TT13 Time of Death (24 page)

‘Yeah, well it’s different now, isn’t it?’

‘What, you suddenly a model father, are you?’

Smart stabbed a finger at her. ‘I’m a father who’s found out who his kids have been living with.’

‘You don’t know anything,’ Linda said.

The finger continued stabbing the air. ‘So, don’t come all high and mighty about who’s a model this or model that, because you haven’t got a leg to stand on.’

‘Don’t …’

‘Because I’m not the one who chose to marry a kiddie-fiddler, am I? A child murderer, for God’s sake.’ He glanced across to bring Helen into the conversation. ‘Not that she was ever much of a mother to begin with. Not what you’d call “responsible”.’ He picked up the empty wine bottle from the table and dangled it between two fingers. ‘Still caning it, I see.’ He dropped his cigarette end into the bottle and banged it back down on to the table.

‘You finished?’ Helen asked.

Smart turned to her again. Said, ‘Nowhere near.’ He sat back in the chair, as if he had lived in the house for years. ‘Who did you say you were?’

‘She told you,’ Helen said.

‘Well, I’ve got no idea who you are and I’ve known
her
for the
best part of twenty years, so you can’t be that bloody close.’ He seemed pleased that Helen did not have a quick response. ‘I tell you this for nothing though. However much of an old friend you think you are, I know her a damn sight better than you do.’

‘No,’ Linda said. ‘You don’t.’

‘She knows exactly what that pervert she married is like, and if she tells you any different, she’s full of shit.’

‘All right,’ Helen said.

‘And I’ll tell you something else.’ Smart leaned towards Linda and, for the first time, Helen sensed anger that was genuine; simmering and dangerous, barely contained. ‘If I find out that bastard’s touched my kids, you’ll be the one I’m coming after.’

Linda’s head dropped slowly.

‘Now I can arrest you for threatening behaviour as well,’ Helen said.

‘It was a promise,’ Smart said. He didn’t take his eyes off his ex-wife. ‘Not a threat.’ He let out a long breath and reached for his cigarettes again. ‘So, am I going to see my kids, or not?’

‘How do you know they want to see you?’ Helen asked.

‘Why wouldn’t they want to see me?’ He tried to light his cigarette, shook the lighter. ‘I’m their father, aren’t I? I’m not the pervert.’

‘Linda?’

‘Yeah …’

Helen told Wayne Smart to wait, asked Linda if she’d be all right for a few minutes. Linda nodded.

‘What do you think I’m going to do?’ Smart asked.

Helen left without answering him, stepping out into the hall, careful to leave the living room door ajar. When she turned at the bottom of the stairs, she saw Charli and Danny looking down at her. They were sitting close together on the same stair, halfway up.

Like pyjama-clad toddlers who’ve crept down in the middle of the night.

It had been a good choice, those woods where he’d left Jessica in the night. The perfect place for that last hour or so they had been together. He was happy she had gone to sleep somewhere peaceful. He shook his head, adjusted the thought. Happy that it was where she had been
laid to rest
.

She had gone to sleep elsewhere, of course.

Places like that – natural, green,
quiet
– still felt a little strange, even after all this time. So different to where he had grown up, the places he had worked in before. He watched the local kids sneaking off into those woods sometimes, bags clinking with bottles, pockets full of condoms, and he was jealous because he couldn’t help but wish that his first few times had been somewhere like that, under trees rather than flyovers. Birds and things that smelled nice. Moss on a girl’s back instead of brick dust.

He remembered his first time, just like everyone else did. Forget that and you might as well cash in your chips. A week before his sixteenth birthday, a girl called Julia, who was a year younger than he was. They had been walking back to the bus from the cinema and it had been her idea to cut through a
narrow alleyway. She’d known exactly what she was doing, of course she had, but it had been more than OK with him.

In a stinking doorway, the clatter of heels on concrete somewhere nearby; the usual unzippings and fumblings. It had all been over pretty quickly, but the girl had been OK about it, he knew he was remembering that right.

She’d been putting her lipstick back on and he’d asked her. She’d said ‘fine’ or ‘great’ or something.

He remembered asking her.

Obviously there would be people who thought what he was doing was because he felt inadequate; hating these girls deep down, because of being laughed at in the past or something. They could not have been wider of the mark. In fact, all the girls he’d
ever been with
had made a point of saying how well he’d treated them, how nicely. He’d asked all of them, more than once, and every girl had seemed happy. They’d all made it pretty clear that he was no slouch in the bedroom department either.

He smiled. His hand dropped to his groin.

Bedroom, bathroom, back seat, whatever.

Obviously, he knew that girls like Jessica and Poppy were far more likely to be impressed with the things he could do, because most of them didn’t have a lot to compare it to. No, if anything, it was the women his own age who tended to be more judgemental. Seen it all, done it all, blah blah. There hadn’t been too many complaints, but surely there wasn’t a bloke walking around who didn’t recognise the occasional look of mild disappointment. Couldn’t be too many who hadn’t been told it didn’t matter, when they knew very well that it did.

Younger girls were … kinder.

And he was kind to them in return, at the end. He was quick about it.

Poppy though. Sweet Pops …

It wasn’t his fault, not entirely, he had miscalculated, that was
all. He hadn’t thought things would get so hectic, and he probably should have done. No, he
definitely
should have done. The end, if it hadn’t come already, would be anything but kind and he was living with the pain of that every day. Like an ulcer or something. Like cancer …

Cruelty did not sit easily.

It was not who he was.

Thorne guessed he was the only Spurs fan in the pub. He was certainly the only one watching the match who seemed upset about the fact that they were one down at home to Manchester City within fifteen minutes. He was starting to wish he hadn’t bothered coming. Wasn’t football supposed to be an escape from the stress and anguish of his job?

All that pain and grief.

Murder was a doddle in comparison …

‘Not your boys’ night by the look of it.’ Trevor Hare was collecting empty glasses.

‘Long way to go,’ Thorne said.

They watched for half a minute. Thorne winced as his team’s leaky defence almost gifted a second goal to the visitors.

‘Steve Bates was sat where you are a week or two ago,’ Hare said. ‘Watching the match, same as you.’

Thorne looked at him. Was the landlord telling him in case he fancied moving to another table? Was he about to start another of those ‘you think you know people’ routines Thorne was getting so tired of?

‘Won’t be so relaxed now, will he?’

‘I seriously doubt it,’ Thorne said.

‘Why not
tell
them though?’ Hare shook his head. ‘I don’t get that at all. He’s going down anyway, right? So why not put that poor girl’s parents out of their misery and just say where she is?’

Thorne stared into his glass and decided against offering up his best guess.

Because he doesn’t know
.

Instead, he said, ‘I’m amazed you haven’t had the press on at you. Ex-copper running the killer’s local, bang up their street.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I have,’ Hare said. ‘And I told them where they could stick their blood money an’ all.’ He walked towards the bar, spoke over his shoulder. ‘I never liked them when I was on the job …’

Thorne turned his attention back to the game.

He ordered a cheese sandwich and chips at half time and had barely finished eating it when Spurs went two down five minutes after the restart. He swore and pushed his plate away. It wasn’t hard to imagine what a passionate Arsenal fan would have to say.

He didn’t have to.

‘Only ever been one decent team in London, mate.’

Thorne looked up to see Phil Hendricks grinning at him.

‘Whichever one of us supports a shit team gets the drinks in,’ Hendricks said. ‘Oh, wait, that’s you.’

‘What …?’

‘Spit it out.’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Nice.’ Hendricks seemed delighted to see his friend so lost for words. He told Thorne to shove up and squeezed in next to him. ‘You’re not the only one who needs a holiday, you know.’

‘Yeah, but … work?’

‘I just got my squashy banker out of the way, switched things around with a couple of colleagues and jumped in the car. I’m pretty senior, you know, I can do that sort of stuff.’

‘But you hate the countryside as much as I do,’ Thorne said.

‘Just one more in a long line of sacrifices I’ve made for you.’ The smile faltered a little; the space between them suddenly charged by the memory of what had happened on Bardsey Island. Hendricks made the necessary effort to lift the mood. ‘Listen, you don’t
have
to say how pleased you are to see me, you know. I mean you’re welcome to shed a tear if you want, I shan’t be embarrassed.’

‘Course I am. Just a bit gobsmacked at you showing up.’

‘You said you wanted my help.’

‘An email would have done it.’

‘I work better on the ground, mate.’ Hendricks smacked his lips theatrically. ‘Actually, I work a damn sight better with a drink in front of me, but as your wallet’s obviously welded shut, same as always, I’d better go and get them in.’ He slid out and on to his feet.

‘Where are you staying?’ Thorne asked.

‘Ah … haven’t quite thought that far ahead.’

‘How well do you work after a night on a park bench?’

‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

Thorne told Hendricks that he’d call Helen, see if her friend Paula was able to squeeze another guest in. ‘Obviously, I’m not bothered either way, but Helen will be pleased to see you,’ Thorne said. ‘She’s not been herself.’

Hendricks took off his jacket, tossed it at Thorne. ‘Yeah, you said.’

‘She’s starting to get on my tits, frankly.’

‘I thought that was my job.’

As Thorne took out his phone and dialled, he watched Hendricks find a space at the bar and immediately begin talking
to a man with slicked back hair and a leather jacket. Hendricks turned to look at Thorne over the man’s shoulder and widened his eyes. Thorne shook his head.

Mouthed:
Slag
.

Helen
did
sound pleased to hear that Hendricks had shown up out of the blue, but didn’t say much beyond that. She told Thorne she would talk to Paula and volunteered to collect them both from the pub later on. ‘I know you’ll be making a night of it,’ she said.

Hendricks laid drinks and crisps on the table and sat down. ‘Might not need that bed at Helen’s mate’s after all,’ he said. He slurped the foam from his pint. ‘Is Leather Boy looking?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Thorne asked. ‘
Everybody’s
looking.’

Hendricks’ haircut was as brutal as usual. His scalp was the one part of his body (as far as Thorne was aware) that the pathologist had yet to tattoo, but it would certainly have been visible through the stubble. He was wearing a T-shirt with a diagram of human ribs on the front; cap-sleeved to emphasise the extravagant patterns of ink on his arms and tight enough to show the outlines of the nipple rings. There was plenty of other metal on show, through ears, nose and lips.

Thorne would not want to be stuck behind Hendricks in the queue at airport security, but, as always, he enjoyed the reaction to his friend’s appearance.

‘They don’t like your sort round ’ere,’ he whispered.

Hendricks was staring towards the bar. ‘I think some of them do,’ he said.

They watched the match for another ten minutes, but City seemed content to sit on their lead and Spurs seemed happy to let them.

‘So, who burns half a body?’ Hendricks asked. He might just as well have been asking Thorne to pass the cheese and onion.

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s the only interesting bit in what you told me. The rest of it’s not actually that exciting.’

‘Exciting enough for you to come all the way here.’

‘I’ve got a very dull life.’

‘The body wasn’t there long enough,’ Thorne said. ‘I think that’s pretty bloody interesting.’

‘Long enough for what? And don’t give me all that crap about dogs again. It could have been there a few days, surely.’

‘I seriously doubt it.’

‘That’s long enough for it to have been Bates who buried it.’

Thorne shook his head. ‘The body was weeks old.’

‘Doesn’t mean Bates didn’t kill her.’ Hendricks looked round, suddenly aware that a couple on the next table were leaning a little closer. He lowered his voice. ‘He kills her pretty soon after he’s snatched her, then buries her much later. No big mystery.’

‘Where’s the body in the meantime?’

Hendricks shrugged. ‘Maybe he liked having it around.’

‘Right, because that’s normal.’

‘Nilsen did. Said he killed young men for company.’

‘Yeah, but he didn’t just sit there and watch them rot in his front room, did he? He chopped them up and flushed them down the drain.’

Hendricks nodded, conceding the point. ‘Yeah, much more civilised.’

On screen, the post-match analysts were pulling every aspect of Spurs’ performance apart. The young waitress came across to collect Thorne’s plate and after chatting to her for a few minutes, Hendricks lifted up his shirt to show her his piercings. The pair on the next table were drinking in silence, as though waiting for Thorne and Hendricks to pick up their conversation again.

‘The only way your worries would make any sense is if that body wasn’t quite as old as it seemed.’ Hendricks leaned to get a better view of the bar.