Bloodline-9 by Mark Billingham Read Free Book Online

business?’ Hol and 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.
    ‘Did you work on it?’
    Half a minute later, it was Hol and’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 Hol and’s question.
    Thorne had worked on the Raymond Garvey investigation, though not in any significant way. He’d knocked on a few doors, been part of a fingertip-search team one night. At the time, it was the biggest investigation for a decade or more, with hundreds of detectives working to catch a man who would eventual y murder seven women. There can’t have been too many officers in the Met who had not been involved in some capacity.
    Inside Becke House, Thorne walked into the lift and jabbed the button for the third floor, thinking back.
    He was an up-the-sergeant’s-arse, eager-to-please detective constable back then. Kentish Town CID, the station no more than five minutes’ walk from where he lived now.
    The lift doors were stubbornly refusing to close, so Thorne stabbed at the button again. He was ashamed that he could remember every detail of a blue suit he used to wear back then and the number plate of the car he’d been driving around in, but not the names of Raymond Garvey’s victims.
    The door final y slid shut.
    Not a single one . . .
    He told himself that it was always the way, especial y with a series of kil ings. How many of Dennis Nilsen’s fifteen victims could he name, or Colin Ireland’s five? Could he remember any of Harold Shipman’s two hundred or more?
    Out of the lift, he walked down the corridor, past the Major Incident Room and towards the smal office he shared with DI Yvonne Kitson.
    It was different with his own cases, of course. He could remember every name, every face; each ‘before’ and ‘after’ photograph. Her mother’s name might not have been as instantly familiar as it should have been, but Thorne knew he would never forget Emily Walker’s.
    Kitson had left a note on his desk about a case that was due in court the fol owing week and some evidence that needed chasing up. Thorne laid it to one side and pul ed the computer keyboard towards him. Al the way back from Colindale, he had been wondering where the Garvey case notes would have been archived. Now, he decided there was a far quicker way to do a bit of research.
    Thorne hit a few keys and logged on to Google. Typed in ‘Raymond Garvey’.
    There were over three hundred and fifty thousand hits.
    He scrol ed past the first half a dozen links, ignoring Wikipedia and something cal ed serialkil er.com, until he found a site that was not advertising a magazine or true-crime shows on satel ite TV and seemed more or less reliable. Hee looked at the list of names. Susan Sharpe, aged forty-four, was number four. She had been attacked on her way home from a gym, bludgeoned to death, as had al the other victims, and been found on a canal bank in Kensal Green, the vast mausoleums and elaborate statuary of its famous cemetery spread out alongside. Thorne clicked on the name and brought up a picture. He saw no immediate resemblance to Emily Walker, then reminded himself that he had never seen Emily alive.
    Raymond Anthony Garvey had murdered seven women in four months. He might have kil ed many more had he not been arrested after a simple pub brawl in Finsbury Park. Had a sample of his DNA taken after that incident not matched that found on two of the victims. It was the kind of coincidence that would have crime-fiction writers accused of laziness, but good luck played a bigger part in cracking such cases than most senior police officers would care to admit.
    Garvey, who always refused to talk about his motives, was given