Mark Billingham - Bloodline

‘I presume you asked for proof?’ Thorne said. ‘That Anthony was who he claimed to be.’

‘He sent me some letters, or copies of letters that he’d received from Raymond Garvey over the years he’d been visiting him in Whitemoor.’ Maier saw the look on Thorne’s face. ‘You’re more than welcome to see them. As far as Ray Garvey was concerned, Anthony was his own flesh and blood.’

Holland leaned forward and placed his coffee cup on the table, careful to use the coaster provided. ‘So, he asked you to write another book, bringing this new… development to light?’

‘Correct.’

‘Did he seriously think they’d reopen the investigation? With his father dead?’

‘All he told me was that he wanted to get the truth out there.’

Holland shook his head. ‘I’m sure you were planning to talk to some of the relatives of the women Garvey killed. You know, seeing as the truth was so important.’

‘It never got that far,’ Maier said.

Thorne threw a look across at Holland; the signal that he wanted to take over. ‘What happened after you agreed to write the book?’

‘Well, I went to a publisher, obviously. Never has the phrase “they bit my hand off” been more appropriate. They were more than happy to stump up the money.’

‘Money?’

‘Anthony wanted forty-five thousand pounds for the story. For the use of his father’s prison letters, interviews with him, that sort of thing. All sadly premature, of course, since Doctor Kambar refused to play ball. He would not even go as far as to say that the tumour might have changed Garvey’s personality. Without any medical evidence, we had nowhere to go. It all fell apart rather quickly after that and, needless to say, I was no longer flavour of the month with the publisher.’

‘Sorry.’ Thorne did his best to look as though he meant it.

Maier shrugged. ‘Had to make do with ghosting for a while after that. Did a couple of senior coppers’ autobiographies as it happens. Everyone’s got a story or two to tell. I should imagine you’ve got more than a few, Inspector.’

‘Did you not think to talk to Kambar before you handed over the money?’

Another shrug. ‘It wasn’t my money, was it? Besides, we needed to strike while the iron was hot. He might well have gone to somebody else.’

Thorne saw a possibility. ‘I’m guessing you paid the money into some account or other?’

‘Sorry, no. It was paid in cash.’

‘What? Used notes in a brown paper bag?’

‘A holdall, actually, in the ticket office at Paddington station. If you ask me, I think the publisher quite enjoyed all the cloak and dagger. On top of which, everybody knew that it would make the most fantastic opening to the book: photographs of the illicit pick-up, the shadowy son of a serial killer, all that sort of thing.’

‘You took pictures?’

‘They sent a photographer along, yes, lurking among the commuters. I’ve got them in the office somewhere, if you want to have a look.’

‘Could you…?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Maier got up and walked towards the door. He smiled as he passed Thorne. ‘I dug them out before you came.’

Thorne said nothing.

‘Don’t get too excited, though. It wasn’t Anthony Garvey who picked the money up.’

Holland waited until Maier had left the room and said, ‘He loves himself, doesn’t he?’

‘If he’d already got the photos out,’ Thorne said, ‘he knew what we wanted to see him about.’

‘You didn’t give him any hints?’

Thorne shook his head. ‘Just said we wanted a word with him in his professional capacity. Help with an ongoing investigation. Usual old shit.’

They helped themselves to a couple more biscuits while they waited for Maier to return. He was talking as he re-entered the room.

‘Of course, we couldn’t do anything while the money was being picked up. Like I said, we didn’t want him to go running off to someone else. I asked him who the girl was afterwards, obviously.’

Thorne took the photographs that Maier was brandishing. Half a dozen black-and-white ten-by-eights. A woman in her early twenties, jeans and a puffer jacket. She looked distinctly nervous. The photographer had caught her full-on as she looked around, approaching the bag that had been left by the counter. More shots: a final check that nobody was paying too much attention; bending to pick up the holdall; side-on as she walked towards the exit.

‘Who did he say she was?’ Thorne asked.

Maier was standing behind the chair, staring at the photographs over Thorne’s shoulder. ‘Some girl he’d been seeing. Said he paid her a hundred pounds to pick up the bag, that he guessed we’d want some “coverage” and that he preferred to remain anonymous. A shame, but I wasn’t too disappointed, the shots were still usable. I asked him for a name and he said it didn’t matter. That she was already out of the picture. ’

Thorne handed the photographs to Holland. ‘What happened after you’d got nowhere with Kambar?’

Maier returned to his own chair. ‘Well, even though we knew it was second best, we tried a number of other neurologists, but we got very much the same result. We couldn’t get any kind of… authentication. So, in the end, I had to tell Anthony that, without it, the publisher was refusing to go ahead with the book.’

‘How did he take that?’

‘Not well,’ Maier said. ‘There was a lot of shouting, a few very abusive emails, which was rich, considering that I’d been every bit as shafted as he had. I’d already done a fair amount of background work, started mapping out the book, working. All a waste of bloody time in the end.’

‘How did you leave it?’

‘Well, the last time I spoke to him he was a damn sight calmer. I think perhaps his mood had been tempered slightly by the fact that he knew there was no way they could get the cash back off him. He said he was considering other options. All very mysterious, but I wished him luck with whatever they were. What else could I say?’ Maier adjusted the crease in his khakis and twisted his cuffs until they were as he wanted them.

‘Jesus.’ Thorne could only shake his head in disbelief, and watch as the author raised his arms again, like it was a funny old world.

Maier leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, a knowing expression creeping across his face. ‘So… how many has Anthony killed so far? Four, is it?’

Thorne was stunned. He struggled to respond quickly, his difficulty compounded by the pleasure Maier clearly gained from the hesitation.

‘Look, it’s no big mystery,’ Maier said. ‘I spent long enough studying the Raymond Garvey killings, so the names of the victims did rather jump out of the newspaper at me, even though they were all reported as separate murders. Now, Catherine Burke’s brother died years ago in a car accident, if my memory serves, so, by my reckoning’ – he counted off his fingers – ‘that means Anthony has another four to go. I presume you’ve warned them all?’

‘I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to say.’ Thorne shrugged as though it were no big deal. ‘You’ll understand I can’t tell you any more than you already know.’

‘If there is any more.’

‘On top of which, we’d be very grateful if you kept what you know to yourself.’

‘Not go running to the press, you mean?’

‘Not go running to anyone.’

‘I appreciate why you’re keeping the media in the dark on this one,’ Maier said. ‘As far as the link between the murders is concerned. But someone will get wind of it eventually, you do know that? A good serial-killer story will sell a lot of papers.’

‘And books,’ Holland said.

Maier seemed to enjoy the dig. ‘Hopefully.’