Death Message

Thinking that, when people talked about leaving something of themselves behind, they usually meant more than just a stain on a floorboard.

FIVE

Back at Becke House, the news was mixed. But then, life itself was perfectly capable of taking the piss…

From Kitson, the familiar two-steps-forward-threesteps-back routine. The blood on the knife retrieved from the litter bin had been identified as belonging to Deniz Sedat. They had also managed to pull a decent set of prints from the handle. Sadly, though, these failed to match with any held on record.

From Karim, a predictably frustrating technical update. With a cell-site search having been formally authorised by Brigstocke, T-Mobile had been in touch to acknowledge the request. And again later, to say that they would give it their highest priority, as soon as their virus-riddled computer system was up and ru

Thorne retreated to his office, but five minutes later Andy Stone was babbling at him from the doorway.

‘There’s a DCI from S &O on the phone.’

‘And?’

‘And he’s been calling every fifteen minutes since lunchtime trying to get hold of the guvnor.’

Thorne hadn’t seen Brigstocke since his return from the mortuary. ‘Where is he?’

‘No idea, some meeting. Anyway, I think this bloke’s had enough, because now he’s just asking to speak to the appropriate DI.’

‘Kitson’s looking after the Sedat case,’ Thorne said.

‘I don’t think it’s the Sedat case he wants to talk about…’

Thorne was curious, but he was also exhausted, and with more than enough to occupy his mind at that moment. He shook his head. ‘He’ll call back.’

‘He’s waiting for me to put him through.’

‘Tell him you couldn’t find me.’

‘He won’t be happy…’

Thorne stared until Stone backed, muttering, into the corridor. He began to wonder if he’d inadvertently activated some kind of shit magnet, and when the phone on his desk began to ring a minute later, he just stared at it for a few seconds. Thought about sneaking down to the canteen for tea and a piece of cake, sorting out that weaselly little fucker Stone later on…

‘Your guvnor’s been ducking me all day. You’re not trying to piss me about as well, are you, Tom?’

There’d been laughter, of a sort, as he’d asked the question, but it was clear enough from DCI Keith Ba

‘I think DCI Brigstocke’s been stuck in meetings most of the day, sir,’ he said. ‘Have you got his mobile number?’

‘I’ve rung three times. Twice he’s dropped the call and now he’s turned the phone off.’

Thorne guessed Brigstocke had got wind that S &O were on his case, presuming, as Thorne had done, that they were still trying to muscle in on the Sedat case. ‘Shall I take a message? I suppose you’ve already left one on his office voicemail?’

‘Tell me about your dead car salesman,’ Ba

‘Tucker?’ Suddenly, Thorne had a lot more to occupy his mind.

‘Tucker. Raymond, Anthony.’ There was gravel in the voice, giving an edge to what would otherwise have been a gentle West Country burr. Get off my land, or I’ll rip your lungs out…

‘Tell you what?’ Thorne said.

There was a sigh and a sniff. ‘Right. Silly buggers, is it?’

‘I’m not trying to be difficult…’

‘No?’

‘I just don’t have much more than you could easily get off the bulletin, you know? So, I don’t think I can really be a lot of help.’ There was a soft knock, and Thorne looked up to see one of the civilian office assistants staring in through the window in the door. She formed her fingers into a ‘T’ and held them up to the glass. Thorne shook his head.

‘I know a lot about Ray Tucker and his mates,’ Ba

Thorne duly told Ba

The only thing he neglected to mention – for no very good reason he could put his finger on – was that he’d been sent a picture of the dead man two days before.

‘“Ray Tucker and his mates”, you said?’ Thorne heard Ba

‘For fifteen years, Tucker, better known to us and his close friends as “Rat”, was a leading member of the “Black Dogs”. They’re one of the bigger biker gangs, OK? Swallowed up two or three other mobs over the years and nobody’s quite sure how many members there are now, but thirty-five or forty, easy. They’re dotted around, but we’ve got most of them based up towards the edge of north London and Hertfordshire these days.’

Thorne had heard the name. ‘Hell’s Angels, right?’

‘Absolutely not. Business rivals, as a matter of fact, but they all work along the same lines: a strict hierarchy, members sworn to secrecy, the wearing of club colours and what have you.’

‘And I’m guessing most of the time, when they meet up, it’s got fuck all to do with motorbikes.’

‘Not a great deal, no.’

‘What is it, dope?’

‘Dope, cocaine, ecstasy, whatever. They work with affiliated gangs in Europe, bring the stuff in from Holland and Scandinavia. We think they’ve just started moving into the heroin business.’

‘Not beating up mods on Brighton seafront any more, then?’

‘There’s still plenty of violence,’ Ba

‘That explains the tattoos,’ Thorne said.

‘Sorry?’

Thorne told him about the conversations he’d had with Hendricks and Holland. Ba

‘It’s usually a small one, but it’ll be there somewhere,’ Ba

Another seemingly significant pause. Thorne bit. ‘So, what…? You reckon that whoever smashed Tucker’s head in has just earned one of his own?’

‘It’s possible. Maybe Rat got on the wrong side of somebody.’

‘I’ve seen him,’ Thorne said, ‘and I think it’s safe to assume he pissed off someone.’

The S &O man’s laugh seemed genuine this time, but just when they seemed to be getting along, Thorne spoiled it by asking if there was a specific reason why Ba

The throat was cleared and the voice sharpened. ‘Obviously, Tucker was someone of interest to us, so his murder is hardly something we can ignore. Letting you know would seem to be a good idea, don’t you think? Would be a courtesy, that’s all.’

It sounded very reasonable. ‘So you wouldn’t be trying to stake a claim or anything like that?’ Thorne asked. ‘Same as you’re doing with the Deniz Sedat murder.’

‘Nobody’s stepping on anyone else’s toes here.’

‘I understand that, sir.’