TT13 Time of Death (18 page)

A man standing next to Thorne at the bar said, ‘Bastard deserves everything he’s going to get …’

Thorne carried a plate of ham, egg and chips across to an
unoccupied table and got stuck in. Looking up after a few minutes, he realised that the stocky young man in jeans and sweatshirt at the next table was the red-faced PC he had met outside the Police Control Unit the day before. He was drinking with a friend and Thorne was not even sure that the PC had recognised him, but when the friend got up to go to the bar, Thorne left his unfinished meal and moved across.

‘I just wanted to say sorry for being a twat yesterday. Pulling rank.’

The PC didn’t look at him, shrugged. He had clearly clocked Thorne immediately. ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘I’ve had worse.’

‘Be your turn one day.’

‘I can’t wait.’

Thorne lifted his glass. The PC did the same. They drank.

‘Everyone must be pretty chuffed this morning,’ Thorne said.

The PC looked at him for the first time. ‘I don’t know about that.’

Thorne knew the PC was thinking about the parents of the dead girl. That Thorne was an even bigger twat than he’d thought he was. ‘Cornish and the Homicide boys, I mean.’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘You know anything about this fag-end they found?’

‘No more than you.’

Perhaps the young officer had been asking around, but the half-smile said he clearly knew now that Thorne had no official role in the investigation. Both off duty for the time being, they were simply two blokes talking in the pub, which suited Thorne fine. ‘I know bugger all,’ he said. ‘Just making conversation.’

The PC took a few seconds, swilled around what little beer he had left in the bottom of his glass. ‘They’ve got plenty already,’ he said. ‘They found that stuff on his computer almost straight away.’

‘What stuff?’

‘What do you think? Teenage girls.’

Bad as that was, the way the PC had said it, Thorne had been thinking it might be something a lot worse. ‘When you say teenage …’

‘Young girls.’

‘Thirteen, fourteen? Seventeen? What?’

‘I’ve not seen it, have I?’

‘A lot of blokes look at teenage porn.’

‘They don’t all abduct teenage girls though, do they?’

‘Some of the girls on these sites are pretending to be younger than they are. Dressing up as schoolgirls.’

‘I don’t think too many of them bother showing their passports or whatever though, do they?’

‘No …’

‘Anyway, the men looking don’t care how old they are.’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘You seem to know a fair bit about it.’

Thorne stiffened. He had felt guilty for pulling rank on the PC the day before. He wondered how guilty he would feel about smacking him in the face. ‘You said they found it straight away.’

‘What I heard.’

‘So he can’t have tried very hard to hide it, can he?’ Thorne knew that those really seeking to keep their predilections secret took rather more trouble. The most disturbing sites were usually hidden somewhere on the so-called Dark Web and images buried there could only be retrieved with the help of forensic computer specialists. ‘If they were really dodgy, it would have taken a lot longer.’

‘I don’t get it,’ the PC said.

‘What?’

‘Why you’re rubbishing the evidence.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it
is
evidence.’

‘Like you’re defending him.’

‘I’m not.’

Thorne looked up as the PC’s mate arrived back at the table. He deposited two fresh pints and sat down. He nodded to Thorne and Thorne nodded back. The three of them sat in silence for half a minute until Thorne said something about needing to get back to his dinner and moved away.

Fifteen minutes later, Thorne took his empty plate back to the bar and ordered another drink. The girl who served him was probably eighteen or so, but she might have been younger. She could certainly have looked younger if she chose to, just as easily as some fourteen-year-olds could look a lot older. Wasn’t that the most common explanation given for their actions by those who slept with underage girls?

He wondered why he was so bothered about it. Why he was conjuring explanations. Excuses. Perhaps because a liking for teenage girls, however unacceptable, did not make you a murderer.

Thorne paid a visit to the Gents and, on the way back, he stepped outside into the small pub garden and play area. There were lights switched on outside, a couple of tables with benches attached on the patio and a pair of outdoor heaters. On the small patch of grass was a see-saw and swing-set and a grubby-looking plastic playhouse shaped like a large shoe. Thorne tried to remember the nursery rhyme. The old woman who had so many children …

A man with his back to Thorne sat smoking at one of the benches. He had long, curly hair tied back into a ponytail and he wore a black apron over a white T-shirt.

‘Ham, egg and chips was a triumph,’ Thorne said.

The man looked round and raised a thumb. He was a little younger than Thorne was expecting, no more than mid-twenties, with a straggly beard and glasses. ‘That’s the idea,’ he said. ‘We
like a happy customer.’ He was well spoken, with the kind of resonant voice you heard on the radio.

Thorne stepped towards the table. ‘Had the steak and chips yesterday.’

‘My signature dish.’

‘That was pretty good too.’

‘Well, feel free to pass on your praise to the magpie-in-chief. He might feel inclined to give me a raise. Pigs will have to take to the air first of course, but one can but live in hope.’

The sarcasm was relished and topped off with a wolfish, if slightly wonky grin. Thorne could not smell anything, but wondered if there might be something other than tobacco in the chef’s skinny roll-up. He sat down, happy enough to be out of the bar, to breathe in some of the cigarette smoke.

‘Tom Thorne.’

‘Shelley.’ The bracelets rattled on the man’s wrists as he shook Thorne’s hand. Silver, leather, beaded.

‘First name or second?’

‘People just call me Shelley.’ He picked up a book from the table in front of him and held it up. English romantic verse. ‘Not too many people reading poetry round here.’

Thorne reached for the book. He turned it over and looked at the back. Blake, Coleridge, Byron. A picture of a horse. He thought that the man had sounded rather pleased with his nickname and could not help wondering if it was one he had actually given himself.

‘Not something I know a lot about,’ Thorne said. The only poet he had ever seen in the flesh was Pam Ayres. His mum and dad had loved her; that poem about looking after her teeth. They had gone to see her show at some arts centre when Thorne was at school. He decided against mentioning it now.

‘I write a bit too.’

‘A chef who writes poetry?’

‘Other way round, really.’

‘Must be a reality TV show in there somewhere.’

Shelley flashed a quick smile. ‘Just doing this to earn some cash,’ he said. ‘Getting the money together to go back to uni.’ He took a final drag on his roll-up. ‘Didn’t really suit me first time round.’ He flicked what was left of the cigarette into the bushes. ‘Actually, I didn’t suit
them
.’

‘I didn’t go at all,’ Thorne said. Something he regretted now and again and was often made to feel bad about by senior officers a lot younger than he was. Fast-tracked with impressive-sounding degrees. ‘So …’

‘University of life.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Nothing wrong with it.’ The young man smiled again; like he was saying something amusing that nobody else was quite bright enough to get.

‘You got a place in town, then?’

The chef shook his head and pointed towards a pair of single-storey outhouses at the rear of the play area. In the spill from the garden lights, they were black against the charcoal sky. Thorne could see rubbish bins lined up in front of them, a pair of bicycles. ‘Lord and Lady Magpie generously provide accommodation for some of their staff. Means they can pay us a bit less.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s basically a shed with a sink, but it does the job.’ He reached for his book again, patted it gently. ‘As long as I’ve got these, I’ll be fine. You know what they say. Books do furnish a room.’

Thorne thought that furniture furnished a room, but said nothing.

Shelley sat back and took out a tin from the pocket of his apron. He removed tobacco and papers and set about rolling himself another cigarette. ‘So, what’s your game then?’ There was a trace of a mockney accent as he asked the question.

‘I’m a copper,’ Thorne said.

‘Ah.’ The chef nodded, knowingly. ‘Well, there’s a lot more coppers than poets round here at the moment, that’s for sure.’

‘I’m not working,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m just here with a friend.’

Shelley seemed to find that funny. ‘Bit of a busman’s holiday.’

‘Not my idea, I promise you.’

Shelley licked the edge of a rolling paper. ‘So, just an interested party, then?’

A couple came out on to the patio, noise leaking from the bar until the door closed behind them. They carried drinks across to one of the other tables and sat down. They held hands and began talking quietly.

Shelley watched them. ‘Young love,’ he said. ‘Sweet.’

Thorne was starting to get a little cold.

‘So, what do you think about evil?’

‘Sorry?’ Thorne had heard well enough, but was taken aback by the grinding gear-change. The casual manner of the question.

‘Just wondering if you believed in it? What’s going on here for a start. You believe the man responsible is evil?’

It took Thorne a good few seconds. ‘Well, I think you can describe what he’s
done
as evil … but I think the people that do this stuff are just greedy or twisted or sick in the head. Not sure “evil” is the right word. Not sure it does us any favours. If it helps, I don’t really believe people are naturally
good
either.’

‘Interesting,’ Shelley said.

‘Is it?’

The chef popped the completed roll-up in the tin and put it back in his apron pocket. ‘I was thinking I might write about what’s happening, you know? Missing girls and bodies in the woods. I think somebody
should
write about it.’

Thorne stared at him.

‘Poets have always written about good and evil, life and death. It’s what we do. I mean, it’s basic, isn’t it? Primal.’

Thorne nodded, thinking about Pam Ayres not looking after her teeth.

‘Walter Raleigh said, “All men are evil and will declare themselves to be so when occasion is offered.”’

‘The potato bloke.’

‘He was also a poet.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

Shelley smiled, like he hadn’t expected him to. ‘He’s saying it’s in all of us, somewhere.’ He held out his arms, waiting for the profundity to sink in. “Murder is an act quite easy to be contemplated.”’

‘Who said that?’ Thorne asked.

‘Emerson.’

‘What did Lake and Palmer think about it?’ Thorne waited, enjoying the fact that it was the chef’s turn to look confused.

‘Right then.’ Shelley got to his feet and stretched. ‘Better go and clean up, I suppose. Chief cook and bottle-washer.’ He nodded back towards the pub. ‘They certainly like to get their money’s worth.’

Thorne followed Shelley back inside. As they stepped into the hallway outside the toilets, the young girl who had served Thorne earlier came out of the Ladies. She smiled at him, then blushed slightly when she saw Shelley. The chef arched an eyebrow at Thorne, then carried on towards the kitchen, clutching his precious poetry book.

Thorne walked back into the main bar. It was a little less busy than it had been, those who had stopped in for a quick one after work having left to eat at home. There was still no word from Helen, so Thorne decided there was probably time for another drink. He took a ten-pound note from his wallet and waved to attract the attention of the young girl who was back serving again.

Just an interested party, then?

And getting more so all the time.

The girl behind the bar nodded, to let Thorne know he’d be next.

He waited, asking himself why he had felt the need to explain his lack of involvement in the case; if it had sounded as feeble to the poetry-reading chef as it had coming out of Thorne’s mouth. Why he had talked to that PC and why the man’s accusations about questioning the evidence against Stephen Bates had hit home as they had.

He was thinking about the woods.

Those dog-walkers …

He still enjoyed the music he’d loved when he was fourteen or fifteen; had never really grown out of it. He supported the same football team he’d shouted for back then too, and liked the same food.

Nothing strange about any of that, was there?

He’d started fancying girls like Jessica and Poppy around the same time, earlier even, back when he was twelve or thirteen. The girls a year or two above him at school. Most of the time they knocked about with older lads, wouldn’t give him the time of day, but he would watch them gathered together; whispering in the playground or exchanging gossip in the dinner hall. He would watch and find that he wasn’t breathing quite so easily and imagine what it would be like to do it with them. At night, fumbling beneath the duvet in the dark, he would construct each detail of it nice and carefully; what they would say to him, when and where it would happen. The very best part,
always
, was imagining that they found it every bit as exciting as he did, as much of an adventure.

Showing a younger boy like him the ropes.

Wasn’t that absolutely normal? Wasn’t that what kids his age thought about? He knew it was, knew very well that most of the boys his age felt exactly the same way, because they told him. Hormones kicking in and going mental all over the place. Doing the same thing he was,
thinking
the same things every night.

So, why should it be so normal to grow out of it? To stop thinking about girls that age when you got older. You fancied who you fancied, surely, and who the hell defined these things, anyway? He knew some men, older than he was, who liked to think about doing it with middle-aged women; who specifically looked for those sorts of women online. MILFs or what have you.
GILFs
, even. He remembered one bloke telling him about some granny-porn website he’d been looking at and saying it was more of a turn-on because it was a bit more realistic. It was far more exciting, he said, because it was more … achievable.