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TWENTY-FIVE

Tanner got to Kentish Town a few minutes before the ten o’clock news and, after a dash to the toilet – from where she delivered a seriously sweary report about traffic on the Westway – she dropped on to the sofa and began emptying the plastic bag she had with her.

Crisps, pistachio nuts, a box of Maltesers and two sausage rolls from the petrol station.

‘I brought snacks.’

Thorne dived straight for the Maltesers. ‘What’s this, movie night?’

‘I didn’t really have time for proper dinner.’ Tanner leaned forward as the news started. ‘Here we go.’

‘They’re only going to show a few minutes anyway,’ Thorne said. ‘The same few minutes I’ve already watched three times on Sky News.’

‘Yeah, I’ve watched it too,’ Tanner said.

‘So why schlep all the way up here?’

‘What, aside from the pleasure of your company?’

Thorne grabbed another handful of Maltesers. ‘Well, yeah, obviously.’

‘I’m here so we can watch it again,’ she said. ‘Together. With snacks.’

The press conference wasn’t the first item on the programme, which was hardly surprising given the terrible events taking place worldwide on a daily basis.

They had always known it would end up being sandwiched somewhere between the latest terrorist atrocity and a dog barking the national anthem.

In the studio, there was a brief introduction from the BBC’s home affairs correspondent who – as the faces of Christopher Tully, Asim Hussain and Kazia Bobak appeared on-screen behind him – recapped the murders that had taken place almost a week earlier.

The precise manner of their deaths remained a matter of conjecture, he explained, as police had not yet released details to the media.

This had left reporters and concerned members of the public hopeful that today’s press conference might shed a little more light on exactly how those officers had died.

‘No bloody chance,’ Tanner said.

DCI Jeremy Walker stepped on to the makeshift stage at Scotland Yard, a few paces ahead of the woman who Thorne and Tanner already knew was Catherine Holloway’s mother. She sat down and immediately reached for a glass, nodding her thanks as Walker filled it from a water jug.

Walker took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He leaned towards the microphone in front of which his name was printed on a strip of folded card.

‘Six days ago, three police officers lost their lives in a cowardly and unprovoked attack.’ Walker glanced up, towards the gathered crowd of reporters brandishing mobile phones and mics, towards the cameras.

‘The investigation into those murders is ongoing and apprehending the individual responsible remains our highest priority. As you already know, a fourth officer, PC Catherine Holloway, survived the attack and has been fighting for her life ever since. Today, I have the sad task of informing you that Catherine tragically lost that fight yesterday afternoon and passed away at 1.06 p.m. in St Thomas’ Hospital.

Catherine was a very fine officer and, along with her three colleagues, will be deeply missed by all of us who knew and worked with her. ’

He turned, grim-faced, to look at the woman next to him and leaned away from the microphone to mutter something. She nodded and took out a piece of paper of her own.

‘Catherine’s mother, Sylvia Holloway, has very kindly agreed to be with us here today, and would like to read out a statement . . . ’

‘I still don’t know how people can do this,’ Tanner said. ‘Doesn’t matter how many times I see a parent or a husband or whatever.’

Thorne said nothing. He knew that Tanner was thinking about her own partner, Susan. The teacher she had loved and lived with, who’d been murdered on their own doorstep five years before.

He reached over to lay a hand on her arm.

‘I don’t know how they keep it together,’ she said.

‘Catherine always wanted to be a police officer. Ever since she was a little girl. It’s a small comfort to myself and her dad that our daughter died doing a job she loved.

’ Sylvia Holloway looked up and managed a wobbly smile.

‘Only a small one, but it’s something . .

. something that helps.’ She took another drink of water, gulped it down.

‘There’s been a great deal made in recent months about the behaviour of some police officers.

About those who have committed unspeakable crimes.

That’s as it should be, of course, and Catherine was the first to condemn those people, because she hated the thought of any police officer abusing their power.

Of any police officer breaking the oath they’d taken to faithfully discharge their duty with integrity and respect.

That was what my daughter did every single day.

That was all she ever wanted to do. She was one of the good ones and so were the three officers she was on duty with that night. ’

‘Maybe not all of them,’ Thorne said.

‘So, if there is anyone watching this who has any information, please come forward, so that Catherine’s colleagues can catch the man responsible for their deaths. Whatever it is . . . any information at all.’ She sat back, her hands shaking as she folded her piece of paper up again.

‘Amazing.’ Tanner’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it.’

Thorne gave her arm a small squeeze.

‘Once again, we’re hugely grateful that Catherine’s mother has taken the time to talk to you today.

’ Walker turned to the woman and nodded to acknowledge her bravery.

‘And I can only endorse what Sylvia had to say. With that in mind, we’re sharing an e-fit today of a man we’d very much like to talk to in connection with the investigation.

It’s there in the press packs, but it’s important to get it on camera, so . . . ’

Walker gave a signal to someone at the side of the stage, and a few seconds later the Met Police logo on the screen behind him disappeared and was replaced by the computer-generated image of their suspect’s face.

‘This image is based on a description given to us by an eye witness on the night Catherine and the others were attacked.’

‘Pants on fire,’ Tanner said.

The e-fit had actually been compiled from a detailed description provided by Emily Mead. In the belief that the man portrayed may well be watching, and not wanting him to know that Emily Mead was now working with the police, there was a justifiable need for Walker to be economical with the truth.

‘He’s a pretty good liar,’ Thorne said. ‘I almost believe it myself.’

Walker announced that he would take a few questions and pointed as soon as a hand was raised. A woman stood up, gave her name and said that she was from ITV. ‘You haven’t made any reference to the more recent murder of a police officer in Hendon Park.’

‘Here’s that smart journo Pallister was on about,’ Thorne said.

‘I just wondered if that was deliberate and, if so, is it because that murder is now part of this same investigation?’

Another journalist stood up and spoke without being invited. ‘Are we seeing a series of concerted attacks on police officers?’

‘See the look on Walker’s face?’ Tanner said.

‘Rabbit in the headlights,’ Thorne said.

‘I hope you understand that I cannot comment on any ongoing operation. I will say only that the murder of any police officer, for whatever reason, is a tragedy. I want to assure you that our investigations are starting to bear fruit and that the public can be confident those responsible for these terrible crimes will be brought to justice.’

Walker turned to deal with more questions and they cut back to the studio.

‘Did he really just talk about public confidence in the police?’

‘I’m still trying to work out the fruit thing.’ Tanner reached for the remote.

‘What are you doing?’

‘It’s only going to be that home affairs bloke wrapping it up, so . . . ’

‘Don’t you want to know the football results?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Come on, you and Fiona can cuddle up later on in your torture room and talk about Brentford’s lack of form away from home.’

Tanner told him he was a bell-end and turned the TV off.

‘Tomorrow’s going to be a sod.’ Thorne had moved from Maltesers to pistachios and grabbed another handful. ‘More of a sod, I mean.’

Tanner groaned. They both knew that televised appeals for information inevitably led to several days of fielding phone calls, of dealing patiently with those swearing blind that the man police were after lived next door or had once painted their shed or was working in their local chip shop.

She stood up and, after announcing that she was taking the sausage rolls home with her, told Thorne that she’d see him in the morning.

‘Maybe something’ll come in from Hackney. ’

He walked her to the door. ‘I’m not holding my breath.

’ While Thorne remained convinced that the killing of the ex-copper in Stoke Newington was no coincidence, there had been no further updates from the team handling the case.

They’d spent the rest of the day digging into Stuart Needham’s career on the Job, but there were no red flags.

His service record was spotless, he’d been commended numerous times by members of the local community, and he’d barely taken a day off in thirty years.

To all intents and purposes, he’d been the perfect copper.

Then again, so had Callaghan and Tully.