Thorne became aware of what sounded suspiciously like chuckling on the line. ‘Is this the EastEnders crack? Are you laughing at your own jokes again, Hendricks?’

‘One of us has to.’

‘Good. I was hoping this would cheer you up a bit. I presume you do still need cheering up. You’ve not really given much away.’

Back when Thorne had first called, Hendricks had sounded reluctant to say a great deal about the Brendan situation. Now, as then, he seemed keen to talk about almost anything else. Just a grunt or two. A muted ‘y’know’ before a grinding change of subject.

‘How’s the back holding up?’

Thorne rubbed his calf. ‘If anything, it’s my bloody leg more than my back.’

‘I’ve told you, it sounds like you’ve herniated the disc. You really need to get it sorted.’

‘Not a lot of time at the minute.’

‘It’s a phantom pain in the leg, you know that, don’t you? Where the disc’s pressing on the sciatic nerve. Your brain’s being told your leg hurts, but there’s nothing really wrong with it.’

‘Hang on…’ Thorne took a fast mouthful of lager. As time wore on, it was finally starting to taste of something. ‘I thought it was the brain that did the telling.’

‘Some parts of the body shout a bit louder than others,’ Hendricks said. ‘And of course, there’s one or two with minds of their own.’

The cat wandered in from the kitchen, grumbled and was ignored.

Thorne sat there, thinking that although the ‘part’ Hendricks was talking about – Thorne’s part at any rate – had been fairly subdued for a while, it had started speaking up for itself rather more than usual in the last couple of days.

She was happy enough about it herself, but she knew Conrad would be utterly thrilled that things were finally moving. That it would all be sorted very soon. He was in the bedroom talking to the boy, but she’d tell him as soon as he came out. They’d need to get themselves together, get ready to make a move.

The spoonful she’d been cooking up when the phone had started to ring would balance her out a little…

She’d screened the call, just as she’d been doing ever since they’d got back to the flat on Friday after the pick-up. All part of keeping their heads down, quiet as mice, and it was mostly people phoning up trying to sell shit, anyway. They’d given the kid enough stuff to knock out a horse as soon as they’d had the chance: the minute she’d driven far enough away from the school, pulled over and let Conrad in. Then they’d waited until it was dark and carried him inside, wrapped in the cheap picnic blanket they’d bought from Halford’s and stashed in the boot. They’d made sure there was lots of food and booze in, so there was no need to go out, no need to talk to anybody. All they’d had to do was sit and wait it out, and now they were on the last leg.

She’d screened the call… then, as soon as she’d recognised the voice, she’d grabbed at the phone, picked up and listened.

She was relieved, and pleased, that it looked like working out, looked like nobody was going to get hurt. She’d always insisted on that, even when they were pulling the hold-up thing. Nobody should get badly hurt if it could be avoided. She thought that this side of her, the side that wanted everyone to come out of a situation OK, said something good about her character. Something to be proud of. After all, with everything she’d been through, the shitty stuff she’d had to deal with when she was a girl, it would have been understandable if she’d turned into a vicious, vindictive cow; if she’d wanted others to feel pain just to make herself feel better. She knew people like that, and she despised them. No, she just wanted to have a good time and get enough of whatever she needed; to forget about all the bad stuff. And, while she was doing that, she was always happier when no one else was suffering. Not through any fault of hers, anyway. There’d been the odd idiot who hadn’t played along, of course; there were always accidents. And there was that dealer she’d asked Conrad to sort out, but lowlife like him didn’t count and deserved everything they got.

When bad things happened to bad people, she thought, there wasn’t a whole lot to get upset about.

The boy, Luke, wasn’t a bad person, and he didn’t deserve any of what was happening to him, she was aware of that. He was just the means to make the money; he was their fake gun. She thanked God that, all being well, he would come out of it in one piece, none the worse.

Conrad had not been so certain, had said, ‘Yes, but don’t forget what he might go through later on. Don’t forget about what could happen mentally’.

She’d turned, inched her body away from his, and pointed out that she was hardly likely to forget that.

Now, she was feeling a lot mellower, more forgiving. She sensed that she was starting to roll and relax, wondered if maybe she should tie the boy’s hands again as things were going to start happening soon. Get him ready to go. Then, from nowhere, as the drug took her down, she began to imagine herself and Luke meeting up in ten years or so. They would run into each other at some trendy party or club and it would all be really nice. He’d be relaxed and pleased to see her. He’d be keen to tell her that it was all right, that, as it happened, he’d had a bit of a crush on her back then in that flat, and that a few sweaty nightmares were a small price to pay for a whole lot of perspective. She’d tell whoever she was with that Luke and her were old friends, and it would be cool as they shared a slow dance…

She was only dimly aware of Conrad coming into the room as she drifted away, Luke’s arms around her neck, and his voice in her ear, thanking her for passing on her gift to him, for giving him a skin that little bit thicker than other people’s.

Half-past stupid in the morning, his third day into it, and the sun had struggled up just a little later than Tom Thorne…

Its overnight absence had slowed things down, had seriously reduced the rate at which much-needed information could efficiently be gathered. It didn’t matter how important your case was, how many bodies had been discovered, how imminent the threat to life and limb, who had been kidnapped. The simple fact was that most people, most civilians, at any rate, tended to knock off at five o’clock. Obtaining crucial intelligence outside office hours was always difficult. Gaining vital access to any secure or private database – at a local authority housing association, the DSS, Barclay’s Bank or Virgin Mobile – was pretty much a lottery for as long as the M25 remained empty. It was often a question of tracking down a contact number for the person unlucky enough to be manning a twenty-four-hour emergency desk. Or the name of the really poor bastard who was going to get dragged out of bed in the middle of the night.

Finding an address for their main suspect had taken the Kidnap Unit four hours, and had come down in the end to Conrad Allen’s love of cars.

Via M-CRAC, the remote-access search facility, officers had been able to access the CRIMINT system at Mile End and pull up all the details of Allen’s original arrest in 2002. Running the number plate of his car through the national computer revealed that the vehicle had been sold the year before. The student who’d bought it – and who was still awake, honing his PlayStation skills – remembered Conrad Allen; remembered him describing in great detail the type of car he’d be buying next. An hour later, the owner of a small dealership in Wood Green was being asked to get up, get dressed and accompany the police to his less than organised office, where he grudgingly waded through a pile of less-than-kosher sales receipts. The dealer was naturally keen to help and go back to bed and, when prompted by a picture, he vaguely remembered Allen and the ‘fit-looking blonde bird’ who had been with him when he’d strolled on to the car lot. His memory of the car itself was better: he was able to give virtually every detail of the diamond-white Ford Scorpio 2.9i, its 24-valve Cosworth V6 engine and, rather more importantly, the address he’d delivered it to, after he’d banked the £1,200 in cash.