The Dying Hours (4 page)

‘He made me feel like such a twat,’ Thorne said. He smacked his palm against the fridge door, then turned to Helen who was sitting at the kitchen table, feeding Alfie his lunch. When she looked up at him, Thorne recognised the expression. ‘OK, like even more of a twat.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘God knows.’

‘Seriously.’

‘I know,’ Thorne said. ‘It was stupid.’ He traipsed across and dropped into the seat opposite her. At the end of the table, Alfie was spitting out more than he was eating and happily smearing orange mush across the plastic tray of his high chair. ‘Really… stupid.’

‘Yeah, well it’s easy with hindsight, isn’t it?’ Helen leaned across to scoop a spoonful of orange mush – carrot? Sweet potato? – back into Alfie’s mouth. ‘So, there’s no need to beat yourself up about it.’

Thorne said, ‘Yeah, I know,’ thinking: Since when did ‘need’ have anything to do with it. Of course, in hindsight, he
should
probably have thought things through a little more before marching across that bridge and trying to tell someone like Hackett what he should be doing. Not that any amount of thinking would have made too much difference in the end. Because Thorne had known from the moment Christine Treasure had told him to let it go, that he could not.

‘Come on, let’s get you sorted out.’

Thorne had been staring down at the table and looked up, but he saw that Helen was talking to her son. He passed her a few feet of kitchen towel from the roll on the table and watched as she cleaned Alfie’s face and wiped away the mess on his chair. Thorne moved to stand up.

‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’

Thorne nodded, grateful, and sat back down. He had not got to bed until just before nine and had barely managed four hours’ sleep before waking and finding himself unable to get off again; trudging into the kitchen like a zombie in pyjama bottoms and a Hank Williams T-shirt.

‘One thing you might want to ask yourself though,’ Helen said. She put the dishes into the sink and tossed the dirty bib on to the worktop.

‘What?’

‘Well… going in there like that, stirring things up—’

‘I wasn’t stirring anything up.’

‘OK.’ She smiled. ‘Whatever you call it.’ She walked back to the table and lifted Alfie out of the high chair. ‘Was it because you honestly still believe there was something iffy about that suicide the other night? Or was it really just because you were pissed off at being ignored?’

Thorne shook his head.

‘Tom…⁠?’

He had told Helen some of what Hackett had said to him. The lecture about making choices, the gleefully sarcastic comments about what had happened in that newsagent’s five months before. He hadn’t bothered to pass on Hackett’s final words of wisdom.

The line that had stung more than anything else.

Stop playing detective
.

‘Look, it would be perfectly understandable.’

‘Understandable or not,’ Thorne said, ‘that isn’t what’s going on.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at her. ‘I’m sure about that.’

‘Juice,’ Alfie said. ‘Juice.’

Thorne watched Helen put Alfie down and walk across to the fridge. ‘Is that what you really think?’ he asked.

‘I’m just saying you need to ask yourself that question, that’s all.’ She reached into the fridge, her back to him. ‘Look, I’m not saying I blame you.’

Thorne pushed his chair back hard. ‘Oh, good.’ He stood up. ‘And yes, I
still
think it’s bloody iffy, OK?’

Helen turned, shaking the small carton of juice in her hand. She was still smiling, but suddenly her voice had a little less colour in it. ‘Maybe you should go back to bed. I’m taking Alfie down to the playgroup, so we won’t disturb you. With any luck you’ll get up in a better mood.’

Thorne was already on his way.

He waited until he heard Helen go out, then sat up and propped a pillow behind his head. He had made a note of all the numbers he thought he might need before leaving the station. Now, he unfolded the piece of paper on which he’d scribbled everything down, set his open laptop on the bed next to him and reached for his phone.

As offices went, this was certainly the cosiest Thorne had ever worked in.

Assuming that the deaths of John and Margaret Cooper were not the suicides they appeared to be – and whatever had told Thorne that was the case still refused to make itself known to him – it was safe to say that their two children were not serious suspects. Both were in their fifties, with children of their own. The son, Andrew, had been in Edinburgh at the time of his parents’ deaths and his sister, Paula, lived in Leicester. Both were now staying at a hotel in London while making the funeral arrangements, and when Thorne called Andrew Cooper’s mobile he was able to speak to each of them in turn.

He passed on his sympathies and assured them that having spoken to the pathologist, their parents would not have suffered. That it would have been over quickly. Each of them told him how shocked they were. Stunned, they both said. Their parents had both been in relatively good health, had seemed well and happy, and nobody in the family would ever have expected something like this.

‘The
last
thing…’

The more Thorne heard, the more certain he became and the less bothered by his own subterfuge; the fact that he was not calling them for altogether benign reasons.

‘I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your plate,’ he said to Paula. ‘But have you managed to talk to everybody that needs to be informed? I mean, it’s probably the last thing you want to think about, but presuming there was a will… I just wondered if you’d spoken to your parents’ solicitor?’

It
was
the last thing either of them was thinking about, she told him and when Thorne offered to do it for them, she said there was really no need. She said she did not know this was the sort of thing the police did for bereaved families. ‘It’s not going to be complicated anyway,’ she said. ‘It’s only me and Andrew and it’s not like it’s a fortune or anything.’

Thorne felt no more than a twinge of guilt when she thanked him for calling.

‘We just have no idea
why
,’ she said, before she hung up.

Paula had been talking about why her parents would have wanted to take their own lives, but lying there, studying the pattern of cracks on the bedroom ceiling, Thorne was equally lost when it came to why anyone would want to murder them and make it appear that way.

It was certainly not about money. It was not a burglary gone wrong and it was not done in a hurry, or in a rage.

The bedroom was tidy.

Nothing had been disturbed.

So what was wrong with the picture?
 

The last thing – always the last thing – to be considered was that there simply
was
no clear motive of any sort; nothing that Thorne had come across before, at any rate. Margaret and John Cooper might have died for no other reason than that specific to the individual who had killed them. If this was the case – and more than anything, Thorne hoped that it was not – then another possibility would need to be considered that was altogether more disturbing.

That whoever killed them had done so simply because it was enjoyable.

Thorne looked up another number and dialled.

‘It’s Tom,’ he said, when the call was answered. When the woman at the other end of the phone did not respond immediately, he added, ‘Thorne,’ then said, ‘Are you busy?’

Elly Kennedy was a civilian intelligence analyst based at the Peel Centre in Colindale, in an office just along the corridor from the one Thorne had worked in. The two of them had flirted on and off for a while and there had once been some drunken fumbling at a party. Thorne had not spoken to her for over a year.

She laughed. ‘Well, I might have known it wasn’t a social call.’

‘Can you speak?’

‘Meaning, can anyone hear me? No, go on, you’re fine…’

Thorne told her what he needed her to look for and gave her some hastily thought out parameters.

‘Bloody hell, you don’t want much, do you?’

‘I know, and I’m sorry to be asking, but I really couldn’t think of anyone better.’ This was true, but only because her job gave her access to a wide range of both police and civil databases. All the same, Thorne was hoping that shameless flattery would do the trick.

‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘I’m on a break, so I
might
be able to get something to you soonish.’

‘That would be great.’

‘Once I’ve finished this Kit Kat, obviously.’

‘Thanks, Elly,’ Thorne said.

‘So, how are you?’

Thorne guessed that she was really asking if he was seeing anyone, but he did not think it would help his cause to give a straight answer. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Getting on with it.’

‘Not going mental, stuck down there with the Woodies?’

‘It’s not too bad,’ he lied.

‘Well, if I come up with anything, maybe you can buy me a drink to say thank you.’

Thorne promised that he would and asked Elly to write down his private email address. The significance of Thorne not wanting her to use his @met.police address was clearly not lost on her.

‘Better make that dinner,’ she said.

Thorne opened his eyes, and for several seconds was uncertain where he was. What manner of policeman he was. Later, he would feel more than a little guilty at the disappointment of realising he was not in his own bed. But those few precious moments before the cold wash of remembrance – what had happened to him, what he had lost – were something he would cling on to until it was all over.

It was nearly five o’clock and Saturday was darkening beyond the bedroom window. He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. He could not hear anyone in the flat, so he reached for his phone and called Helen.

‘I went out for coffee with some of the other mums,’ she said.

‘Oh, OK.’

‘Did you get some sleep?’

‘Yeah… only just woke up.’ He wasn’t sure if Helen had stayed out to leave him undisturbed or to get away from his bad mood. Either way, he realised that he should probably be saying sorry.

‘I won’t be too long,’ she said. ‘Alfie’s tired.’ Thorne could hear the boy grizzling in the background. ‘Listen, I’d better go…’

When he tossed his mobile down, Thorne noticed the laptop on the other side of the bed. He got up, pulled on a dressing gown and carried the computer through to the kitchen, remembering that it had been the noise of email arriving in his inbox that had woken him.

He made himself some tea and went to work.

Picking what had sounded like a reasonable time frame, he had asked Elly Kennedy to go back three months and to search for any cases in the Greater London area. He had told her to concentrate on suicide victims aged seventy and above and to look out most especially for any instances involving couples. Though she had found none that directly mirrored the Coopers, she had been able to access enough key sources to gather information on a dozen or so cases she thought Thorne might be interested in. He was looking for the relevant information in police and coroner’s reports, transcripts from the inquest where there had been one and, most importantly, statements from family members. She had sent the files across relatively quickly and it became clear that there had not been enough time to weed out every case that did not quite fit the bill.

The attachment took almost five minutes to download.

Thorne read carefully through all the material Elly had sent, discarding any instances where there was clear evidence of serious physical illness or depression. He also discounted those where the victim had recently lost loved ones or was living in isolation. He knew there would always be occasions where family, friends and social services had simply not paid close enough attention to suicide indicators, but he still believed that the totally unforeseen and inexplicable cases would stand out.

After more than an hour, he was left with two.

A seventy-one-year-old man from Hounslow had slit his wrists in the bath a fortnight before. The week before that, a seventy-year-old woman from Hendon had left her house in the middle of the night and walked into the Brent reservoir.

In both cases, the deceased had appeared happy and healthy before their deaths, and the families had said much the same things Thorne had heard from Andrew Cooper and his sister.

He would never have done anything like that
.

She’d just booked a holiday, for heaven’s sake
.

It doesn’t make any sense
…

Thorne read through all the documentation one more time and nothing that he saw could convince him that these grieving sons and daughters were wrong.

By the time Thorne was putting his recently acquired reading glasses back in their case, it was after six. He turned on the TV to check the football scores and was happy to see that Spurs had turned Sunderland over at the Stadium of Light. Better yet, Arsenal had only scraped a draw. It was more than an hour since he’d spoken to Helen and, as they were still not back, he could only assume that Alfie had perked up. Thorne was ravenous, and wondered if she might fancy a takeaway when she eventually got back. He was midway through sending her a text suggesting exactly that when his phone rang.

‘Did you get everything?’ Elly Kennedy asked.

Thorne told her that he had just finished reading it and thanked her again.

‘Listen, bearing in mind what you’re after, I thought you might be interested in an odd one that came in earlier today. I only just saw it, so—’

‘What?’

‘Hang on.’

Thorne could hear the keyboard clicks as she called up the appropriate screen.

‘Seventy-three-year-old male. Suspected suicide by overdose and exit bag… nice and thorough… and there are Murder Squad detectives already on the scene. So, something sounds dodgy, doesn’t it?’

Thorne reached up to scratch at the back of his neck; a strange yet familiar tickle. ‘Where?’

‘Stanmore,’ Elly said. ‘Some of your old lot, I think.’

Thorne wrote down the address and hurried through to the bedroom to get dressed. As he scrambled back into the same clothes he’d come home in that morning, he tried to formulate what would be the perfect opening line for DCI Neil Hackett when he called him.

‘
Looks like I won’t be opening that pub just yet
,’ or ‘
Fancy coming out to play detective with me?
’

Perhaps not, but he would think of something.

Hackett was there before him. Thorne watched the man ease himself slowly out of a BMW that was considerably newer than his own as he pulled up. The DCI had been at Lewisham station when Thorne had called, so could not have got to Stanmore that much ahead of him. Nevertheless, an apology seemed like a good idea.

‘Traffic was bad,’ Thorne said.

Hackett grunted and shoved his hands down into the pockets of a long black overcoat;
de rigueur
for the stylish DCI about town, though Thorne had never seen one in quite this size before. ‘Still not sure what I’m doing here,’ he said. He did not give Thorne the chance to answer and instead nodded past the two patrol cars towards the pair of uniformed officers standing outside the house. ‘Whatever the hell’s going on in there, it’s the wrong side of the river for us anyway.’ There was the first hint of a cold smile. ‘Your old stamping ground.’

‘I’m not convinced what happened to the Coopers was a one-off,’ Thorne said.

‘No?’

‘I think there might be at least two more.’

‘Two more suicides that aren’t really suicides?’

‘Two more cases that should be looked at again at the very least.’

‘All this based on what, exactly?’ Hackett asked. ‘Nothing even a moron would call evidence, I know that much.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Oh, yes of course… sorry, I forgot… we should all just go ahead and allocate money and manpower and waste every bugger’s time based on you thinking that something isn’t “right”. He turned his face away from the wind. ‘Good luck with that.’

Thorne looked at the house. The officers on duty outside looked bored to death. He pointed. ‘This is nothing to do with me, is it?’

‘Sod all to do with me either, far as I can work out.’

‘Look, somebody in there thought it was worth calling the ’tecs in, didn’t they? So there’s obviously something dodgy gone on.’ Thorne was struggling to sound assertive while keeping his temper. ‘If it
isn’t
a suicide, then it might well have
everything
to do with you, because there’s every chance it’s connected to our case the other night.’

‘Your case,’ Hackett said. ‘Uniform’s case.’

‘Not if I’m right.’

Hackett nodded, the hint of that smile again. ‘And if that turns out to be the case, Inspector, I shall of course be very grateful that you called me.’

Thorne stared at him, waiting for the smile to become a smirk; some sign that Hackett was taking the piss. He didn’t see one.

The DCI gestured towards the house. Said, ‘On we go, then.’ He walked straight across the small garden to the open front door, ignoring the officers outside it and stopping on the threshold; inviting Thorne to enter the house ahead of him.

Thorne muttered a ‘Thanks.’

There were more uniforms inside. Thorne produced his warrant card and was pointed upstairs. Walking up, he became aware of a smell he recognised, something sweet and similar to one he’d encountered at the Coopers’. He had not been the only one. Back at the station that night, someone had said, ‘Cats, I bet. Crinklies always have loads of cats, don’t they?’ Somebody else had laughed and said, ‘Bloody hell, don’t tell Two-Cats. He’ll be round the nearest old people’s home with his truncheon…’

It wasn’t cats. Thorne had owned one for many years and knew only too well what cat piss smelled like. This was not unpleasant, like old furniture and soap. Lavender, maybe.

Wasn’t that what his mother had worn? That or Parma Violet…

Thorne could see the body through the open bedroom door and when he stepped inside he saw two detectives standing by the window, drinking tea and laughing. One of them turned, saw Thorne and said, ‘Bloody hell.’ Thorne was aware that Hackett had entered the room and was leaning against the wall behind him.

‘Hello, Dave,’ Thorne said.

DS Dave Holland was someone with whom Thorne had worked closely for almost ten years. Thorne had watched as the shine was taken off him day by day; seen him graduate from floppy-haired, wide-eyed new boy to an officer whose approach to the realities of the Job was now every bit as practical as his haircut.

Holland was understandably surprised to see Thorne and said as much.

‘It’s complicated,’ Thorne said. He could picture the smile forming on the face of the man behind him. ‘This might tie in with something at my place, that’s all.’

Holland seemed happy enough not to ask any more and introduced Thorne to the DC he was working with. The woman nodded a greeting.

‘What’s the story?’ Thorne asked. He took a few steps towards the bed.

Holland moved to join him, nodded towards the body. ‘Topped himself, guv…’ He stopped, a little embarrassed at the slip of the tongue, and Thorne saw him glance towards Hackett. ‘But same as you said… it’s complicated.’

The old man was sitting up, a pale-blue pillow propped vertically behind him. His face was somewhat obscured by the plastic bag over his head; the ‘exit bag’ that Elly Kennedy had mentioned. The bag was partially steamed up and pasted to one side of his face. Vomit had spattered the inside of it and was gathered at the bottom, leaking in thin trails where the bag was tied around the man’s neck with what looked like the cord from a dressing gown.

There was an open bottle of tablets on the bedside table.

‘Who called it in?’ Thorne asked.

‘The wife,’ Holland said. He nodded back towards the door. ‘She’s in the spare room with DI Kitson.’

‘Yvonne’s here?’ Another close colleague until a few months before.

Holland nodded. ‘It’s the wife that’s the problem.’

On cue, Thorne heard a door close along the corridor and a few moments later, Yvonne Kitson appeared in the doorway. She stopped and took in the scene. ‘Tom? Are you…⁠?’

Hackett spoke without looking at her. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘What’s the problem with the wife?’ Thorne asked.

Clearly a little thrown by Thorne’s presence, Kitson stepped into the room, picking up the mug of tea or coffee that she had left on top of a cupboard. ‘Well, she’s not saying she helped him do it, but she admits being here when it happened. So, not assisted suicide as such, but you never know, the CPS might see things differently. The law’s all over the bloody place with stuff like this, but I think we’ll just have to arrest her and see what happens.’

‘Waste of bloody time,’ Holland said.

Now Thorne knew why detectives had been called in. He felt as though he’d just driven fast over a hump-backed bridge.

‘I know,’ Kitson said. ‘But we’re here because we have to be.’ She cradled her mug and stared down at the old man. ‘Stomach cancer, apparently. She said they’d been talking about doing it for ages. Said that he’d begged her.’

‘The things we do for love,’ Hackett said. ‘Fantastic song, that.’

When Thorne turned and saw the look on the man’s face, he suddenly understood that Hackett had known exactly what to expect; that he had come into the house before Thorne had arrived. It explained why Holland and the others had not bothered to acknowledge him, why Hackett had been content to stand back and watch as Thorne was made to look and feel like an idiot.

Thorne could see just how much Hackett had enjoyed it.

‘We’ll be off then,’ Hackett said. He looked at Thorne then turned towards the door. ‘Maybe you’d like to walk me to my car…’

Thorne walked a few steps behind Hackett, who took more time on the stairs than even a man his size might need and stopped to exchange a few pleasantries with the officers outside the front door. Nobody spoke until they were almost at Hackett’s car. He pressed the remote to unlock the door, then said, ‘Happy?’

‘Look, I wasn’t the one who called Homicide in,’ Thorne said. ‘I was only going on what I’d been told and it seemed to fit. Obviously, I’m sorry it didn’t turn out like that.’

Hackett waved the apology away. ‘Don’t be sorry, Inspector. I honestly can’t remember the last time I had that much fun.’

Thorne nodded, noticing how bad the man’s teeth were when he smiled, and wondering whether a punch or a kick in the bollocks would put him down first.

‘More to this job than having fun though.’ Hackett’s smile vanished. ‘So, let’s make sure that’s the last time I hear so much as a whisper about dodgy suicides, all right? Stick to burglaries and arresting drunks, and next time you come across that bridge, it better be because you’ve got lost. Fair enough?’

Thorne swallowed and said that it was.

‘Seriously, the wrong side of me is not where you want to be.’ Hackett opened the car door and heaved himself inside. ‘I might be a fat bastard, but I am far from fucking jolly.’