Page 52

FIFTY-ONE

Thorne carried half a Guinness across and joined Holland at their usual table in the corner of the Oak.

He saw that Holland had gone for the shepherd’s pie, which was an act of courage surely worthy of the King’s Award for Gallantry.

That, or a sign that Holland was developing some serious psychiatric issues.

‘Another morning to treasure,’ Thorne said.

Holland rolled his eyes. ‘Aren’t they all?’

They – along with most of the other detectives on the team – had spent the last few hours ploughing through several dozen further sightings of Alex Brightwell.

They’d been pouring in via phone and LiveChat since a still photograph from the Frankland footage had been distributed to the media the previous afternoon: a man seen buying fruit in Camberwell; a man waiting for a bus on Oxford Street; the ex-partners of at least two different women looking to make trouble for men who’d pissed them off.

‘How’s he getting around, d’you reckon? Brightwell?’

Holland looked up, gobbets of watery mince dripping from his fork.

‘I mean, I can’t see him hopping on and off the bus or the tube, can you? Too many people looking out for him.’

‘And too many CCTV cameras,’ Holland said. ‘At stations, on all the buses.’

‘Yeah. He might have a car, but only if he’s nicked one. There are no records in his name at the DVLA which isn’t much of a surprise, but there’s nothing in the name of Richard Silcox either. Same with all the hire companies.’

‘Well, we know he’s got at least one set of fake ID documents,’ Holland said. ‘So it’s possible he’s got a bunch of them.’

‘It’s possible.’ Thorne wasn’t convinced. ‘A bike’s his best bet, you ask me. Quickest way to get around the city anyway, plus he can keep his head down most of the time, stay out of sight of the facial recognition cameras.’

‘It’s a thought,’ Holland said. ‘Maybe he’s hopping on and off Boris Bikes. Might be worth a look.’

Thorne grunted. These days the bike-hire scheme was run by Santander, but most people still used the original term and the bikes themselves remained of far more use to Londoners than the self-serving idiot after whom they were named.

Holland appeared to have given up on his lunch. ‘We could narrow it down to the areas we know he’s been. Archway, Hendon Park . . . check out the card payments at all the bike docking stations.’

‘Bloody hell, and you thought this morning was a slog?’

‘Actually, there’s quite a few other bike-hire companies. Lime, and Tier, and Forest . . . you know, if want a greener alternative.’

‘I thought bikes were the greener alternative.’

‘We should probably check them all out.’

‘He might just have his own bike, Dave. Quite a few people do, apparently.’

‘All right, smartarse, it’s not like you’re coming up with a lot of ideas.’

‘I tend to wait until I’ve got a good one,’ Thorne said.

Ignoring the finger from Holland, Thorne looked across and saw DC Stephen Pallister at another table, sitting with three uniformed officers he didn’t recognise.

Pallister nodded and Thorne nodded back, though they hadn’t exchanged more than a few words since Thorne had bawled him out in the office for not picking up on Tully’s arrest of Peter Brightwell.

He turned back to Holland. Said, ‘I’m sorry about yesterday.’

Holland looked at him.

‘I was a bit sharp. When you were talking about Daniel Sadler’s wife.’

‘No worries,’ Holland said. ‘I’m a big boy.’

‘Bigger than you were, anyway.’ Thorne still struggled sometimes to accept that the thoughtful and ballsy officer sitting next to him was the same overeager article that he’d felt lumbered with all those years before.

Keen to impress, with a notebook on hand at all times and no idea of the horrors that lay ahead; on that investigation, certainly.

The ‘Sleepyhead’ case.

‘We’re trying for a baby,’ Holland announced, from nowhere. ‘Me and Pippa . . . well, obviously me and Pippa.’

‘Oh, right,’ Thorne said. ‘You telling me that to prove you really are a big boy?’

‘I just felt like telling you.’

‘OK, well . . . that’s great. Goes without saying, I’m expecting you to name the kid after me. You know, if and when.’

‘I’ll tell Pippa.’

‘So, Tom or Thomasina.’

‘Tom Holland’s the name of the actor who plays Spider-Man.’

‘Fair enough,’ Thorne said. ‘I’ll be rooting for a girl, then.

’ He took a sip of Guinness and glanced at his watch.

They didn’t need to be back in the office for another twenty minutes.

‘You seeing much of Chloe?’ Holland’s daughter was a couple of years older than Alfie, and Thorne knew that the opportunity to spend more time with her had been one of the main reasons for Dave’s rejoining the Met.

‘Not as much as I’d like,’ Holland said. ‘Sophie’s being a bit tricky.’

‘Your ex-wife was always tricky.’

‘You only think that because she didn’t like you.’

‘Absolutely. She was a nightmare.’

Holland smiled. ‘Let’s be fair, she was very much in the majority.’

Thorne smiled back as he raised his glass and stared at Holland through it.

No, definitely not the man he was all those years back.

Then again, neither were a lot of people . . .

‘Russell was a bit down in the mouth when I spoke to him this morning,’ he said. ‘I thought he was just depressed about the case, which is fair enough, but it sounded like more than that. He was talking as if he’s about ready to knock it all on the head. Not the force he joined, all that.’

‘He’s right,’ Holland said.

‘Course he is, but is that reason enough to leave?’

‘Maybe he’s just knackered and had enough, or wants to go while he’s still got the chance to do something else. People want to get out of the Job for all sorts of reasons.’

‘The other night, Helen was suggesting I should think about it.’

‘Was she?’

Thorne glanced across and saw that Pallister was still looking in their direction, as though he was worried they might be talking about him.

‘She wasn’t really serious . . . at least I don’t think she was.

’ He swooshed what was left of his Guinness around in the glass.

‘You ever think about calling it a day?’

Holland shook his head.

‘You’d have a lot more time to spend with Thomasina.’

‘Now’s not the time,’ Holland said. ‘Yeah, everything about this job’s pretty horrible right now .

. . worst it’s ever been, I reckon. I mean, we’re seeing it with this case, aren’t we?

Close up and seriously personal, but that’s exactly why we need to stay put and fight it out.

It’s the straight coppers that need to stick around until things are put right .

. . or until they’re better than they are now, at least.’

Thorne said nothing, thinking that passionate speeches in the pub were all very well.

‘We’ve got to try and get a bit of trust back.’

‘Still “glass half full”, then, Dave?’ Thorne downed what was left of his beer. ‘Glad to see they haven’t knocked that out of you.’

‘No, and you’re exactly the same,’ Holland said. ‘However much you like to make out you’re not. Mind you, you did once tell me that your glass was half full of hot piss.’

‘Did I?’ Thorne turned, catching movement and watched as Pallister and his uniformed friends got up to leave. Another nod, when Pallister got to the door.

Thorne reached for his jacket. He remembered sitting at the same table with Holland and Tanner the day after the poisonings; the two uniformed officers who’d nervously approached them to offer support and show solidarity.

What those coppers said back then, even if it was a little gung-ho and par-for-the-course, had at least sounded sincere.

‘We’re all on the same side.’

Now, it just sounded fucking ridiculous.