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now, thinking about her poor put-upon father. He was a man who could always be relied upon for a decent homily, whether one was needed or not.

    If you want something doing, gift horses and the price of politeness. Always wear clean underwear in case you’re in an accident, that sort of thing.

    You make your own luck . . .

    ‘He’s got a point,’ Louise Porter said.

    ‘Yeah, right.’ Thorne had told her about Russell Brigstocke’s joke: the kidnaps and the country music.

    Louise held out her wine glass and Thorne topped it up. ‘It’s a wonder I don’t throw you out.’

    ‘It’s
my
flat.’

    ‘I’m fully expecting the Pope to make me a saint.’

    ‘I think that only happens once you’re dead.’

    ‘See? Everything Russell said is true
and
you’re a smartarse.’

    They had spent more evenings together recently, at Thorne’s place or occasionally at Louise’s in Pimlico, than was usually the case. Louise’s team on the Kidnap Unit was less busy than it had been in a long time and Thorne had not caught a murder that necessitated too much overtime. Certainly nothing as all-consuming as the Andrea Keane inquiry.

    He had picked up a takeaway en route from Hendon, ignoring the Bengal Lancer – his usual port of call – and opting instead to try a new Greek place a little further south on the Kentish Town Road. The food had been fine, but looking down at what was left of his chicken souvlaki, Thorne wished he had not been so adventurous.

    It wasn’t like him, after all.

    They drank their wine and a silence grew between them, while Louise flicked through the
Evening Standard
and Thorne watched the ten o’clock news. It was comfortable enough, as it should have been, more than two years into their relationship. But since Louise had lost a baby the year before, Thorne had found it hard to take anything for granted.

    An equilibrium had returned, but it felt precarious.

    Often, it seemed to Thorne, they moved too cautiously around one another, circling their loss like wild animals. Curious, but wary. She got angry if she felt that he was treating her differently, and he would overcompensate, storming around the flat and taking out his bad day, his foul mood, his grief on her.

    It was difficult.

    The mildest of disagreements, a furious row, a fuck . . .

    Sometimes it felt wrong to Thorne how easily one could lead to the next, and that any of them was really about a hundred different things. He had tried to explain it to Phil Hendricks – his closest friend and a good one to Louise, too – one night in front of Sky Sports.

    ‘I bet the row lasts longer,’ Hendricks had said.

    ‘I just can’t bear the thought of her in pain,’ Thorne had said, at which point Hendricks had stopped joking.

    ‘Tom?’

    Thorne looked over and saw that Louise was watching him over the top of her paper.

    ‘There’s no point worrying about it,’ she said. She laid down the paper and reached for the cat, curled up next to her on the sofa. ‘There’s nothing you can do, unless you fancy trying to nobble a couple of jurors.’

    Thorne sighed, nodded. He knew she was right, but it wasn’t helping. ‘A couple of them are no older than Andrea was,’ he said.

    ‘So?’

    ‘So, you worry they can’t make a . . . mature decision.’

    ‘“Mature” meaning “guilty”.’

    ‘That they won’t see what Chambers is really like.’

    ‘You want to raise the legal age for jury service? To what – twenty-one? Forty?’

    ‘I’m just saying.’

    ‘You don’t think an eighteen-year-old knows exactly what the likes of Adam Chambers is capable of?’ She jabbed a finger at her
Standard
. ‘Kids half that age are doing worse things every day of the week. Knifing each other for an iPhone.’

    Thorne shook his head.

    ‘Come on, you’ve dealt with enough of them.’

    ‘Not the same,’ Thorne said. ‘You’re right . . . but most of the time there’s a reason at least. I’m not justifying it, course