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FIFTY-FOUR

Thorne doubted that he had a greater number of imaginary conversations than anyone else, but he was pretty sure that, by and large, they were rather more interesting than most people’s.

The odd chinwag with a notorious serial killer.

Chit-chats with any number of madmen and murderers, dead or alive.

Quite often, of course, these conversations – the ones at the more extreme end of the spectrum – were simple exercises in wish-fulfilment.

An after-the-fact mind game during which Thorne got to say all those things he’d neglected to come out with at the time; in the interview room, in court, whatever.

Insults and home truths and a decent collection of brutal one-liners.

A bit sad, quite probably, but satisfying nonetheless.

Other imagined exchanges were rather more fantastical, such as those Thorne firmly believed would have changed the course of musical history for the better.

Telling Hank Williams that he really didn’t need to play that show in Canton, Ohio and to get out of the Cadillac he would otherwise be found dead in the back of.

Persuading Elvis to cut down on the drugs and cheeseburgers.

Urging Phil Collins to stay behind the drums . . .

Even if he didn’t want to dwell for too long on what it said about him, the majority of these conversations that should have taken place but never did were with fellow officers.

The one he imagined having with James Greaves involved the man from the CCU answering all Thorne’s questions before taking a nasty tumble down those stairs, and over the previous ten days or so he’d imagined any number of encounters with DCI Jeremy Walker.

Several of these were even more heated than those they’d actually had, with a few containing little in the way of actual dialogue and rather more in the way of punching, or worse.

More than a bit sad, and enormously satisfying.

Not altogether surprising, though, all things considered.

Over the course of his career, Thorne had witnessed a good deal of violence; the act itself or its aftermath.

It was virtually an occupational hazard when the deeds of violent men – and it was almost always men – paid his wages.

Yes, he’d meted out a fair amount of low-level violence himself but, on balance, he thought he’d been on the receiving end of it more times than he’d dished it out.

He’d been shot and stabbed and badly beaten. There were any number of visible scars and plenty more that nobody would ever see.

He remembered what Helen had said to him a few nights before and the question he’d asked Dave Holland in the pub.

‘You ever think about calling it a day?’

It was a wonder they talked about anything else.

Helen was out for the evening with some colleagues from Citizens Advice, so Thorne had gone back to Kentish Town.

He’d eaten cheese on toast with tomato soup and listened to Johnny Cash’s ‘Ragged Old Flag’ and mooched around the flat, trying to tidy a little.

Now he sat staring at a TV he couldn’t be bothered to switch on and thought about the anger etched across Nicola Tanner’s face when they’d been talking about the abject failings of the Counter Corruption Unit.

The ‘shit that wouldn’t be happening’: that shouldn’t be happening.

Their conversation with Russell Brigstocke about a job that none of them recognised any longer.

Then he imagined a couple more.

The one he was going to have when he finally arrested the police officer who had enabled others to commit terrible crimes and subsequently protected them would be predictably non-verbal.

Thorne couldn’t quite decide on the location, but it would definitely not be in an interview room.

Somewhere away from the cameras, for obvious reasons.

It wouldn’t last very long.

His second conversation was rather more straightforward – a simple phone call – and had to be imaginary because, with the investigation still ongoing and with no authorisation whatsoever to do so, it was certainly not one he could actually have.

He imagined calling Mandy Brightwell to apologise.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you . . . and I’m sorry on behalf of all the other officers who didn’t believe you.

And the ones that put you in this position in the first place by lying, and worse.

All the lawyers and everyone else responsible for sending your husband to prison for a crime I know he didn’t commit.

I’m sorry you got sent to prison when all you did was tell the truth, and for what happened to you afterwards.

When all this is over, I’ll do anything I can to help you sue every one of those bastards for wrongful imprisonment and obviously the same goes for Peter.

Whatever it takes, we’ll get his conviction quashed and get him out of there as soon as we can.

I understand why you’re angry because you’ve got every right to be, and I’m not expecting that this will make you any less angry, but I’m sorry anyway. For what it’s worth.’

‘Well, it’s about bloody time. Thank you.’

Ten minutes later, Thorne had a beer open and was looking for the number. There was rather more shouting and swearing during the actual conversation, which was fair enough all things considered, but it went more or less the way he’d imagined.