Page 63

SIXTY-TWO

Emily Mead’s elder brother, Patrick, lived in a small, converted worker’s cottage in Bethnal Green. Tanner stared down at the shiny wooden ramp that led up to the front door and hoped she wasn’t smiling too much when Emily finally opened it. Clearly she was, though.

‘ What? ’

‘Just . . . no, nothing.’ Tanner was still looking at the ramp. It was evidently a recent addition to the property; the wood varnished and as yet unmarked.

‘Greg said he might pop in, that’s all,’ Emily said. ‘So Patrick knocked that up for me.’ She held out her arms, mock-affronted as she stepped back from the door. ‘Is that OK?’

Tanner said it was absolutely fine, that it was none of her business, but the smile was still flickering as she stepped into the house. It had more or less gone by the time Emily had switched on the kettle and they stood facing one another in the kitchen.

‘Where is Patrick, anyway?’ Tanner wasn’t just being nosy. Emily had told her she was going to be staying at her brother’s place for a while because she thought the company would be nice for both of them. Tanner knew it was her own way of saying that she didn’t want to be alone.

‘Gone to get us a takeaway,’ Emily said. ‘He’ll be back in a minute and I’m sure there’ll be enough for all of us if you want to stay.’

‘What are you having?’

‘Well, it’s not cheeseburgers, I can tell you that much.’ Emily laughed a little nervously and shoved her hands into the pockets of her baggy grey joggers. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at a cheeseburger again.’

‘Understandable,’ Tanner said. ‘I’m a bit like that with Southern Comfort.’

‘Eh?’

‘Not because anyone tried to poison it or anything. I just got horribly pissed on the stuff when I was seventeen. Even thinking about it makes me feel a bit sick.’

Emily nodded enthusiastically, and now the laughter that went with it sounded a little more natural.

‘It’s Tia Maria for me. Drank a bottle of it on my sixteenth birthday and was chucking up for two days.

’ She shuddered and leaned back against the worktop.

‘That Brightwell bloke’s a proper maniac, though, I swear.

’ She looked at Tanner. ‘He will get life, won’t he? I mean, he’s got to, right?’

‘ Was a maniac,’ Tanner said. She glanced down at her phone when the message alert sounded and saw that it was a message from Brigstocke. ‘And he won’t be going to prison at all, because he’s dead.’

Emily took a few seconds. ‘What?’ She screwed up her eyes and shook her head. ‘How . . . ?’

‘He was killed this morning – early. At the police station.’

‘What the fuck?’

‘Yeah, what the fuck is about right.’ Tanner had already said more than she needed to, more than she should have done quite probably, but she didn’t care a great deal.

‘Who killed him?’

‘It’s not our case.’ Initially, Tanner had been wary of telling Emily Mead anything that might exacerbate her trauma.

She had come to learn, though, that despite all the damage the woman was a little more resilient than she’d first appeared.

A survivor and not a victim. That said, only twenty-four hours on from an attempt on her life, she did not need to know any more about the man they believed had orchestrated the murder of Alex Brightwell.

The same man whose voice she had heard while she was being raped.

The man who was responsible for almost everything. ‘They’re keeping us in the dark.’

Emily said nothing for a few seconds, just stared, unblinking over Tanner’s head until she suddenly turned away, having remembered why they’d come into the kitchen in the first place. ‘Tea.’

‘Right,’ Tanner said. ‘Lovely.’

The kettle had already boiled, but Emily flicked it on again. ‘Actually, I need a quick wazz . . . ’

‘I’ll sort it,’ Tanner said, reaching up for mugs from the cupboard while Emily hurried away to the bathroom. When the kettle boiled again, she laid her phone down on the worktop, pressed the speaker button and listened to the message from Russell Brigstocke as she made the tea.

‘Hey, Nic . . . I know you’re going to see Emily, so I just wanted to make sure you thanked her on my behalf for all her help. What she did was hugely brave and I’m really sorry I never actually got to meet her personally, but please pass on my thanks .

‘More importantly, you can tell her that there won’t be any further action taken in regard to the Adam Callaghan murder.

I talked to a CPS lawyer late last night, after we’d interviewed Brightwell .

. . before everything kicked off this morning.

Anyway, they’ve reviewed Callaghan’s bodycam footage and based on that, and Emily’s agreement to become a protected witness, they’re not going to pursue any kind of case against her.

So, feel free to give her the good news .

‘Right, back to this latest disaster . . . ’

Tanner dropped a used teabag into the bin, then turned at the sound of a ragged breath behind her to see Emily frozen in the doorway.

She was ashen; trembling.

Tanner took a step towards her, but Emily immediately recoiled and cried out.

‘OK . . . I’ll stay where I am,’ Tanner said softly.

She could do nothing but stand and watch as the young woman clawed fingers through her hair, her eyes tight shut and her skinny chest heaving. ‘Emily . . . what’s the matter?’

This case, or rather the circumstances of its significant developments had only confirmed what Thorne already knew: that phone calls in the dead of night never brought good news. Crimes were not timetabled for his own convenience, so it was something he was well used to.

Someone at his door was a very different matter.

There were any number of people he’d put away over the years who – if and when they were out again – might decide to pay him a visit in the small hours. They had friends and relatives who could do the same thing any time they felt like it.

So, being afraid was perfectly natural.

The only reaction, in fact, that made any bloody sense.

He was wide awake within a second or two of hearing the doorbell, pulling on a T-shirt and moving slowly out into the hall.

It was full dark outside and the flat was freezing.

He switched on the light and took a quick look to ensure that the antique wooden truncheon he kept behind the front door was where it should be.

‘Who is it?’

He couldn’t quite make out what his visitor was saying, but he recognised the voice and knew that the truncheon would not be necessary.

He opened the door. Said, ‘Fuck’s sake, Nic . . . ’

Tanner tried to speak, but nothing came out. She seemed even more apprehensive than Thorne had been a few seconds earlier and it looked as if she’d been crying.

Thorne stepped back to let her in. ‘OK, well, it’s obviously something important, but couldn’t you have called?’

‘No—’

‘It’s three o’clock in the morn—’

‘ No . . . I couldn’t have called.’

Thorne closed the door and turned to look at her, decided she’d definitely been crying. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Russell,’ she said. Whispered.

‘What are you on about . . . is he OK? What’s—?’

Tanner was already shaking her head violently and the noise, which shut Thorne up immediately, was somewhere between a growl and a sob. ‘I’m saying . . . it’s him .’

‘Well, either you’re very drunk or I am,’ Thorne said. Then he saw the look on Tanner’s face and began to shiver.

‘The man we’re after is Russell.’