Sleepyhead

THREE

Thorne had been wrong about the summer: after a fortnight's holiday of its own, it had returned with a sticky vengeance, and the siren call of the launderette could no longer be ignored. He was horribly aware of the smell coming off him as he sat sweltering in Frank Keable's office. They were talking about lists.

'We're concentrating on doctors currently on rotation in inner London, sir.'

Frank Keable was only a year or two older than Thorne but looked fifty. This was more due to some genetic glitch than any kind of stress. The lads reckoned he must have started receding at about the same time he hit puberty, judging by the proximity of his hairline to the nape of his neck Whatever hormones he had left that stimulated hair growth had somehow been mistakenly rerouted to his eyebrows, which hovered above his bright blue eyes like great grey caterpillars. The eyebrows were highly expressive and gave him an air of wisdom that was, to put it kindly, fortunate. Nobody begrudged him this bit of luck – it was the least you could hope for when you looked like an overfed owl with alopecia.

Keable put one of his caterpillars to good use, raising it questioningly. 'It might be best to look a bit further afield, Tom. We'd be covering our bases, should the worst happen. We're not short of manpower.'

Thorne looked skeptical but Keable sounded confident.

'It's a big case, Tom, you know that. If you need the bodies to widen things out a bit, I can swing it.'

'Let's have them anyway, sir, it's an enormous list. But I'm sure he's local.'

'The note?'

Thorne felt again the heavy drops of rain that had crawled inside his shirt collar and trickled down between his shoulder-blades. He could still sense the polythene between his fingers and thumbs, as he'd read the killer's words while the water ran down into his eyes, like tears coming home.

The killer had known where Alison was being treated. He was obviously following the case closely. Theirs as well as hers.

'Yes, the note. And the locations. I think he'd want to be around to keep an eye on things.'

To monitor his work.

'Is it worth putting a watch on the hospital?'

'With respect, sir, the place is crawling with doctors… I can't see the point at the minute.' His eyes drifted to the calendar on the dirty yellow wall – views of the West Country. Keable was originally from Bristol… The heat was making it hard to concentrate. Thorne undid another button on his shirt. Polyester. Not clever. 'Is there any chance of moving that fan round a bit?'

'Oh, sorry, Tom.'

Keable flicked a switch on his black desktop fan, which started to swing backwards and forwards, providing Thorne with a welcome blast of cold air every thirty seconds or so. Keable leaned back in his chair and puffed out his cheeks. 'You don't think we're going to crack this, do you, Tom?'

Thorne closed his eyes as the fan swung back in his direction.

'Tom, is this about the Calvert case?'

Thorne looked at the calendar. Two weeks now since they'd found Alison, and they were nowhere. Two weeks of banging their heads against a wall, and getting nothing but headaches.

Concern, or what passed for it, crept into Keable's voice. 'Cases like this, it's completely understandable…'

'Don't be silly, Frank.'

Keable leaned forward quickly. In charge. 'I'm not insensitive to… moods, Tom. This case has a taste to it. It's not in the run of things. Even I can sense it.'

Thorne laughed. Old colleagues. 'Even you, Frank?'

'I mean it, Tom.'

'Calvert is ancient history.'

'I hope so. I need you focused – and focused is not fixated.'

Keable wasn't sure but he thought that Thorne nodded. He continued as if the exchange had never happened.

'I think we'll make a case if we get him. We should be able to match up the note to the typewriter for a start.'

Keable sighed and nodded. The old-fashioned typewriter was a bit of luck, a lot easier to identify than a laser printer, but still, they needed a suspect first. He'd been in the same position plenty of times. It was hard to sound enthusiastic about evidence which was only of any use when someone was in custody. The procedure had to be followed, but at the end of the day they had to catch him first. Keable knew that procedure was his strong point. He was a good facilitator. It was this self-awareness that had allowed him to leapfrog other officers, Thorne included. It also ensured that those officers didn't resent it. He recognised the talents of others and the lack of them in himself. He was a forger of team spirit. He was well liked. He helped where he could and left the job at the office at the end of the day. He slept well and had a happy marriage – unlike other officers. Thorne included. 'He'll make a mistake, Tom. When we get a hit on a drugs theft we can start narrowing things down a bit.'

Thorne leaned in close to the tan. 'I'd like to get over to Queen Square, if that's okay. It's been a while and I'd like to see how Alison's doing.'

Keable nodded. This hadn't been his most successful attempt at one-on-one morale-building but, then, he hadn't expected a backslapping gabfest from Tom Thorne. He cleared his throat as Thorne stood up, walked to the door and then turned.

'That note was spotless, Frank. It was the shortest forensic report I've ever seen. And he doesn't wash the bodies in a ritualistic way. He's just very, very careful.'

Keable turned the fan back on himself. He was unsure exactly what Thorne expected him to say. 'I'd been wondering whether we should get the boys to chip in for some flowers or something. I mean, I thought about it but…'

Thorne nodded.

'Yes, sir, I know. It hardly seems worth it.'

'These are really lovely. It was a very nice thought.' Anne Coburn finished arranging the flowers and closed the blinds in Alison's room. The sun was streaming in through the window, causing the girl's face to flush a little.

'I meant to come in sooner, but…'

She nodded, understanding. 'You could have written a note to say congratulations, though.'

Thorne looked down at Alison and immediately understood. It was difficult to notice one less machine amid the confusion of life-preserving hardware. She was breathing. The breaths were shallow, almost tentative, but they were her own. Now a tube ran into a hole in her windpipe, covered with an oxygen mask.

'She came off the ventilator last night and we performed the tracheostomy.'

Thorne was impressed. 'Exciting night.'

'Oh, it's non-stop excitement in here. We had a small flood a while ago. Have you ever seen nurses in wellies?'

He grinned. 'I've seen the odd dodge video…'

It was the first time he'd heard her laugh: it was filthy. Thorne nodded towards the flowers, which he'd picked up at a garage on the way in. They weren't quite as lovely as Anne Coburn had said. 'I felt like such an idiot last time, you know, whispering. If she can hear I thought she must be able to smell so…'

'Oh, she'll smell these.'

Suddenly Thorne was aware again of the stickiness beneath his arms. He turned to look at Alison. 'While we're on the subject.., sorry, Alison, I must really hum.' He was embarrassed at the silence where a response should have been. He hoped he could get used to talking to this woman with a tube in her neck and another up her nose. She was unable to clear her throat. She was unable to lift the hand that lay pale and heavy on the pink flowery quilt. She was.., unable. And yet, selfishly, Thorne hoped that she thought well of him, that she liked him. He wanted to talk to her. Even now he sensed that he would need to talk to her.

'Just fill in the gaps yourself,' Coburn said. 'It's what I do. We have some cracking chats.'

The door opened and an immaculately suited middle-aged man walked in with what at first glance appeared to be candy floss on his head.

'Oh…' Thorne saw Coburn's features harden in an instant. 'David. I'm busy I'm afraid.'

They stared at each other. She broke the uncomfortable, hostile silence. 'This is Detective Inspector Thorne. David Higgins.'

The soon-to-be-ex-husband. The helpful pathologist.

'Pleased to meet you.' Thorne held out a hand, which the immaculate suit shook without looking at him – or at Alison.

'You did say that this would be a good time,' said the suit, half smiling.

He was obviously trying hard to be pleasant for Thorne's benefit but clearly it did not come naturally. On further inspection the candy floss was in reality a teased up and hair sprayed dyed vanilla quaff-a ridiculous affectation in a man who was at least fifty-five: he looked as if he'd walked off the set of Dynasty.

'Well, it would have been,' said Coburn frostily.

'My fault, Mr. Higgins,' said Thorne. 'I didn't have an appointment.'

Higgins moved towards the door, adjusting his tie.

'Well, I'd better make sure I have an appointment in future, then. I'll call you later, Anne, and we can arrange one.' He closed the door soundlessly behind him. There was a muffled exchange outside and the door was opened again by a nurse. It was time for Alison's bed bath.

Anne Coburn turned to him. 'What do you usually do for lunch?'

They sat in the back of a small sandwich bar on Southampton Row. Ham and Brie on a baguette and a mineral water. A cheese and tomato sandwich and a coffee. Two busy professionals.

'What are Alison's chances of regaining any significant…?'

'Nil, I'm afraid. I suppose it depends a little on your definition of "significant" but we have to be realistic. There have been documented cases of patients regaining enough movement to operate a sophisticated wheelchair. They're doing a lot of work in the States with computers operated by headsticks, but realistically it's a bleak prognosis.'

'Wasn't there somebody in France who dictated an entire book with an eyelash or something?'

' The Diving Bell and the Butterfly – you should read it. But it's pretty much a one-off. Alison's gaze reacts to voices and she seems to have retained the ability to blink, but whether she has any real control over it is hard to say at the moment. I can't see her giving you a statement just yet.'

'That wasn't the reason I asked about… It wasn't the only reason.' Thorne took an enormous bite of his sandwich. Anne had done most of the talking but had already finished hers. She looked at him, narrowing her eyes, her voice conspiratorial. 'Well, you've been privy to my disastrous domestic situation. What about yours?' She took a sip of mineral water and watched him chew, her eyebrows arched theatrically. She laughed as, twice, he tried to answer and, twice, had to resume his efforts to swallow the sandwich.

Finally: 'What – you mean is it disastrous?'

'No. Just… is there one?'

Thorne could not get a fix on this woman at all. A vicious temper, a filthy laugh, and a direct lie of questioning. There seemed little point in going round the houses.

'I've moved effortlessly from "disastrous" to just plain "bleak".'

'Is that the normal progression?'

'I think so. Sometimes there's a short period of "pitiful" but not always.'

'Oh, well, I'll look forward to that.'

Thorne watched as she reached into her bag for a cigarette. She held up the packet. 'Do you mind?'

Thorne said no, and she lit up. He stared as she blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, way from him. It had been a long time since his last cigarette.

'More doctors smoke than you'd imagine. And a surprising number of oncologists. I'm amazed that more of us aren't smack heads to be honest. Do you not, then?'

Thorne shook his head. 'A policeman who doesn't smoke. You must like a drink, then?'

He smiled. 'I thought you worked too many hours to watch television.'

She groaned with pleasure as she took a long drag. Thorne spoke slowly but was still smiling when he answered the question. 'I like more than one…'

'Glad to hear it.'

'But that's pretty much it, as far as the clich6s go. I'm not religious, I hate opera, and I can't finish a crossword to save my life.'

'You must be driven, then? Or haunted? Is that the word?'

Thorne tried to hold the smile in place and even managed to produce a chuckle of sorts as he turned away and looked towards the counter. When he'd caught the eye of the woman at the till he held up his coffee cup, signaling for another. He turned back as Anne was stubbing out her cigarette. She exhaled, enjoying it, running elegant fingers through her silver hair.

When he'd caught the eye of the woman at the till he held up his coffee cup, signaling for another.

'So, does "desperate" and "bleak" involve children?'

Thorne turned back round. 'No. You?'

Her smile was huge and as contagious as smallpox.

'One. Rachel. Sixteen and big trouble.'

Sixteen? Thorne raised his eyebrows. 'Do women still get upset if you ask how old they are?'

She plonked an elbow on the table and leaned her chin on the palm of her hand, trying her best to look severe.

'This one does.'

'Sorry.' Thorne tried his best to look contrite. 'How much do you weigh?'

She laughed loudly. Not filthy, positively salacious. Thorne laughed too, and grinned at the waitress as his second cup of coffee arrived. It had barely touched the table when Coburn's bleeper went off. She looked at it, stubbed out her cigarette and grabbed her bag from the floor. 'I might not be a smack head, but I do an awful lot of indigestion tablets.'

Thorne lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. 'I'll walk you back.'

On the way towards Queen Square things became oddly formal again. Small-talk about Indian summers gave way to an awkward silence before they were half-way there.

When they reached her office, Thorne hovered in the doorway. He felt like he should go, but she held up her hand to stop him as. she made a quick call. The bleep had not been urgent.

'So how is the investigation going?'

Thorne stepped into the office and closed the door. He had thought this was coming over lunch. His capacity to bullshit members of the public had once been endless, but he spent so much of his time exercising that particular skill on superior officers that he couldn't be bothered trying it on with those who had no axe to grind.

'It's a… bleak prognosis.'

She smiled.

'Every day there's some stupid story in the paper about armed robbers tunneling into the shop next door to the building society or burglars falling asleep in houses they've broken into, but the simple fact is that most people who break the law give serious thought to not getting done for it. With murderers, you've got a chance if it's domestic, or when there's sex involved.'

She leaned back in her chair and took a sip from a glass of water.

Thorne watched her. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to make a speech.'

'No, I'm interested, really.'

'Any sort of sexual compulsion can make people sloppy. They take chances and eventually they slip up. I just can't see this bloke slipping up. Whatever's been driving him isn't sexual.'

Her eyes were suddenly flat and cold. 'Isn't it?'

'Not physically. He's perverse.., but he's-'

'What he's doing is grotesque.'

There was a matter-of-factness about the statement that Thorne had no argument with. What shook him was her use of the present tense. There were those who thought or hoped (and, by Christ, he hoped) that perhaps there'd be no need for new pictures on the wall. But he knew better. Whatever mission this man thought he was on, whatever it was he hoped to achieve, he was actually stalking women and killing them in their own homes. And he was enjoying himself. Thorne could feel himself start to redden.

'There's no conventional pattern to this. The ages of the victims seem unimportant to him, as long as they're available. He just picks these women out and when he doesn't get what he wants he just leaves them. Shiny and scrubbed and slumped in a chair or lying on a kitchen floor for their loved ones to stumble across. Nobody sees anything. Nobody knows anything.'

'Except Alison.'

The awkward silence descended again, more stifling than the air trapped inside the tiny office. Thorne felt the retort of his outburst bouncing off the walls like a sluggish bullet. There was none of the usual irritation when his mobile phone rang. He grabbed for it gratefully. DI Nick Tughan ran the Backhand office: an organiser and collator of information, another embracer of procedure. His smooth Dublin brogue could calm or persuade senior officers. Unlike Frank Keable, though, Tughan had the self-awareness of a tree-stump and little time for characters like Tom Thorne. The way the operation had been going up to now meant that it was very much his show and he ran it with an unflappable efficiency. He never lost his temper.

'We've got a fairly major Midazolam theft. Two years ago, Leicester Royal Infirmary, five grams missing.'

Thorne reached across the desk for a piece of paper and a pen. Anne pushed a pad towards him. He began to scribble down the details. Maybe there had been a slip-up, after all.

'Right, let's send Holland up to Leicester, get all the details, and we'll need a list of everyone on rotation from, say, ninety-seven onwards.'

'Ninety-six onwards. Already sorted it. It's been faxed through.'

Tughan was well ahead of him and thoroughly enjoying it. Thorne knew what he would have done next. 'Obvious question then.., any matches?'

'A couple in the South-East and half a dozen in London. But there's an interesting one. Works at the Royal London.'

Interesting was right. Anne Coburn had spotted it straight away. Working on the assumption that Alison had been attacked in her home, then why the Royal London?

Why not the nearest hospital? Thorne took down the name, kept the compulsory, if distasteful, backslapping brief and hung up.

'Sounded like good news.' She didn't apologise for eavesdropping.

Thorne was starting to like her more and more. He stood up and reached for his jacket. 'Let's hope so. Five grams of Midazolam. Is that a lot?'

'That's a hell of a lot. We'd use anywhere up to five milligrams to sedate an average-sized adult. That's intravenously, of course.'

She stood up and moved round the desk to see him out. As she walked to the door she glanced at the scrap of paper, which Thorne had not yet picked up, and stopped dead in her tracks.

'Oh, God!' She reached for it just as Thorne did – he should never have let her see it, but a tussle would have been.., unseemly. What harm could it do? He opened the door. 'Is this man your.., match, Detective Inspector?' She moved back to her side of the desk and sat down heavily.

'I'm sorry, Doctor, I'm sure you understand. I can't really-'

'I know him,' she said. 'I know him extremely well.'

Thorne hovered in the doorway. This was starting to get awkward. Procedure dictated that he leave straight away and send someone back to get a statement. He waited for her to continue.

'Yes, he certainly worked in Leicester, but there's no way he'd have anything to do with stealing drugs.'

'Doctor-'

'And he's got something of a cast-iron alibi as far as Alison Willetts is concerned.'

Thorne shut the door. He was listening.

'Jeremy Bishop was the anaesthetist on call at the Royal London A and E the night Alison was brought in. He treated her. Do you remember? I told you I knew him. He told me about the Midazolam.'

Thorne blinked slowly. Dead Susan. Dead Christine. Dead Madeleine.

'Come on, Tommy, you must have something to go on?'

He opened his eyes. She was shaking her head. She'd seen the date on the piece of paper. 'I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, but much as you dislike Detective Constable Holland…'

Thorne opened his mouth and closed it again.

'… it's a waste of time to send him to Leicester. The man you're looking for is certainly clever, but there's no guarantee he ever worked at Leicester Royal Infirmary.'

Thorne dropped his bag and sat down again. 'Why am I starting to feel like Dr Watson?'

'August the first is rotation day. Normally it would be a reasonable assumption that in order to steal a large quantity of drugs from a hospital you'd have to work there. Yes, hospital staff are overstretched and occasionally inefficient, but as far as dangerous drugs are concerned there is a procedure in place.'

Thorne's favourite word again.

'But on rotation day, things can get a bit lax. I've worked in hospitals where you could walk out pushing a bed and carrying a kidney machine on August the first. I'm sorry, but whoever took these drugs could have come from anywhere.'

Susan. Christine. Madeleine. 'Something, 7bmmy. A lead. Something…'

Thorne took out his phone to call Tughan back. It was Helen Doyle's first round of drinks, but already she was worrying about how much she'd spent. A few designer bottles and a couple of rum and Cokes and it was three times what she earned in an hour.

Sod it. It was Nita's birthday and she didn't do this very often.

She loaded the drinks on to a tray and looked across to where her mates were sitting at a corner table. She'd known three of them since school and the other two for almost that long. The pub wasn't busy and the few people in there were probably pissed off with the noise they were making. On cue the gang began to laugh, Jo's high-pitched cackle the loudest of all. Probably another one of Andrea's filthy jokes…

Helen walked slowly back to the table, the other girls cheering when she put the tray down and diving on to their drinks as if they were the first of the night.

'Didn't you get any crisps?'

'Forgot, sorry…'

'Dizzy bitch.'

'Tell her the joke…'

'How much fucking ice has he put in here?'

Helen took a swig and looked at the label on the bottle. It didn't actually say what was in it. She'd got through plenty already. Hooch, Metz, Breezers. She was never really sure what she was drinking, what the booze was, but she liked the colours and she felt fashionable with the slim, cold bottle in her hand. Sophisticated. Nita drained half of her rum and Coke. Jo emptied the remains of a pint of lager and belched loudly.

'What do you drink those for? It's like pop!'

Helen felt herself blush. 'I like the taste.'

'It's not supposed to taste nice, that's the point.'

Nita and Linzi laughed. Helen shrugged and took another swig. Andrea nudged her. 'Like you know what!'

There was a groan. Jo stuck two fingers down her throat. Helen knew what they were talking about, but part of her wished they wouldn't. Sex was pretty much all Andrea ever talked about.

'Tell us how big his cock was again, Jo.'

The stripper gram had been Andrea's idea and Nita had seemed to like it. Helen thought he was really fit, all covered in oil, and he made her go very red, but the poem about Nita hadn't been that good. She could tell that he'd been as embarrassed as her when Jo grabbed his crotch, and for a second he'd looked really upset. Then he'd smiled and grabbed his clothes from off the floor while everybody whistled and cheered. Helen had whistled and cheered too, but she wished she'd been a bit more pissed.

'Big enough!'

'More than a mouthful's a waste.'

Helen leaned across to Linzi. 'How's work?'

She was probably closest to Linzi, but they hadn't spoken properly all night.

'Shit. I'm going to chuck it in… do some temping or something.'

'Right.'

Helen loved her job. The money was poor, but the people were nice and even though she had to give her mum and dad a bit, it was still cheap living at home. She couldn't see the sense in moving out, not until she met someone. What was the point in renting a gritty flat like Jo or Nita? Andrea still lived at home anyway. God knows where she was having all that sex she was always on about…

'Let Me Entertain You' came on the jukebox. It was one of her favourite songs. She nodded her head to the rhythm and sang the words quietly to herself. She remembered a fifth-form disco, and a boy with an earring and sad brown eyes and cider on his breath. When the chorus came, the rest of the girls joined in and Helen shut up. The bell rang and the barman shouted something incomprehensible. Andrea and Jo were all for another round. Helen grinned but she knew she should be getting back. She would feel bad in the morning and her dad would be waiting up for her. She was starting to feel woozy and knew that she should have gone home and had her tea before she came out. She could have changed too. She felt frumpy and self-conscious in her black work skirt and sensible blouse. She'd grab a bag of chips on the way home. And a piece of fish for her dad.

Andrea stood up and announced that they'd all put in for one more. Helen cheered along with the rest of them, drained the bottle and reached into her purse for a couple of pound coins.

Thorne sat with his eyes shut listening to Johnny Cash. He rolled his head around on his neck, enjoying every crack of cartilage. Now the Man in Black with the dark, dangerous voice was insisting that he was going to break out of his rusty cage. Thorne opened his eyes and looked around at his neat, comfortable flat – not a cage, exactly, but he knew what Johnny was talking about.

The one-bedroom garden flat was undeniably small, but easily maintained and close enough to the busy Kentish Town Road to ensure that he never ran out of milk or tea. Or wine. The couple in the flat upstairs were quiet and never bothered him. He'd lived here less than six months after finally selling the house in Highbury, but he already knew every inch of the place. He'd furnished the entire flat during one wretched Sunday at IKEA, spent the next three weeks putting the stuff together and the succeeding four months wishing he hadn't bothered.

He couldn't say he'd been unhappy since Jan had left.

Christ, they'd been divorced for three years and she'd been gone nearly five, but still, everything just felt.., out of kilter. He'd thought that moving out of the house they'd shared and into this bright new flat would change things. He'd been optimistic. However close to him the objects around him were, he had no real.., connection to any of them. It was functional. He could be out of his chair and in his bed in a matter of seconds but the bed was too new and, tragically, as yet unchristened.

He felt like a faceless businessman in a numberless hotel room.

Perhaps it would have been better if Jan had gone because of the job. He'd seen it often enough and it was the stuff of interminable TV cop shows – copper's wife can't stand playing second fiddle to the job, blah, blah, blah. Jan had never been an ordinary copper's wife and she'd left for her own reasons. The only job involved in the whole messy business was the one she'd been on every Wednesday afternoon with the lecturer from her creative-writing course. Until he'd caught them at it. In the middle of the day with the curtains drawn.

Candles by the bed, for Christ's sake…

Jan said later that she never understood why Thorne hadn't hit him. He never told her. Even as the scrawny bastard had leaped from the bed, his cock flapping, scrabbling for his glasses, Thorne knew that he wasn't going to hurt him. As he let the pain wash over him, he knew that, reeling and raw as he was, he couldn't bear to hear her scream, see the flash of hatred in her eyes, watch her rushing to comfort the little smartarse as he sat slumped against the wardrobe, moaning and trying to stop the blood. A few weeks later he'd waited outside the college and followed him. Into shops. Chatting with students on the street. Home to a small flat in Islington with multicoloured bicycles chained up outside and posters in the window. That had been enough for him. That simple knowing. You're mine if l ever decide to come and get you.

But after a while even that seemed shameful. He'd let it go. Now it was the stuff of late nights and red wine and singers with dark, dangerous voices.

Yes, he'd brought the job home – especially after Calvert, when things had slipped away from him for a time – but they'd got married far too young. That was all, really. Perhaps if they'd had kids…

Thorne scanned the TV pages of the Standard. Tuesday night and bugger all on. Even worse, Sky had shown the Spurs-Bradford game at eight o'clock. He'd forgotten all about it. At home against Bradford – should be three points in the bag. Teletext, the football fan's best friend, gave him the bad news.

She was slumped, her back against his legs, buttocks pressing down on her heels and knuckles lying against the polished wooden floorboards. He stood behind her, both hands on the back of her neck, readying himself. He glanced around the room. Everything was in place. The equipment laid out within easy reach.

Her mouth fell open and a wet gurgling noise came out. He tightened his grip, ever so slightly, on her neck. There was really no point in trying to talk and, besides, he'd heard quite enough from her already.

An hour and a half earlier, he'd watched as the group of girls had begun to thin out. A couple had wandered off towards the tube and a couple more to the bus stop. One tottered off down the Holloway Road. Local, he guessed. Perhaps she'd like to join him for a drink. He'd taken a left turn and driven the car round the block, emerging on to the main road twenty yards or so ahead of her: He'd waited at the junction until she was a few feet away then got out of the car.

'Excuse me… sorry.., but I seem to be horribly lost.'

Slurring the words ever so slightly. Just the right side of pissed. And so well-spoken.

'Where are you trying to get to?'

Wary. Quite right too. But nothing to worry about here. Just a tipsy hooray lost on the wrong side of the Archway roundabout. Taking off his glasses, looking like he's having trouble focusing…

'Hampstead… sorry.., had a bit too much… Shouldn't be driving, tell you the truth.'

'That's OK, mate. Hammered meself as it goes…'

'Been clubbing?'

'No, just in the pub – mate's birthday.., really brilliant.'

Good. He was glad she was happy. All the more to want to live for. So…

'I don't suppose you fancy a nightcap?' Reaching through the car window and producing it with a flourish.

'Blimey, what are you celebrating?'

Christ, what was it with these gifts and a bottle of fizz?

Like a hypnotist's gold watch.

Just pinched it from a party.' Then the giggle. 'One for the road?'

About half an hour. Thirty minutes of meaningless semi-literate yammering until she'd started to go. She was full of herself. Nita's boyfriend… Linzi's problems at work.., a couple of dirty jokes. He'd smiled and nodded and laughed, and tried to imagine how he could possibly have been less interested. Then the nodding-dog head and the sitcom slurring, and it was time for the innocuous looking man to tip his paralytic girlfriend into the back of his car and take her back to his place.

Then he'd made the phone call, and put her in position. And now Helen wasn't quite so gobby.

Again the gurgling, from somewhere deep down and desperate.

'Ssh, Helen, just relax. It won't take long.'

He positioned his thumbs, one at either side of the bony bump at the base of the skull and felt for the muscle, talking her through it… 'Feel these two pieces of muscle, Helen?'

She groaned.

'The sternocleidomastoid. I know, stupidly long word, don't worry. These muscles reach all the way down to your collar-bone. Now what I'm after is underneath…' He gasped as he found it. 'There.'

Slowly he wrapped his fingers, one at a time around the carotid artery and began to press.

He closed his eyes and mentally counted off the seconds. Two minutes would do it. He felt something like a shudder run through her body and up through the thin surgical gloves into his fingers. He nodded respectfully, admiring the Herculean effort that even so tiny a movement must have taken.

He began to think about her body and about how he might have touched it. She was his to do with as he pleased. He could have slipped his hands from her head and slid them straight down the front of her and beneath her shirt in a second. He could turn her round and penetrate her mouth, pushing himself across her teeth. But he wouldn't. He'd thought about it with the others too, but this was not about sex.

After considering such things at length he'd decided that his was a normal and healthy impulse. Wouldn't any man feel the same things with a woman at his mercy? So easily available? Of course. But it was not a good idea. He did not want them.., classifying this as a sex crime. That would be easy, would throw them too far off the scent. And he knew all about DNA.

A growl came from somewhere deep in Helen's throat.

She could feel everything, was aware of everything and still she fought it.

'Not long now… Please be quiet.'

He became aware of a drumming noise and, without moving his head, glanced down to where her fingers were beating spastically against the floorboards. Adrenaline staging a hopeless rearguard action against the drug. She might make it, he thought, she wants to live so much. One minute forty-five seconds. His fingers locked in position, he leaned down, his lips on her ear, whispering: 'Night-night,…'

She stopped breathing.

Now was the critical time. His movements needed to be swift and precise. He eased the pressure on the artery and pushed her head roughly forward until chin was touching chest. He let it rest there for a few seconds before whipping it back the same way so that he was staring down at her face. Her eyes were open, her jaw slack, spittle running down her chin. He dismissed the urge to kiss her and moved her head back into the central position. Back into neutral. Then he took a firm grip and entwined his fingers in her long brown hair before twisting the head back over the left shoulder. And holding it.

Then the right shoulder. Each twist splitting the inside of the vertebral artery. Now it was up to her. He laid her down gently and placed her body in the recovery position. He was sweating heavily. He reached for a glass of cold water and sat down on the chair to watch her. To wait for her to breathe.

His mind was empty, as he focused, unblinking, on her face and chest. The breaths would be short and shallow, and he watched and willed the smallest movement. Every few seconds he leaned forward and felt for a pulse. Helen's body was unmoving.

He reached for the bag and mask. It was time to intervene. Ten minutes of frantic squeezing, shouting at her:

'Come on, Helen, help me!' Screaming into her face. 'I need you to be strong.'

She wasn't strong enough.

He slumped back into the chair, out of breath. He looked down at the lifeless body. A button was missing from her shirt. He looked across at the plain black shoes, neatly placed one next to the other by her side. The small pile of jewelry in a stainless-steel dish next to them.

Cheap bracelets and big, ugly earrings.

He mourned her and hated her.

He needed to move. Now it was just about disposal. Quick and easy.

He began to strip her.

Thorne picked up the bottle of red wine from the side of his chair and poured another glass. Maybe forty-year-old men were better off on their own in neat, comfortable but small flats. Forty-year-old men with bad habits, more mood swings than Glenn Miller and twenty-odd years off the market had very little say in the matter. A taste for country-and-western hardly helped.

Johnny was singing about memories. Thorne made a mental note to programme the CD player to skip this track next time. Had Frank been right when he'd asked if the Calvert case was still part of the equation?

The one fresh and tender corpse…

Fifteen years was too long to be lugging this baggage around. It wasn't his anyway. Fie couldn't recall how it had " been passed on to him. He'd only been twenty-five. Those far above him had carried the can, as it was their job so to do. He'd never had the chance to take the honourable way out. Would he have done it anyway?

One man, released…

He'd had no say in letting Calvert go after the interview. The fourth interview. What happened in that corridor and later, in that house, seemed like things he'd read about like everybody else. Had he really felt that Calvert was the one? Or was that a detail his imagination had penciled in later, in the light of what he had seen that Monday morning? Once everything started to come out, his part in it all was largely forgotten anyway. Four girls, deceased…

Besides, what was his trauma – God, what a stupid word – compared with the family of those little girls who should still have been walking around? Who should have had their own kids by now.

Memories are made of this.

He pointed the remote and turned off the song. The phone was ringing.

'Tom Thorne.'

'It's Holland, sir. We think we've got another body.'

'You think?'

His stomach lurching. Calvert smiling as he walked out of the interview room. Alison staring into space. Dead Susan, dead Christine, dead Madeleine, crossing their fingers.

'Looks the same, sir. I don't think they'd even have passed this one on to us but she hasn't got a mark on her.'

'What's the address?'

'That's the thing, sir. The body's outside. The woods behind Highgate station.'

Minutes away, this time of night. He downed the rest of the glass in one. 'You'd better send a car, Holland. I've had a drink.'

'Best of all, sir…'

'Best?'

'We've got a witness. Somebody saw him dump the body.'

I could sense that Tim really wanted to know who the flowers were from. He didn't say anything, but I know he was looking at them. He didn't ask me. Maybe that's because it was a question he actually wanted an answer to, and not just a pointless conversation with his ex-girlfriend who's now a retarded mong. Sorry, Tim. But nothing can prepare you for this, can it? I mean, you go through all the usual stuff,, holidays together, meeting each other's friends. He never had to deal with meeting the parents, jammy sod. His were a nightmare! But this was never part of the deal, was it? "How would you cope if I was on a life-support machine and completely unable to move or communicate?" never really comes up in those early intimate little chats, does it?

Oh, and I've got an air mattress now, to stop me getting bed sores apparently. It's probably hugely comfy. Makes a racket, though. Low and electrical. Sometimes I wake up and lie in the dark thinking that somebody's doing a bit of late-night vacuuming in the next room.

Anne's got the hots for that copper, I reckon. He does seem nice, I grant you. Nicer than her ex anyway, who sounds like a tit. The copper's funny, though. I was pissing myself when he apologised for being a bit whiffy. I heard Tim asking one of the nurses about the flowers. There was no card and the nurse went away to ask one of her mates. Now I think Tim suspects I'm having an affair with a policeman. Obviously, he must be a fairly strange policeman with a taste for cheap yellow nighties and extremely compliant girlfriends who never answer back.

What's that old joke about the perfect woman? If I was a nymphomaniac and my dad owned a brewery, he'd be quids in…