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A report had come back confirming the presence of arsenic trioxide in the meal Brightwell had been attempting to deliver to Emily Mead, but now it felt almost irrelevant, and the final hour of a very long day proved to be every bit as frustrating as those that had preceded it.

Thorne sat at his desk working through the service record of police constable Michael Healey and found only exemplary reports from superiors and public feedback that marked him out as a conscientious and hard-working officer.

Another model copper . . .

It wasn’t as though Thorne had been expecting a note on Healey’s file saying watch out for this one or murderous tendencies , but it made him feel like going at his computer with a lump-hammer nonetheless.

Even the call from Phil Hendricks did little to improve his mood.

‘You’re only getting sloppy seconds,’ Hendricks said.

‘I forgive you.’ Thorne knew very well that whoever was leading the DPS investigation would have had first dibs on the PM report. ‘So, let’s have it.’

‘Alex Brightwell died of heart failure.’

‘OK . . . ’

‘Not the sort of bog-standard, too much red meat/too little exercise heart failure that we’re going to die of – you before me quite probably. Oh no, it’s a bit more interesting than that.’

‘Is this how you presented your report to the DPS?’

‘Just trying to jazz it up a bit.’

‘Yeah, well you know how much I hate jazz. Come on, Phil.’

‘OK, long story short . . . his heart gave out after a sustained electric shock. The killer used pepper spray to incapacitate him, then basically zapped him to death.’

‘You talking about a Taser?’

‘Well, I very much doubt there was time to wire him up to the mains, so yeah, a Taser . . . but I don’t mean the killer fired the darts. Judging by the scorch marks, we’re talking at least two or three minutes on “drive-stun” with the Taser pressed directly to his neck. Not a nice way to go.’

Thorne said nothing, remembering his encounter with Martin Healey; the PC with his hand on the butt of his Taser like it was a Glock 17.

‘Mind you, this is the bloke who killed all those coppers, right, so I’m guessing you don’t give a stuff.’

‘They were very bad coppers,’ Thorne said. ‘Most of them, anyway. So I’m . . . conflicted.’

A few minutes later, he managed to catch Tanner who, with her coat over her arm, looked as if she was on her way out. He told her what Hendricks had told him. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said.

‘It’s proof of murder,’ she said. ‘So it’s worth something.’

‘He’s going to get away with it, though, isn’t he?’

‘The DPS aren’t quite as useless as you think, Tom. They’ll know it had to be someone in that custody suite at the time. They can work out who was dealing with the drunk and who wasn’t, so somebody’s going to figure out it was Healey.’

‘Yeah, for sure,’ Thorne said. ‘You’d have to be stupid not to work it out eventually, but even if they’re one hundred per cent convinced, I don’t see how they can prove it. So, he walks away and so does whoever set the whole thing up. Fucking . . . Teflon-coated same as always.’

‘Is it not at least worth considering the possibility that Healey was acting alone?’

Thorne began shaking his head.

‘Well, not quite alone, obviously, but you know what I mean. You’ve already said he had a bit of a vigilante vibe or whatever.’

‘Not a chance,’ Thorne said.

‘It doesn’t make sense, though. If whoever set this up is the same person that was leaking information to Brightwell—’

‘It is—’

‘Why go to all the bother of killing him? Brightwell already said he didn’t know who was sending him the intel.’

‘Well, that’s assuming the man we’re talking about is somehow privy to what was said in that interview.

Even if he was, there’s a big difference between what’s said in an interview room and what might come out in the course of a long, drawn-out trial.

He can’t take any chances.’ Thorne watched Tanner thinking about it.

‘Brightwell being killed right after we take him into custody is not a coincidence and the man we’re after made it happen, simple as that.

Yeah, it was quite an operation he put together, but we already know what he’s capable of. ’

‘Tom . . . ’

Thorne could see that Tanner was a little concerned at how worked up he was getting, how easily his accusations could be overheard.

He lowered his voice, but there was still plenty of anger in it.

‘He can waltz into labs and destroy forensic samples. The courier in his pocket meant that he was able to plant evidence. I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to imagine he’s got IT experts whose arm he can twist when he needs to. ’

Tanner nodded.

‘Maybe it was Healey who told that drunk what to do, but everything else was put on a plate for him. The cameras . . . an electronic passkey for Brightwell’s cell.

’ Thorne lowered his head, watched his own knuckles whitening around the edge of a chair.

‘And all we can do is stand by like idiots while the man who’s pulling all the strings walks away, same as always and goes back to work.

Sitting behind a desk somewhere, thinking about the next rape, his next chance to watch and whisper .

. . and polishing the fucking pips on his shoulder. ’

Tanner watched him for a few seconds, waiting until his breathing had slowed.

As soon as he raised his head, she moved forward and drew Thorne into a hug.

‘I’m going to see Emily Mead, if you fancy coming.

’ She stepped away from him and put her coat on.

‘I think I should tell her about Brightwell anyway, but I wanted to see how she’s getting on.

She’s staying with her brother for a while, so . . . ’

‘I think I’ll just head home.’ Thorne manufactured a smile. ‘Listen to some depressing country tunes and think about an alternative career.’

‘Sounds like a top night.’

That was when Thorne remembered what Helen had said to him the previous evening and suddenly began to feel a lot more positive.

He grabbed his jacket and walked out to the car park alongside Tanner thinking that now, at the very least, he had something to do.

It wouldn’t be possible immediately, but it was a way forward and, with luck, a direct route to the end of it all.

As soon as Tanner had peeled off towards her own car, Thorne called Helen. She didn’t pick up, so he left a message. He told her that he’d be going back to Kentish Town, that he’d call again in the morning and that he’d been thinking about what she’d said.

‘ . . . about just needing to find one copper who might be willing to give him up? Well, I think I’ve got one. Someone who knows who the man we’re after is , anyway.’

Thorne would need to let those investigating the death in custody of Alex Brightwell have first crack at Healey. Let them do their best, or more likely their worst, and come away with nothing.

Then it would be his turn.

His line of enquiry would be quite distinct from theirs, of course. He was after very different information, for a start. It was just a name, so it would all be over a lot quicker, and PC Martin Healey would find Thorne’s methods somewhat less polite than those employed by the DPS.