Bloodline by Mark Billingham Read Free Book Online

get?’
    â€˜Sorry, I’m not with you,’ Thorne said.
    Walker seemed confused. He looked at Holland, who shook his head to indicate that he was every bit as in the dark.
    â€˜Oh, I thought you must have known,’ Walker said. ‘My wife’s mother was murdered herself, fifteen years ago. Emily’s maiden name was Sharpe.’
    Thorne could do no more than say ‘sorry’ again. As a matter of course, Emily Walker’s name had been run through the CRIMINT system to see if she had a criminal history, but there was nothing on record. A tragedy in her family’s past would certainly not have been considered relevant criminal intelligence.
    Walker was still looking from Thorne to Holland and back, as though he were expecting the name he had mentioned to be recognised. He reached for his jacket and, when he spoke, it was clear he was well used to what he was saying being the end of a conversation.
    â€˜She was one of Raymond Garvey’s.’
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    They watched Walker’s taxi pull away, and began walking in the other direction, back towards the Peel Centre. It wasn’t quite ten yet. The morning was mild, but there was the lightest drizzle in the air.
    â€˜I made a call before he came in,’ Holland said. ‘He was back at school by two. Didn’t leave until a quarter to five. I can talk to Hendricks again if you like, double-check to see if he’s sure about the timings.’
    â€˜Don’t bother,’ Thorne said.
    They picked up the pace a little in an effort to stay as dry as possible.
    â€˜I was thinking about him going back to school after he’d had his lunch,’ Holland said. ‘Suddenly had this image of the killer watching him leave, marching straight up and ringing the doorbell. Emily opening it, thinking her old man had forgotten something.’
    Thorne shook his head. ‘Times still don’t fit.’
    â€˜Just had that image, you know?’
    They walked on, turning left on to Aerodrome Road and falling into step within a few paces.
    â€˜I think you were right the other night,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s somebody she knew. Not well . . . not necessarily, anyway. Maybe he works in a local shop, does next-door’s garden, whatever.’
    â€˜A face she recognises.’
    â€˜That’s all he needs to be. You heard what Walker said about if it had been a different day. Sounds like whoever killed Emily had been watching, and for a while. He knew their movements, knew when the time was right.’
    â€˜So he targeted her?’
    â€˜Looks that way. He wasn’t just ringing doorbells until someone answered that he liked the look of.’
    â€˜Why Emily, though?’ Holland asked.
    Thorne looked sideways at him and Holland acknowledged the stupidity of asking the question now, when they had so little to go on. When there were a thousand answers, and none at all. They both knew that the true answer, if they ever found it, would almost certainly give them their best chance of catching whoever had killed Emily Walker. At that moment, Thorne could do no better than a muttered ‘Christ knows’, before jogging across the road and walking quickly towards the main gate.
    â€˜That’s weird though, isn’t it, this Garvey business?’ Holland was doing his best to keep up, a few feet behind Thorne. ‘Before my time, but shit . . . that was a big case, wasn’t it?’
    Ahead of him, Thorne was waving his ID at the officer inside the control box.
    â€˜Did you work on it?’
    Half a minute later, it was Holland’s turn to wait, light rain blowing into his face, while his warrant card was checked. Thorne was already twenty feet clear of the barrier and moving across the car-park towards Becke House. He didn’t appear to have heard Holland’s question.
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    Thorne had worked on the Raymond Garvey investigation, though not in any significant way. He’d