sat about waiting, that’s all.’

‘They’re looking into this new one,’ Thorne said. ‘For all the good it’s going to do them.’ He told Tully about the investigation into Jacobson’s death that looked like drawing a blank and about his encounter with Neil Hackett. ‘You know him?’

‘Big fat bastard?’

‘Big fat, scary bastard.’

‘I know
of
him,’ Tully said. ‘Never had the pleasure though.’ He thought for half a minute. ‘Well maybe they’ll get lucky and you can back away. As long as they never find out you had any information to begin with, you’ll be all right.’

‘Maybe.’

Tully smiled. ‘Unless I’m reading this all wrong, of course, and you’re secretly hoping that you
won’t
be all right.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘You never thought about getting out, doing something else?’

‘Sometimes,’ Thorne said. ‘Everyone does.’

‘Not me.’ Tully shook his head firmly. ‘Never had anyone telling me I should either. A wife or a girlfriend or whatever. The last thing I wanted to do was stop being a copper, but it wasn’t up to me in the end, was it?’

‘I still don’t see—’

‘Maybe, deep down, you’ve had enough.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yeah, this would be a good way of doing it without actually quitting, and you don’t strike me as the type to do that.’

‘You’re being stupid now,’ Thorne said.

Tully raised his eyebrows and smiled again, warming to his theme. ‘I remember having this girlfriend once… ages ago, back when I was a teenager. I wanted to finish with her… think there was some other girl I had my eye on at the time… but I didn’t have the bottle to chuck her. So, I just behaved really badly. Treated her rotten, ignored her, until
she
turned round and dumped
me
, which was what I wanted all along, of course.’ He sat back, enjoying the memory. ‘I’m not even sure I knew I was doing it, you know?’

He looked at Thorne. ‘Thinking back though, I can see exactly what I was up to.’

‘I should make a move.’ Thorne leaned forward and finished what was left of his coffee. ‘I think we’ve probably bounced enough ideas around for now.’

‘No rush,’ Tully said. ‘Listen, if you fancy it we could go out and get something to eat a bit later. Grab a curry or something and talk a bit more.’

Thorne thanked him for the offer, told him he needed to be in for the night shift. Said, ‘Another time, maybe.’

‘OK, well never mind… but listen, there’s no need to shoot off. You look like you could use some rest, to be honest. Put your feet up for a bit. I’ve got stuff to do, anyway.’ Tully stood up and the dog followed suit. ‘I might shampoo the dog, something important like that.’

Thorne did not really want to stay very much longer, but forcing himself to his feet was proving as difficult as he had thought it would be. It felt as though his jacket was lead-lined, as though the cotton wool in his head had turned to cement.

He closed his eyes. Just for a few seconds…

Remembering Hackett’s invitation, the first of two inside a couple of hours. Thinking that, despite his best efforts to alienate as many people as possible, he could not remember the last time he’d been this popular.