Part 34 (1/2)
”Thing is, I don't know if the image I've got in my mind is accurate or not? I don't know whether I'm remembering this bloke or if I'm imagining him. Now that I know what he did, you know?”
”We need to get you to a station as soon as we can,” Thorne said. ”Start trying to put an e-fit together.”
”If I hadn't talked to him, Terry Turner would still be alive, wouldn't he?”
Thorne looked away. ”I should have put all this together a lot quicker, Bren.”
”If I hadn't told him where you were supposed to be sleeping . . .”
The phone buzzed in Thorne's hand.
The information-room WPC told him that there were two T. Morleys serving in the Met. ”So I got on to both borough personnel offices.”
”Thank you,” Thorne said.
”Standard procedure. One's on a Murder Squad in Wimbledon. The other's a relief sergeant in Barnet. He's the one that's got a crime report attached to his records. Trevor Morley-”
”Crime report?”
”He's not actually been back at work that long. He was mugged in a pub car park three months ago. Nasty attack, fractured his skull . . .”
Thorne didn't need her to tell him that the mugger had never been caught. Or that, among other things, Sergeant Trevor Morley's warrant card had been stolen during the attack. He didn't need to tell her that the warrant card would have been the reason Morley had been attacked in the first place.
He thanked the WPC for her help. She told him she'd pa.s.s a report to the information room's chief inspector, who might well need to get in touch with him. Thorne said that would be fine before he hung up.
”Not a real copper,” Thorne said. ”He was using stolen ID.”
The information didn't seem to make Brendan Maxwell feel any better. ”It had his photo in it.”
”Easy enough to paste in. How closely did you look?”
Maxwell shook his head. About as closely as anybody looked at anything.
”Whether you're remembering his face or imagining it, we still need to get you somewhere and get it down. I'll call someone and get it sorted.”
”I don't know how much detail I can give anyone.”
Thorne started pressing b.u.t.tons on his phone, searching for Brigstocke's number on the memory. ”Just start with the general stuff,” he said. ”Height, build, coloring . . .”
”He was big. Six foot two or three, and well built. He looked pretty fit.”
”Hair?”
”Medium, I suppose, fairly neat. And he had a beard. Not ginger, but sandy-ish. He was that kind of coloring. Light-skinned . . . blue eyes, I think . . . and maybe a bit freckly, you know?”
Thorne knew.
He felt that rare, yet familiar, tickle of excitement. The shuddery spider crawl of it at the nape of his neck, moving beneath the hair and the collar of his dirty gray coat. ”Do you recycle?” he asked.
Maxwell looked and sounded confused. ”Yes . . .”
”Where?”
”Out by the wheely bins.”
Maxwell opened his mouth to say something else, but Thorne was already on his feet and moving toward the door.
THIRTY-THREE.
f.u.c.ked-up weather and busybodies. Jason Mackillop reckoned they were both about as British as you could get.
It was one of those bizarre, early-autumn afternoons that couldn't make up its mind: suns.h.i.+ne, wind, and rain in a random sequence every half an hour or so. Now it was spitting gently, and Mackillop stared through the streaked windscreen at the man with the plastic carrier bags, who was walking toward the car and staring back with undisguised curiosity.
Stone had called a few minutes earlier to say that he was running late. Mackillop had heard the grin in Stone's voice; the implication that it was all due to his phenomenal staying power. Now Mackillop would be sitting there like a lemon for another twenty minutes or more . . .
The man carrying the plastic bags walked a few yards past the target address, then stopped and came back. He stared until he caught Mackillop's eye. He adjusted the grip on each bag and took slow steps toward the car.
Mackillop leaned on the switch. He let the window slide down as far as possible without letting in the drizzle.
”Can I help you?” the man said.
Mackillop had been about to ask much the same question. He reached into his jacket, produced his warrant card. ”No, I'm fine, thank you.”
The man gave a small nod, hummed a reaction, but showed little inclination to move.
”Do you live there?” Mackillop asked.
”Yes, I do.” He turned and stared back at the house, then spun back around to Mackillop. ”It's four flats, actually.”
”I know.”
”I think they made a nice job of the conversion.”
”Right . . .”
The man looked round at the house again. ”I've not lived there for very long, mind you.”
Mackillop decided that it couldn't hurt to get a bit of background information while he was waiting for Stone to show up. The man seemed keen enough to help. ”Do you know a Mr. Mahmoud?”
”I'm not sure.”
Mackillop fished under the newspaper on the pa.s.senger seat, pulled out his page of notes. ”Asif Mahmoud . . .”
”What does he look like?”
”He's the tenant on the ground floor.”