The Dying Hours (14 page)

Holland had no intention of telling his girlfriend where he had been and certainly not with whom. Her animosity towards Tom Thorne was of long standing, dating back to when he and Thorne had first begun working together. What Thorne had brought upon himself three months earlier had only confirmed her belief that he was not the sort of copper anyone – least of all the father of her child – should be modelling himself upon, and while she had not exactly crowed about what had happened, she did say that nobody should have been particularly surprised.

That Thorne’s fall from grace was long overdue.

Holland did not agree, but had said nothing and he could certainly say nothing now.

‘Your dinner’s in the dog!’ Sophie had been half asleep in front of the TV and grinned as she reached up to him from the sofa. Holland leaned down to kiss her and she smelled the beer. ‘Don’t tell me, another leaving do.’ She sat up and the smile became a yawn.

‘One of the other teams had a result, that’s all. The DCI was getting them in, so…’

‘So, why not?’

Holland was angrier with himself than he was with Thorne for being in this position, for putting his career on the line, but he really resented having to lie. ‘How’s the Teeny Tyrant?’

Chloë, their five-year-old daughter; angel-faced and ruthless.

‘Oh, plenty of big decisions today,’ Sophie said. ‘She doesn’t like cheese, she thinks Iggle Piggle is stupid and that joke about the dog? She wants one.’

‘We haven’t got the space,’ Holland said.

‘I told her we’d think about a hamster.’

Holland crept into his daughter’s bedroom and watched her sleep for a minute or two, then crept into his own and called Yvonne Kitson.

‘I was just going to bed,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’ Going to bed with the new man in her life about whom she said very little. He was not a copper though, Holland knew that much. He told her what had been discussed in the Grafton.

‘The CCTV sounds like a good idea.’

‘I’m not sure I can do it,’ Holland said. ‘Any of it.’ He had perhaps been exaggerating a little to imagine that his entire career was in jeopardy, but he knew that if what he had been doing for Tom Thorne ever came out, he would not be making DI any time soon. ‘Think about what we’ve got to lose, compared to him.’

‘So, tell him,’ Kitson said. ‘He’s not going to hold it against you.’

‘It’s not just that, though, is it?’ Holland lay back on the bed, stared at the cracks that spider-webbed out from the central light fitting. ‘This is a major investigation, or at least it should be. Don’t you think it deserves to be done… properly?’

‘Meaning by other people.’

‘What if there are more killings and we didn’t do everything we could to try and stop it?’

‘You want to go behind his back?’

Holland closed his eyes. He heard the television being switched off in the other room. ‘I’m just saying.’

‘I’m tired, Dave,’ Kitson said. ‘And you’ve been in the pub.’

For Richard Jacobson, the evening every four weeks when his wife went out to attend the monthly meeting of her book club was the one he looked forward to the most. Not that she and her friends actually talked about books a great deal. From everything he had heard, there was a cursory five minutes spent saying, ‘Yes, I liked it,’ or ‘No, it was pretentious twaddle,’ and the rest of the conversation revolved around hairdressers, house prices and the daily agonies of dealing with teenage children.

He didn’t really care what they talked about – nominally, this evening’s ‘title’ was something about Chinese girls with pushy mothers – as long as she was out of the house for a few hours. Once every few months of course there was the nightmare scenario of his wife being the hostess for the evening; when the gaggle of big-haired women would descend on his house and he would be desperate to get out, but when he had the place to himself, as he did tonight, he could really kick back and enjoy it.

He could pull on a scruffy old jumper, open a bottle of something decent and enjoy his collection.

It wasn’t the only time he spent pottering with his machines of course, but it was never the same when Susan was about. He could sense her disapproval seeping through the walls; from the pristine kitchen or the Sitting Room of a Thousand Cushions into the cold, dusty garage where, to a soothing soundtrack of fifties and sixties jazz, he would happily fill hours restoring rollers and oiling chains.

His Royal Blades, his Ambassadors, his cherished Eclipse Rocket.

Stepping into the garage and waiting for the strip lights to flicker into life, he breathed in the glorious smell of them all. The oil and the polished wood and still the heady whiff of grass from fifty, sixty, a hundred years ago. He moved eagerly towards his workbench, having already decided that tonight would be Sonny Rollins and some more restoration work on the 1965 Ransome Marquis he’d bought the week before.

He switched on the CD player and, once the music had begun, he moved, snapping his fingers to the beat, towards the metal shelving unit stacked with oil cans, paint tins and neatly labelled jars filled with antique screws, nuts and bolts. He jumped back and cried out in alarm when the old man stepped from behind it.

A noise more than a word.

Sonny Rollins’ sax kicked in at that moment, as if Jacobson’s yelp had been a cue, but he was unaware of it, and after those few seconds it took for his breathing to even out just enough for him to speak, he had to shout above the frantic drumming in his chest.

‘Who the hell are you?’

The old man stared casually around the garage, nodding his head gently in time to the music. ‘Yeah, well. Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, that one.’

Jacobson took a step towards him, energised by a welcome surge of anger and adrenalin. Some tramp sleeping off the booze, it had to be; a shock of white hair and a plastic bag dangling from his fingers. The clothes looked too new though, and something about the smile, the enjoyment in it, was becoming familiar.

‘You can bugger off now, or I can call the police,’ he said. ‘Simple as that.’

The old man didn’t move, content to let his plastic bag swing a little.

‘The police know me,’ Jacobson said, his voice breaking slightly.

The old man nodded. ‘Well of course they bloody do. Important bloke like you.’

Jacobson felt his breath catch. If the intruder knew who he was, it had to be bad. It must mean he had been targeted for some reason. He felt a wave of relief as he remembered that he was alone in the house; that whatever was going to happen, his wife was safe.

‘Your problem is, they know me as well. I haven’t seen them for a while, that’s all.’ The old man smiled when he saw Jacobson’s eyes widen with recognition; when the penny dropped. ‘
There
you go,’ he said.

‘What do you want?’

The old man began to walk slowly towards him – no great urgency to the sway and swagger, moving to the music – and Jacobson was simply unable to step away. Rooted to the spot, too terrified to move a muscle. God, how many times had he heard that story at work?

‘There’s money in the house.’

‘I’m sure there is.’

‘Isn’t that what you want?’

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘Then what—?’

The old man was quick; faster and fitter than he had any right to be, than Jacobson had ever been, lifting up the plastic bag suddenly and rushing forward when Jacobson’s eyes moved with it.

Richard Jacobson sucked in a last gasp of grass and motor oil, half a second before the old man punched him in the face.

Alfie was wide awake, and crying, which certainly didn’t help.

Wailing, he threw himself around on the bed, as if his little world were coming to an end. Helen kept leaning across to grab him, pulling him towards her, but he writhed in her arms, unwilling to be cuddled, until she let him go again.

‘I feel like such a bloody idiot.’ Helen was sitting up in bed, Thorne standing at the door, a reversal of their positions the night before. The expression of concern Helen had been wearing then was nowhere to be seen.

‘I’m sorry,’ Thorne said. ‘I can only say it so many times.’

‘When I called you this morning I thought you might be asleep. So I waited a bit and when you still weren’t answering I kept trying your mobile, then eventually I gave up.’

‘I
was
asleep, and when I woke up I was feeling better, so—’

‘Bollocks, Tom.’ She held a hand out towards Alfie, but he swatted it away. ‘That’s bollocks and I don’t want to hear it.’

Thorne let out a slow, beery breath and closed the door. He sat down near the bottom of the bed, just outside slapping distance. ‘I wanted the day off, OK?’

‘So, why not just say “I fancy throwing a sickie” or whatever? Why bother lying to
me
?’ Before Thorne could answer, she said, ‘It feels like there’s been a lot of lying lately and I’m fed up with it.’

Thorne said, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ because it felt as though he should, though he knew he was only prolonging the agony.

‘Oh, come on.’

‘No, tell me.’

‘All that crap about catching up on paperwork and going to non-existent record fairs. The other night, when you said you went to see Phil.’

‘I was with Phil,’ Thorne said. ‘I was with him again tonight.’

‘More “boyfriend trouble”, was it?’

Thorne shook his head, took a few seconds to think about the best way into it. Alfie crawled across, softly butted his head against Thorne’s arm a few times, then moved away again. ‘I made that up because it was easier,’ Thorne said. ‘And all that other stuff.’ A deep breath. ‘Phil’s been helping me out with this suicide thing, all right? Dave Holland as well.’

Helen sat up a little higher. ‘Suicide thing? You’re talking about that couple a week ago, right?’ She shook her head. ‘I thought you were told to leave that alone. I mean, Jesmond called.’

‘It wasn’t suicide and it’s not just them.’ He moved a little closer to Helen. ‘Five murders so far, all made to look like suicide. I found out exactly what links them together and I know who’s doing it.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘Helen,
really
. Listen…’

‘No.’

‘I’ll call Phil.’ He fumbled for his phone. ‘You can ask him!’

‘Bloody hell.’ She was still shaking her head, more in exasperation than shock at what was she was hearing.

He told her the rest of it.

When Thorne had finished, Helen drew her son to her again. She held him tightly to her chest and stroked his head, shushing him gently while she thought about everything Thorne had said. Alfie had calmed down a little, though he was still crying, still not ready to settle.

‘You said Phil’s helping you? And Holland?’

Thorne nodded, relieved that he had finally got through to her, that she could see the scale of the case he had stumbled across. ‘And Kitson as well. A bit of the legwork.’

She nodded, still shushing, still thinking. ‘But Phil’s a pathologist, and Kitson and Holland are
north
London MIT.’

Thorne did not need to ask what she was thinking. ‘Look, you know I went to MIT at Lewisham. I tried to tell Hackett what was going on and he wouldn’t have any of it.’

‘That was before,’ Helen said.

‘Before what?’

‘Listen to yourself! That was before you put all this together. Before you had five murders. Go to him with exactly what you’ve just told me and hand it over so it can be investigated properly. I think he might listen now.’

‘They had their chance.’

‘God, how old are you?’ She tried to hang on to Alfie, but he wriggled away on to the bed. ‘Do your bloody
job
.’

‘I have been doing my job,’ Thorne said. ‘How d’you think I put this thing together?
Me
, OK?’

‘Good, well done.’ She spat the sarcasm out. ‘Give yourself a pat on the back, Inspector. Then get your head out of your arse and do the right thing for everybody.’

The child crawled across to Thorne. He reached out a hand and Alfie used it to haul himself to his feet. Thorne held on to him. ‘Do you want me to move back to my place?’

Helen shrugged. ‘Do what you want.’

‘Obviously it’s handier for me to stay here, but if you’d rather I was out of your way…’

‘It’s done now, isn’t it?’ Helen sounded sad and sullen, her eyes on Alfie as he bounced on the bed, still whimpering as he clutched Thorne’s sleeve. ‘So I can’t really see what difference it makes. You’ve told me, so I can’t pretend I don’t know what you’re up to.’

‘I didn’t want to keep on lying.’

‘Oh yes, well done for being honest.’ The anger flashed back into her voice. ‘Now we just have to deal with the huge mess you’ve made.’

‘You don’t have to deal with anything,’ Thorne said.

‘Really?’ She pushed the duvet away, as if she were suddenly hot. ‘Have you any idea of the position you’ve put me in? Do you honestly believe that when this all comes out, and it
is
going to come out… they won’t think that I knew what you were doing? How many careers are you trying to ruin, exactly?’

Thorne had nothing to say, certainly nothing that would help things. He was grateful when Alfie came into the crook of his arm and instinctively he raised his free hand and laid it against the boy’s forehead. ‘He feels a bit hot,’ Thorne said. ‘Maybe he’s got an ear infection or something.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Do you want me to go and fetch the Calpol?’

‘No.’ Helen was already half out of bed and she quickly snatched Alfie up from Thorne’s arms without a word. She looked less than happy when he began to cry even louder.

‘Listen, it wasn’t even my idea to tell you.’

‘Oh, great,’ Helen said.

‘Christ, I can’t win, can I?’

Helen stopped at the doorway, hoisting Alfie a little higher on to her shoulder. ‘No, Tom,’ she said. ‘I really don’t think you can.’

Mercer is a little startled when Jacobson comes round suddenly, coughing and spluttering. He’d been looking around the garage while he was waiting, killing time and struggling to take in all the old rubbish Jacobson has amassed.

Unbelievable…

He’s sitting a few feet away on a metal stool he’s dragged from behind the workbench. He has the plastic bag on his lap and now he’s wearing the thin, plastic gloves that had been stuffed in his pocket. He’s turned the music off.

‘Who the hell collects old lawnmowers?’ he asks.

Jacobson says nothing. He just moans, his hand moving to his shattered nose, and he shuffles back until he’s sitting against the wall. He spends a few seconds trying to work out why he’s wet, what’s dripping from his hair.

He says, ‘Oh, God,’ when he smells the petrol.

‘Handy for me though,’ Mercer says, ‘because I didn’t have to bring any with me in the end. All the petrol anyone could want sloshing about in this load of old junk, isn’t there?’ He sticks a foot out, nudges one of the mowers. ‘I mean, I know everyone needs a hobby and all that. Stamps or trainspotting maybe, but this is just stupid. What’s the point of it?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. He knows he isn’t going to get one, that Jacobson has better things to think about. ‘As it happens a lot of lads take up hobbies inside, but, you know, at least they’ve got an excuse with all that time on their hands. Spending weeks making models, ships in bottles, all that carry-on. Endless boxes of Swan Vestas, just so they can make a scale model of some cathedral or what have you out of matchsticks. Months and months it takes them… years, sometimes. Lovely to look at, I’m not denying it… or at least they are until some nutcase smashes it to bits just because they got a smaller portion of steak and kidney pie in the canteen.’

He shrugs. ‘Waste of bloody time in the end.’

He reaches into his jacket. Says, ‘Talking of matches,’ and takes out a box from his pocket.

He shakes it.

Jacobson says, ‘Oh no… oh, Jesus.’

‘It was such a simple thing I asked you to do, Richard, and now look where we are.’ Mercer smiles. ‘You haven’t got the first idea what I’m on about, have you? You can’t even remember it.’

Jacobson tries to speak, but his words are lost in a fit of spluttering and he reaches up to wipe away the petrol that is running into his eyes.

‘I know you were only a pupil barrister back then, doing all the menial stuff, but that was supposed to include carrying messages backwards and forwards, wasn’t it?’ He opens the matchbox slowly, then quickly shuts it again. ‘Remember a woman called Fiona Daniels? No, course you don’t… well, she was the silly cow behind the counter at the bank in Croydon, the one standing on the other side of a
very
filthy bit of glass, I should add. Coming back now, is it?’

He waits, and Jacobson manages a small nod.

‘Right, well I should probably kick off by letting you know that Mrs Daniels got what was coming to her a couple of weeks ago. All got a bit much for her by all accounts, so out of the blue she just gets up and walks into a reservoir, poor old soul.’ He sits back, his hands together on top of the plastic bag that is still sitting on his lap. ‘Not a bad way to go, I suppose. Compared to some, at any rate.’

Jacobson cries out and throws his head back into the brick wall behind him.

‘Now, all you had to do was make sure they asked Fiona Daniels about that screen. The one she stood behind all day long doling out readies or whatever. Pointed out that it was dirty… cracked as well, let everyone know that she couldn’t possibly have been as certain as she said she was, that her positive identification was hardly positive at all. That was all. Just make sure your boss pulled her up on that, but you never passed it on.’

‘Couldn’t,’ Jacobson croaks.

‘Come again?’

‘It would have……incriminated you.’ The shouting makes Jacobson cough loudly and he turns his head to spit out the blood and the petrol that has leaked into his mouth. ‘Shown you’d been in the bank.’

‘Yeah well, that’s crap for a start. I could have gone in there any time to cash a cheque or something, same as anybody else.’

‘I couldn’t…’’

‘You
didn’t
,’ Mercer says. ‘So, thirty years later, here we are.’ He shakes the matchbox again and now Jacobson struggles to stand up. Mercer comes off the stool fast and moves towards him and Jacobson quickly drops to the floor and begins to cry.

Mercer sits down again and holds up the matchbox.

‘Now, let’s get one thing straight. This
is
going to happen one way or another. There’s no way out of it, so no point whatsoever begging or struggling or generally messing about. Fair enough? But… you do have a choice.’

He takes a battered green folder from the plastic bag, opens it, then leans down to lay the contents out on the floor. He spreads them out carefully in front of Jacobson. ‘You see where I’m going with this?’

Jacobson says, ‘No!’ Screams it.

‘So, you need to have a quick think and make a decision, old son.’ He watches Jacobson move on to his hands and knees, moaning as he reaches towards the things that Mercer has laid out on the floor. ‘That’s right, have a good look at that lot. It’s obvious what they mean, isn’t it? Then have a think about what’s going to happen if you
don’t
do the noble thing and let me know.’

‘Please,’ Jacobson says. ‘Please, please…’

Mercer leans forward and takes a match out of the box. ‘Are you going to strike this thing, or am I?’