Death Message

He took the rag from his pocket and pushed it quickly into Hodson’s mouth, forcing his head down into the pillow. He winced as his fingers caught on the teeth, before bringing the bag around and slipping it over Hodson’s head. He gathered up the plastic, wrapped the handles around his fingers and squeezed, tightening his hands below the jaw to get a decent seal.

The metal bed-head rattled, but not for very long.

He watched as the thin, crappy plastic was sucked in, as it wrapped and crinkled around the nose. He waited until it slowed, then turned his eyes to the window; looked out at the distant lights, his hands still clamped tight above the neck-brace.

It was probably Watford…

He turned back again and leaned in, as the bag slapped gently one last time against Ricky Hodson’s face. ‘That black ice is a bastard, eh?’

Thorne had been leaving messages for Louise since early afternoon, but she hadn’t called back until he’d been on his way home.

He’d told her that he’d had an ‘interesting’ day. Said he’d give her the gory details later if she fancied it, that he’d be happy to get over to her place. Louise had confirmed she wouldn’t be working horrendously late, but that she really ought to get an early night, if that was OK. She’d said she would call him if she changed her mind; if she found herself utterly unable to get through the night without him. Thorne had told her he’d be waiting for the call.

The Bengal Lancer had been about to close, but, as a favoured customer, the manager was happy to let Thorne sit at the bar with a couple of the waiters and work his way through a plate of onion bhajis and lamb tikka while the cleaners carried on around him. It did the trick. When he’d walked in, Thorne was still pissed off with Louise, but two pints of Kingfisher and a few off-colour stories had put him in a far better mood by the time he got home, just before ten-thirty.

He fed Elvis, stuck some washing in and caught the end of Wednesday Night Football on Sky. He was about to log on to Poker-pro when he noticed that he’d got email. Hendricks had clearly not had the busiest of days and had spent far too much of it thinking up names for their new ‘gay pathologist’ drama. In his email he’d suggested Poof-Mortem and Mincing in the Morgue before deciding that perhaps they could spin off into a talk-show format in a mortuary-style location, with a working title of On the Slab with Kinky Phil.

Thorne decided that, for a while at least, this was more fun than gambling. He sat and thought, scribbling notes on a piece of paper normally reserved for assessments of rival poker players. Then he fired off an email to Hendricks, proposing Stiffies! and Queer Eye for the Slab Guy. But he couldn’t come up with anything he liked better than Is That Rigor Mortis, or Are You Just Pleased to See Me?

Waiting to see if Hendricks would come back with anything, Thorne remembered his phone. His original handset had been sent back from Newlands Park that lunchtime and was now sitting, sealed inside its Jiffy bag, on the table by the front door.

Thorne fetched scissors from the kitchen and cut into the parcel while keeping one eye on a potentially dirty film on Cha

It took him almost ten minutes to dig out the Nokia. Then ten more to retrieve the battery and the SIM, each of which had been mummified separately. By the time Thorne finally put everything together, the film had finished and he’d used up all the swear words he knew.

He switched on the phone. Watched as the signal and battery indicators appeared. He looked at the screen for ten seconds… fifteen, then laid the handset down and went back to the computer.

The moment he sat down, the tone sounded, and the phone began to vibrate on the table. Calls were being diverted through to his new phone, but you couldn’t divert text and MMS.

He had a message waiting.

SIX

Mid-morning, Thursday, and for the second time that week Brigstocke sat staring at Tom Thorne’s mobile phone. He tapped at the screen. ‘Is that some sort of wire on the right-hand side?’

Thorne walked around the desk, leaned down and looked over Brigstocke’s shoulder. He stared at the picture which had arrived the night before. There was no blood this time, no signs of violence. To the casual observer, the man on the screen might even have looked asleep; a notion reinforced by the fact that his head was resting on a white pillow.

But Thorne was no casual observer.

He looked hard at the light, wavy line that snaked down one edge of the picture and almost touched the dead man’s face at the bottom of the screen. ‘It’s clear,’ Thorne said. ‘Like a tube, or a cable…’

Brigstocke stared then shook his head, defeated. ‘Let’s see what they can do at Newlands Park.’

Holland peered in at the glass and pushed the door open at the signal from Thorne. He a

In the Incident Room and beyond, the team was working flat out. As of a few hours previously, when Thorne had received the second photograph, the inquiry had been substantially upgraded. Officers moved across from other cases – including the Sedat murder, and several being worked by other teams – had already established that this latest message had been sent from another prepay handset, this time on the Orange network. A request for cell-site intelligence had been lodged overnight and steps were being taken to locate where the phone had been purchased. Providing they were able to pinpoint the retail outlet, and based on an average turnover of stock, this could mean wading through a month’s worth of CCTV footage or more. It might provide evidence that could be useful if they ever got an offender into a courtroom, but it was highly unlikely to help in catching them. Like much else that the team were busy knuckling down to, it was like collecting pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, with no idea what the finished picture was supposed to look like.

‘How quickly can Orange get us the cell-site?’

Holland looked pleased with himself. ‘I lied and told them T-Mobile had really pulled the stops out for us,’ he said. ‘Reckon a bit of healthy competition might do us a favour.’

Thorne and Holland walked out together and were passing Andy Stone’s desk as the DC came off the phone and collared them. ‘Bin-bag can’t see us this morning.’

‘You’ll need to talk English,’ Thorne said.

‘Martin Cowans.’ Stone held up a printout, with a number of arrests detailed beneath a fetchingly menacing photograph. ‘Black Dogs’ top dog, but he prefers to be known as “Bin-bag”, for some reason. You told me to call and let him know we wanted a word.’

‘So what’s keeping Bin-bag so busy this morning?’ Holland asked.

‘A mate of his has died unexpectedly, so he said. He’s got stuff to arrange.’

Thorne looked at Stone.

‘Tucker getting the big biker funeral, is he?’ Holland asked. ‘Coffin on the back of a Harley. Motörhead as he slides through the curtains…’

‘That’s the thing,’ Stone said. ‘I thought he was talking about Tucker as well… but he wasn’t. Some other mate of his died last night in hospital. He says he needs to get over there apparently, sort-’

‘Call him back,’ Thorne said, already turning. ‘Find out which hospital he’s on about and get a crime scene unit over there on the hurry-up.’ He carried on barking instructions as he marched out: ‘Call Phil Hendricks and get him down there. Make sure the hospital know we’re coming, then tell Cowans to stay exactly where he is. After we’ve paid our respects to his friend, we can all get together for a chat…’