TT13 Time of Death (21 page)

Thorne called from the car park at Nuneaton station.

‘How were the Cotswolds, then?’

‘We didn’t stay long.’

‘Buy yourself a nice pair of pink corduroy trousers?’

‘You got a minute, Phil?’

‘Well, I’ve got an appointment with a banker, but seeing as he chucked himself off a building at Canary Wharf yesterday afternoon, I don’t think he’s going anywhere.’

Thorne was well used to black humour from those who spent their working lives dealing with the dead, but his friend’s jokes were usually blacker and funnier than most. Phil Hendricks was the finest pathologist Thorne had ever worked with, despite an appearance that would frighten people coming out of a Slipknot concert. Thorne was always pleased to hear Hendricks in a good mood, even more so since the terrible events on Bardsey Island.

The price for their friendship, paid in blood and skin.

Thorne told Hendricks where he was calling from, and why. Like anyone else who read the newspapers or watched TV,
Hendricks knew all about what was happening in Polesford, but was shocked to hear that Helen was so personally involved.

‘She’s not been herself since we got here.’

‘Never easy going home,’ Hendricks said.

Thorne understood. Hendricks had come out early and, though he had never said too much about it, Thorne guessed that life for a gay working-class teenager at a tough northern school had not been altogether easy. Hendricks was proud enough of where he came from, but did not go back to Manchester very often.

‘You know the body they found?’

‘The first girl, right?’

‘Jessica …’

Watching police vehicles come and go, the lightest of drizzles settling like mist on the windscreen, Thorne explained his concerns. He went over the same ground he’d covered with Cornish an hour before, but without the niceties.

‘I’m not sure there’s very much to get worked up about,’ Hendricks said, when Thorne had finished. ‘With all the other evidence.’

‘Yeah, I know how it sounds.’ It was much the same thing that Cornish had said. What anyone would say.

‘Dogs aren’t always that reliable anyway, mate.’

‘They’re usually pretty good at finding bodies.’

‘Mental, a lot of them are. My mate’s golden retriever sits there all day barking at clouds. Eats cat-shit like it’s tapas.’

‘All right, I know it’s not much.’

‘It’s bugger all, is what it is, Tom. They’ve got DNA, witnesses and we already know he lied about the girls.’

‘It’s just the body.’

‘You said.’

‘Doesn’t smell right.’

Hendricks laughed. ‘If it’s half as bad as you say it was, I’m not surprised.’

‘Come on, Phil …’

Not very deep, the SOCO had said. Not very hard to find. Thorne imagined that yapping terrier scampering back to its master with the dead teenager’s liquefied flesh smeared around its muzzle.

‘All right.’ Hendricks let out a long-suffering sigh Thorne had heard plenty of times before. ‘Let me get this banker pancake out of the way and I’ll have a think about it.’

‘Cheers, mate.’

‘And listen, I hope Helen’s doing a bit better.’

Thorne said, ‘Thanks,’ and started the car.

‘Give her my love, all right?’

They met at a small Italian place on a square near the main shopping centre. Shoppers moved between the predictable selection of chain bakeries, charity shops and fast food outlets, eating their lunch on the move or squeezed on to benches. Teenagers stood around smoking, talking on the phone; a few leaning against the plinth of a large statue at the centre of the square. A seated woman, eyes cast down, pensive-looking.

‘George Eliot,’ Helen said, as they waited for drinks. ‘She was born here.’

Thorne lowered his menu and looked across at the statue.

‘Not a bloke,’ Helen said.

‘Yeah, I thought the skirt was a bit of a giveaway.’

‘Did you know that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Liar,’ Helen said. She seemed in a good mood; certainly by comparison with the night before. Thorne had arrived at the restaurant ten minutes before her and been happy to see the look on her face when she walked in and spotted him at a table in the corner.

When bottles of Peroni had been delivered and food ordered,
Thorne said, ‘All right, smartarse, did you know Walter Raleigh was a poet?’

‘He the one that stuck his cloak over a puddle?’

‘I’ll take that as a no then.’

‘So, how the hell did
you
know?’

Thorne laughed and told her about his encounter with Polesford’s resident poet.

‘Sounds like a bit of a knob,’ Helen said. She told Thorne that there were always characters like Shelley in a small town, that she remembered a couple from when she was a teenager. ‘Like to make out they’re a bit brighter than everyone else, a bit mysterious or something. Swanning around with books under their arm and trying to cop off with stupid girls who think it’s exotic.’

‘Like Ian Brady,’ Thorne said. He remembered reading that the moors murderer had swept Myra Hindley off her feet in much the same way. A long, dark coat and his nose in a book.

‘You should watch what you order next time you’re in that pub,’ Helen said. ‘He might be a poisoner.’

Thorne added Tabasco to the spiciest pizza the restaurant had to offer and Helen had linguini with clams. Halfway through, they ordered more beer.

‘Bates didn’t even look at her,’ Helen said. ‘In court. Linda stared at him all the way through, but he didn’t look across. Not once.’

‘Ashamed?’

‘Best I can come up with.’

‘How was she?’

‘Well, she was all right on the way there, you know, because she was going to see him. She wasn’t quite so chirpy afterwards.’

‘Did she say much?’

Helen shook her head. ‘I told her I’d see her back at the house.’ She lifted her beer. ‘I needed a bit of a break, to be honest.’

Thorne had made the mistake of adding the hot sauce without
tasting the pizza first. The peppers were a little more potent than he had been expecting. Helen rolled her eyes as he quickly poured water from the jug on the table.

‘You think she believes him?’ he asked.

Helen shrugged. ‘I can only go on what she’s told me.’

‘I know what she
says
, but she’s got to put on a brave face, hasn’t she? For you and all the other coppers swarming all over the place. For her kids.’

‘She talked about being in denial.’

Thorne nodded, chewed.

‘Only because it’s what she thought I was thinking.’

‘So, is she?’

‘Look, she’s not stupid. She knows he lied about having the girls in the car, but right now, if I had to put money on it, I’d say she genuinely doesn’t think he killed anyone.’

Thorne wiped his hands and drank some more water. He said, ‘I read the transcript of her interview with Cornish.’

Helen opened her mouth, closed it again. ‘You read the file?’

He had told her he was going back to the station that morning, but Helen had not asked him why. She had been distracted, getting ready to go and collect Linda for the trip to the magistrates’ court and Thorne had not been altogether sure that she had even taken it in. ‘What did you think I was going there for?’

Helen still looked shocked and confused. ‘I don’t know. I thought you were probably just making a nuisance of yourself because you hadn’t got anything better to do. Sounds like I was bang on. Jesus, Tom …’

‘I saw the pictures of the body,’ Thorne said. ‘I saw everything. I’ve been talking to people.’

‘Do you not think this is hard enough?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You can never let it go, can you?’ She folded her arms,
furious. ‘Poking around in all the misery. Like you know better all the time, while some of us are trying to do the right thing.’

‘Helen—’

‘You can be such a wanker sometimes—’

‘Just let me tell you.’

Helen shook her head, pushed her plate away. Listened.

Thorne went over it again, much the same way as he had for Phil Hendricks. The body and the state of it. The dogs. The timings.

When Thorne had said his piece, Helen thought about it, or pretended to. ‘What about everything else? The
evidence
they’ve got.’

‘I can’t explain it.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘But this is something, isn’t it?’

‘It’s pissing in the wind, that’s what it is.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

Helen laughed, just once and narrowed her eyes. ‘Please don’t say you’re doing this for me.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Because if this is some sort of belated Valentine’s Day present, I’d rather have had some shitty chocolates—’

‘
Listen
.’ Thorne had not meant to raise his voice, but he was aware of people on the next table turning to look. ‘No, I haven’t got an explanation for a lot of it. For most of it … but even if something’s only a
little
bit wrong, it’s still wrong, isn’t it? If it doesn’t add up, you do the sums again. That’s all.’ He leaned towards her, lowered his voice still further. ‘Linda Bates believes that her husband didn’t take those girls, didn’t kill Jessica Toms, OK?’

Helen waited, her face showing nothing.

‘Well, I happen to think she’s right.’

*

Walking back towards the car, Thorne said, ‘Phil says hello, by the way.’

‘When did you speak to him?’

‘After I left the station. I was running all this by him. The body.’

‘I bet he said the same thing I did.’

‘More or less.’

The teenagers at the statue had moved on and been replaced by a small gathering of Nuneaton Goths eating pasties. George Eliot did not seem overly concerned.

‘Best not say anything to Linda. Not just yet, anyway.’

Helen stopped and turned to him. ‘What exactly do you think I’m likely to say to her?’

‘Just in case you were.’

‘“No need to worry, because my smartarse boyfriend thinks there’s something a bit iffy about that body they’ve found. Oh, I know your old man’s DNA was found in the grave and the girl’s DNA was found all over his car, but trust me, it’s all going to be fine”. Come on,
seriously
…’

Thorne had stopped listening. ‘Shit …’

Helen turned and followed Thorne’s eyeline to the rack of newspapers on display outside the newsagent behind her.

The most prominent tabloid. Stephen Bates in his wedding suit. A banner headline:
CHARGED
.

And a sidebar with a photograph above it.

Thorne and Helen.

She dreams about her brother’s boat, and she knows it’s a dream, because this time she’s aboard it.

The water is rough, drenching her; cascading over the brightly coloured bow as the boat tries to avoid weeds and logs, empty cans and plastic bags. She can see her brother on the bank, but he can’t hear her when she shouts, urging him to bring the boat back to shore. She sees a huge wave approaching and tries desperately to steady herself, but the chain makes it impossible. She closes her eyes, but the water rises up like a fist and punches her over the side.

She is falling for a long time.

Her eyes are open as she sinks fast and takes in the first mouthful of water. She can see the man who took her, his face getting smaller, shimmering at the surface. He calls and stretches out a hand, but she is already too deep to reach, already swallowing again. Something cold brushes against her leg and she knows other things are coming for her.

When she opens her eyes, the side of her face is in the water, pressed against the rough concrete. It is an effort to raise her
head, the weight of it, but when she finally manages to sit up, she feels the icy water running down her neck, the trickle inside her shirt. She thinks about what’s in it, this water she sips and pisses; the rotting pieces, dissolved now and drying on her skin.

She stares into the blackness.

She shivers, she screams, and the time passes.

Sometimes, she imagines she can see things in the dark, ragged shapes that loom and then retreat, but she knows they aren’t really there, so she is not scared of them. It’s the stink, and the sound from what’s stinking that frightens her. The buzz, the scratch-scrabble, the snick and flutter of teeth and wings. She knows the flies that tickle her face and the beetles and the rats are only there because there is food and somewhere to lay eggs. Because something has died and because something else will be dead very soon.

She imagines she’s already stinking of death too.

Linda switched the television off as soon as she got back to the house. She checked to see how Charli and Danny were, wept for a while in the bathroom, then went back downstairs. She moved from room to room, unable to settle, then began rooting aimlessly through the cupboards. In a plastic bag she found a few CDs that the previous occupants had left behind and smiled when she came across a nineties compilation. She put the CD on and stood listening to the first song. She was happy that she could remember the lyrics. In the kitchen, she exchanged a few words with Gallagher and the other uniformed PC, then brought a bottle of wine back into the living room.

She was halfway through it when Helen arrived.

‘Want me to get you one?’ Linda held up her glass.

‘I’m fine,’ Helen said. She sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘I had a couple with lunch.’

‘Nice?’

‘Not bad. Some Italian place Tom found.’

‘He all right?’

‘Yeah, he’s good,’ Helen said. She was still thinking about what
Thorne had told her in the restaurant. Bodies lying undiscovered for too long. Sums that needed doing again.

Linda nodded towards the stereo. ‘Remember this?’

‘Course,’ Helen said. She listened for a while. R.E.M.: ‘Man On The Moon’. ‘I think it was playing when Colin Sharples tried to feel me up at a school disco.’

Linda laughed. ‘I
let
him feel me up. It was Whitney Houston, though, if I remember.’ She sang along quietly with a couple of lines from the R.E.M. track, hummed when the words were indistinct.

‘I never knew what that bit was either,’ Helen said. ‘Somebody wrestling?’