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Thorne was relieved that he’d be sleeping in his own bed.

He didn’t want the vestigial ugliness of his day’s mood to spoil Helen’s evening and, though the prospect of his own company was not a particularly attractive one, a few hours alone still felt preferable to enduring anyone else’s.

A few hours’ much needed brooding time. There were also the remains of a takeaway from the Bengal Lancer in the fridge, not to mention the welcome opportunity to watch Match of the Day without interruption and, even if they were not the main reasons for spending the night in Kentish Town, and despite the fact that Spurs had only managed a goalless draw at home to Aston Villa, Thorne was at least guaranteed an hour or so of enjoyment at the fag-end of an otherwise shitty Saturday.

He had just settled down with a beer in front of the TV and was humming along contentedly with the rousing theme tune when his phone rang.

Teeth gritted, he pressed pause and answered the call.

‘What’s up with you, then?’ Tanner asked.

‘What, now you mean?’

‘No, not now—’

‘You’re keeping me from my date with Gary Lineker for a start.’

‘You were miserable all day. More miserable than normal, I should say, and there’s no point keeping it to yourself. You know I’ll get it out of you in the end.’

Thorne was in no doubt that she would, that there was any point pretending she’d got it wrong. ‘I had a run-in with Jeremy Walker.’

‘Yeah, I watched you marching into Russell’s office.’

Thorne could have left it there and might well have got away with it, but he saw no good reason to hold back.

‘No, after that.’ He took a swig of BrewDog and let his head drop back.

The conversation was about to veer into troublesome territory and even if he wouldn’t – couldn’t – go too far into it, he suddenly felt the need to share his anger with someone he knew would understand. ‘He mentioned Melita.’

‘ What? ’

‘Not by name, but it was obvious who he was talking about.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Just some snidey crack about how things don’t end well if you’re my girlfriend.’

‘Shit, Tom . . . ’

‘Yeah.’

Melita Perera had died nine months earlier, at the hands of the man for whom she had betrayed Thorne; a man who had himself died shortly afterwards, in circumstances which Thorne preferred not to think about very much.

‘Walker just wanted me to be aware that he knows, that’s all. He was laying down a marker.’

‘That he knows . . . what, exactly?’

‘That she died,’ Thorne said. ‘ How she died, maybe.’ Walker could not know any more than that, Thorne was sure of it.

If he did, if anyone did, then someone Thorne and Tanner both knew very well would certainly have been in prison by now.

‘Look, it’s not a problem. I’m fine. It just took me by surprise, that’s all. ’

‘Well, if you’re sure. That you’re fine, I mean.’

‘I’ve got a belly full of dhaba lamb, a beer in my hand and Match of the Day lined up, if you’ll bugger off and let me watch it.’

‘I don’t know what you’re so excited about,’ Tanner said. ‘Nil-nil, wasn’t it? Spurs –Villa.’

‘Since when do you look at the football results?’

‘Fiona’s a Brentford fan.’

‘Bloody hell, she’s freakier than I thought.’

‘I’m going now because you’re being a twat, but ring me later if you want to talk.’

‘Won’t you be tied up with Fiona? Or maybe tied up by Fiona . . . ?’

‘’Night, Tom.’

‘Thanks for calling, though, Nic. Seriously.’ Thorne reached for the remote. ‘Thanks for . . . caring.’

‘Oh, I don’t care,’ Tanner said. ‘I’m just nosy.’

Five minutes later and the teams were just coming out for the Liverpool–Brighton game when the phone rang again.

‘Why aren’t you watching this?’

‘Nic just called me,’ Hendricks said.

Thorne sighed and pressed pause again. ‘Right . . . ’

There was a very long silence while the things they’d chosen not to discuss crackled in every breath and were finally swallowed. Their unspoken agreement to leave certain incidents unexplained, certain crimes unsolved.

‘You good, mate?’ Hendricks asked eventually. ‘Nic said you were, but she told me what that prick said. So, there’s every chance you’re not.’

‘Yeah, I was pissed off,’ Thorne said. ‘I wanted to lamp him, but I didn’t want him to see how much he’d wound me up.’

‘That sounds very sensible.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’

‘Which means you’re definitely not yourself.’

‘Look, it was a big deal . . . what happened with Melita. What happened to him afterwards. I’d be amazed if every copper in the Met didn’t get to hear about it, some version of it anyway, but right now they’ve got better things to worry about.’

‘Like getting done for rape,’ Hendricks said.

‘Or getting killed for rape.’

‘That what you reckon’s happening, then?’

Now they were on safer ground, even if safer was relative when they were talking about multiple counts of murder.

‘It’s one possibility, that’s all.’ Even as he said it, Thorne was remembering what Walker had said to Brigstocke that morning.

He was thinking about George Oldfield. ‘We’ve found a connection between Tully and Knowles . . . I don’t know.’

‘Tully might have been the target, that’s what you’re saying.’

‘Maybe. It’s still a bit tenuous . . . more than a bit.’

‘Whoever poisoned those four PCs was only after one of them?’

‘Sounds mental, doesn’t it?’

‘Right, and all the killers we’ve had dealings with over the years have been so nice and normal.’

There was another sizeable pause after that, the silence finally broken when Hendricks let out a loud belch. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said.

‘Am I going to get a chance to watch the football, or what?’

‘Fill your boots, mate,’ Hendricks said.

Thorne took another slug of beer and picked up the remote. ‘You not interested in seeing Arsenal lose again, then?’

‘It was a dodgy offside decision from what I’ve heard. Besides, Liam’s on his way over, so I’ll be kicking off myself in a minute.’

‘If I can stop you there, I really don’t need any of your football-slash-shagging analogies.’

‘You sure? Might cheer you up a bit.’

‘I’d rather be miserable.’

‘So, I can’t talk about my lethal finishing if I get round the back?’

‘Hanging up now, Phil . . . ’

Thorne had spoken to Helen when he’d got home, but by the time he’d finally finished watching Match of the Day it had gone midnight, so he decided against calling again. He sent a text, letting her know that he’d speak to her in the morning, then went to bed.

He lay awake in the dark, thinking about Tully and Knowles and peas and pods; about Catherine Holloway still hovering somewhere between life and death and Kazia Bobak’s partner who had lost both a wife and an unborn child.

He thought about the last words spoken to him by a man who was anything but nice or normal.

‘You got me, you got me . . . or is it the other way round, Tom?’

When his phone rang again, it felt as though he’d only been asleep for a matter of minutes, but when he picked up the handset he saw that it was just after four a.m. He sat up and spoke quietly so as not to wake Helen, before remembering that he was alone.

‘Russell . . . ?’

‘We’ve got a body in Hendon Park,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Male, multiple stab wounds. I’ll meet you there.’

It wasn’t totally unheard of for a DCI to attend a crime scene, but it didn’t happen very often. ‘Something I need to be aware of?’

‘He’s wearing a uniform.’