Thorne missed a sitter and went back to his drink. ‘Why do people read this stuff?’
Hendricks knocked in a couple of bal s. ‘Same as al these misery memoirs,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the table. ‘You go into Smith’s, it’s wal -to-wal books about kids who’ve been locked in cel ars, people who’ve had eighteen types of cancer or whatever.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘People enjoy knowing there’s someone worse off than they are. Maybe it makes them feel . . . safer, or something.’
‘It’s cheap thril s, if you ask me,’ Thorne said. He watched as Hendricks fluked his penultimate bal . ‘You jammy bastard.’
‘Pure skil , mate.’
Hendricks left the final spot over a pocket with the black placed nicely in the middle of the table. With four bal s stil to pot, Thorne tried to do something clever and nudge the black on to the cushion. He made a mess of it, leaving Hendricks with a simple clearance.
‘Maybe people read these books to find out
why
,’ Hendricks said. ‘The ones about Garvey and Shipman and the rest of them. They want to know why those things happened.’
‘You’re giving them way too much credit.’
‘I’m not saying they know that’s what they’re doing, but it makes sense if you think about it. It’s the same reason they turn these people into monsters, talk about “evil” or whatever. It makes it easier to forget they’re just builders and doctors and the bloke next door. It’s not the kil ers themselves anyone’s real y frightened of. It’s not knowing why they did it, where the next one’s coming from, that terrifies people.’
Hendricks had yet to play his shot. Thorne was aware that the next player up, a spiky-haired kid sitting on the Goth girl’s table, was looking daggers from the corner, waiting for them to finish talking and wrap up the game. ‘They can read about Ray Garvey al they want,’ Thorne said. He was remembering the conversation with Carol Chamberlain. ‘No “why” with him. He didn’t even kil any of his pet rabbits.’
When Hendricks had polished off the frame, the spiky-haired kid stepped forward and picked up his coins from the edge of the table. Hendricks laid down his cue, told the kid he was taking a break, and fol owed Thorne back to their table, leaving the next player in the queue to take his place.
‘So, maybe there’s something in this tumour business? The personality change.’
‘Kambar says not.’
‘Hypothetical y, though,’ Hendricks said.
‘It’s rubbish.’
‘Let’s say you’ve got some severe tic or whatever, something that makes you thrash around.’
‘I think you’ve final y lost it, mate.’
‘You accidental y hit someone in a crowded bar. They smash their head open, die from a severe bleed on the brain. That can’t be your fault, can it?’
‘It’s not the same thing.’
‘I know, I’m just saying. It would be . . . interesting, legal y.’
‘If by “interesting” you mean it would make a lot of smart briefs a shitload of money, then yes, probably. Like they don’t make our lives hard enough as it is.’ Thorne drank and watched the pool for half a minute. ‘Anyway, like I told you, Kambar reckons it’s rubbish.’
‘Wel , he’s the brain man,’ Hendricks said.
The spiky-haired kid cleared the table. The rugby player came forward, took the cue from the loser and fed his money in without a word.
‘Even if there
was
anything in it, Garvey’s
son
hasn’t got a sodding tumour.’
‘Maybe he thinks he has,’ Hendricks said.
‘Sorry?’
‘There’s plenty of research suggesting that some of the factors contributing towards the development of certain tumours can be inherited.’
‘You’re winding me up.’
Hendricks shook his head, drained the last of his pint. ‘Mind you, there was also a study that said being left-handed might be a factor, so . . .’
‘That’s al we bloody need,’ Thorne said. ‘Some slimy brief requesting that his client’s murder charge be thrown out on the grounds that he’s cack-handed.’
Hendricks bought another round, after insisting that Thorne hand over the money he’d just won off him. They shared crisps and pork scratchings, watched the rugby player sink two long bal s in succession.
‘I used to be good at this game,’ Thorne said.
‘You’ve lost your edge, mate. That’s what domestic contentment does for you.’
It was the first time that anything pertaining to Louise had entered their conversation. Hendricks had spent the afternoon with her, wandering around the shops in Hampstead and Highgate before lunch at Pizza Express. Thorne had stayed at home with Maier’s book and Five Live for company. Spurs had lost to a needless, last-minute penalty and Thorne’s frustration had been only marginal y tempered by the smug message he had been able to leave on Yvonne Kitson’s answering machine, about the bet he had wisely failed to take.
‘You and Lou have a good time today?’ Thorne asked.
Hendricks stared at him. ‘Didn’t you ask Lou?’
‘Yeah, she said she enjoyed herself.’
‘So, why—?’
‘There wasn’t much chance to talk when she got back, you know. Not in any detail. She said she was tired, just wanted to crash out.’
‘We did do a fair bit of walking,’ Hendricks said.
‘How’s she doing?’
Hendricks stared again.
‘
Jesus
.’ Thorne banged his almost empty glass down on the table. ‘I can’t believe I’ve got to sit here asking you how Lou is.’
‘You don’t have to. You could go mad and ask
her
.’
‘I have.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘She says she’s fine, but I’m not sure I believe her. This woman at work getting pregnant must have real y cut her up, but she’s making out like it’s not a big deal.’
‘Maybe it isn’t,’ Hendricks said. ‘She’s tough as old boots is Lou. Wel , you
know
.’
‘I’m not sure I know anything,’ Thorne said. He finished his beer. ‘What do you think, Phil?’
‘I think . . . it’s only been, what, a week and a bit? I think she probably wants a bit of space. For you to stop treating her like she’s got a terminal il ness.’
‘Did she say something?’
‘Yeah . . .
that
, basical y.’
‘Christ.’
‘And she said the same thing about you. That you say you’re fine, but she doesn’t know whether to believe it.’
The spiky-haired kid potted the cue-bal . The rugby player pumped his fist, bent to retrieve the white and lined up the first of his free shots.
‘Sorry you’re getting caught in the middle of this,’ Thorne said.
‘Not a problem, mate.’ Hendricks handed the empty glasses to a passing member of the bar staff. He turned back to Thorne. ‘
Are
you fine?’
Thorne nodded, said that he was, but the look he received in return suggested that he’d been a little too quick about it. He could not be honest, not completely. He could not tel Hendricks, or anyone else, how he felt; that it tasted burned and bitter in his mouth. ‘You just get on with it, don’t you?’
‘I suppose,’ Hendricks said.
‘What about you? Any new piercings on the horizon?’
It took Hendricks a few seconds. Things had been edgy between them - as far as this kind of conversation was concerned - for a while, since a case the previous year had driven a wedge between them. Hendricks had been targeted by the man Thorne was trying to catch and had almost been kil ed while cruising a series of gay bars. With Louise’s help, they had got back on a more or less even keel quickly enough, but Hendricks’ sex life had remained a touchy subject. ‘I’m doing al right,’ he said, eventual y. ‘No permanent piercings.’ He smiled.
‘Just the odd clip-on.’
He asked if they were going to get any more drinks and Thorne said he was about ready for the off. ‘You stay and have another one if you want,’ he said. ‘I’l go back and get the sofa-bed ready. Louise might stil be up, so . . .’
Hendricks eyed the pool table again, where the game had finished and the winner was looking for anyone wil ing to take him on. He told Thorne he wouldn’t be long. ‘I can’t go without trying to beat that arsehole in the rugby shirt again,’ he said.
‘Don’t bother playing pool,’ Thorne said. ‘Just stick a couple of the bal s in a sock and twat him.’
‘I’m seriously thinking about it,’ Hendricks said, getting to his feet. ‘Listen, if I’m not back in an hour, I’ve gone home with that girl who looks like Marilyn Manson, al right?’
NINETEEN
Nicholas Maier lived in Islington, on the ground floor of a terraced Georgian house in a quiet square behind Upper Street. Thorne parked in a residents’ bay and stuck a ‘police business’ badge on the dash of the BMW. The spel of good weather was holding.
Thorne and Hol and were shown through to a large sitting room while Maier went to fetch coffee. The carpet was gaudy but clearly expensive, and the bookshelves either side of the fireplace were wel stocked, though on closer inspection several contained nothing but multiple copies of Maier’s own books. The room was immaculate. There were elaborate flower arrangements in matching Chinese vases on two corner tables and the vast plasma screen above the fireplace was gleaming and dust-free. Aside from a large ginger cat asleep on a chair next to the door, there was no sign that Maier shared the flat with anyone else.
‘And he had a pot of coffee on,’ Hol and said. ‘I like it when people make an effort.’
‘No effort at al ,’ Maier said, nudging the door open and carrying a tray across to a low table. His voice was deep and perfectly modulated, like a late-night radio host. ‘I only got back from the States last night, so I haven’t had a lot of time to run around tidying up. My office is probably a bit more cluttered than this, but I’m not general y a big fan of mess.’
‘It’s a nice place,’ Hol and said.
Maier pointed them both towards the sofa, began pouring the coffee. ‘Scribbling keeps the wolf from the door,’ he said.
‘Obviously.’ Thorne nodded, impressed, but shared a knowing look with Hol and. He’d done some checking and knew very wel that Nick Maier had inherited the property from his father, a wealthy businessman who had died while Maier was stil taking his journalism degree.
Maier asked them both how they took their coffee and slid a plate of biscuits across the table. He was wearing khakis and an open-necked salmon-pink shirt, brown suede moccasins without socks and a touch too much gold jewel ery. He looks like an upmarket estate agent, Thorne thought.
‘You’ve got a decent colour on you,’ Hol and said.
‘Weather was very nice over there, when I wasn’t stuck inside bloody lecture theatres.’
‘Where?’
‘The West Coast,’ Maier said. ‘LA, Santa Barbara, San Diego. Have you been?’
Hol and shook his head.
‘Thanks for seeing us so quickly,’ Thorne said.
Maier reached for a biscuit and sat back. ‘You could hardly expect someone who does what I do not to be curious.’ He looked from Thorne to Hol and and held up his hands. ‘So . . . ?’
Thorne told him about his conversation with Pavesh Kambar, the phone cal s and visits the doctor had described. The relationship Maier had suggested he’d had with Anthony Garvey.
‘I hardly think I
pestered
him,’ Maier said. ‘But in terms of what I was trying to write, Doctor Kambar was an important person to talk to, so I . . . persisted. That’s the kind of job I have.
The kind of job you have, too, I should imagine.’
‘Tel us about Garvey,’ Thorne said.
‘Junior
.
’
‘My grand fol y, you mean.’
‘Sorry?’
Maier held up a hand again, as though to say he’d get there in his own time. He finished eating his biscuit, brushed crumbs from the front of his shirt. ‘Wel , I’d written a book about the Raymond Garvey murders.’
Thorne pointed at his briefcase. ‘I’ve got a copy.’
‘I can sign it for you if you’d like, though I’m guessing that isn’t the main reason why you’re here. Worth at least a fiver on eBay.’ Maier laughed, but his attempt at self-deprecation was about as convincing as Thorne’s fake smile. ‘The man I later learned was Raymond Garvey’s son read it and got in touch with me.’
‘And this would have been when?’
‘Perhaps six months after Garvey died, so about two and a half years ago, I think.’
‘How did he contact you?’
‘He emailed my website. From an internet café, if you’d like to know. I checked. We exchanged a few emails and he told me there was something he thought I’d be interested in, so I gave him my home number. He cal ed and, after a while, he told me what he wanted. He was right, of course. I was
very
interested.’
‘Did you meet him?’
‘Sadly not. It was al done by phone and email.’
‘He gave you al this guff about the brain tumour, did he?’ Hol and said. ‘The personality change stuff.’
Maier nodded, like he’d been expecting the question. ‘Look,
Anthony
believed it, which was the important thing.’
‘Doesn’t matter if you don’t?’ Thorne asked.
‘I’m just there to tel the story,’ Maier said. ‘And whatever you think, it was a hel of a story. The possibility that one of the most notorious kil ers of the last fifty years had not been
responsible
, in the strictest sense of the word, for what he did. How could I ignore that?’
‘I presume you asked for proof?’ Thorne said. ‘That Anthony was who he claimed to be.’
‘He sent me some letters, or copies of letters that he’d received from Raymond Garvey over the years he’d been visiting him in Whitemoor.’ Maier saw the look on Thorne’s face.
‘You’re more than welcome to see them. As far as Ray Garvey was concerned, Anthony was his own flesh and blood.’
Hol and leaned forward and placed his coffee cup on the table, careful to use the coaster provided. ‘So, he asked you to write another book, bringing this new . . . development to light?’
‘Correct.’
‘Did he seriously think they’d reopen the investigation? With his father dead?’
‘Al he told me was that he wanted to get the truth out there.’
Hol and shook his head. ‘I’m sure you were planning to talk to some of the relatives of the women Garvey kil ed. You know, seeing as the truth was so important.’