Death Message

If Cowans was narked by the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. ‘This is a family, and members stay members, even if they’re gone. The Dogs don’t forget anyone.’

‘A lot of them have gone over the years,’ Holland said. ‘Surely they didn’t all come off their bikes?’

Cowans shook his head. ‘Like I said. Happy to chat…’

‘Can you tell us about the history of the club, then?’

‘It’s all on the website.’

‘How long have you been club president?’

‘Six years.’

‘Right.’ Holland took the chance to show that he had done some homework as well. ‘You took over from Simon Tipper.’

‘“Tips”…’

‘Whatever…’

At that point Ugly Bob kicked the door open and came in with three mugs of tea. A woman walked in behind him with three more and a packet of biscuits. She was fortyish and pale, with bleached blond hair and a crop top that did her no favours. She handed mugs to Thorne and Holland and then took her own over to the sofa, settling on the arm next to Cowans. Thorne saw that she was wearing slightly different colours to the others: a ‘property’ patch given to those ‘old ladies’ of club members lucky enough to be afforded the honour.

‘This Mrs Bin-bag, is it?’ Thorne asked.

The woman tore at the packet of biscuits with her teeth. Gave Thorne the finger without looking up.

‘Nice picture of Tips on the memorial page,’ Thorne said. ‘What happened to him?’

Cowans took a handful of biscuits from the woman. ‘Well, that’s a matter of public record, isn’t it? Some burglar knifed him while he was turning Tips’ place over. All done and dusted quick enough by your lot. Arsehole got banged up. That’s it.’

‘What about the ones that weren’t done and dusted? The ones that didn’t die on their bikes and weren’t tragically killed disturbing burglars. You sorted those out yourself, right?’

Cowans dunked and drank.

‘Don’t be like that,’ Holland said. ‘See how nice this is – a cup of tea and a natter?’

‘Come on, I presume you don’t have an “armourer” for nothing,’ Thorne said. ‘I know that scores have to be settled.’

Holland began to pick up on cues. ‘Tucker and Hodson. There’s two for a start.’

‘Mind you, it’s a fair bet that whoever killed them was settling some scores of their own.’

‘And obviously you’ve got no idea at all who that might be.’

‘Can’t be too many candidates though, surely?’

‘Another biker gang?’ Holland addressed the questions to Thorne. ‘Some local business that doesn’t like the competition?’

‘Come on, Bin-bag,’ Thorne said. ‘Who’s going to pay for Rat and Hoddo?’

Thorne could only presume that Cowans was opening his mouth to refuse to answer their questions when his old lady beat him to the punch.

‘Some cunt’ll pay for it, sooner or later.’ She looked like she was enjoying herself. ‘We’ve got long memories and-’

Cowans reached over, expressionless, and took hold of his girlfriend’s wrist. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and, as she stared right back at Thorne, he watched her struggling not to show any of the pain or anger.

There wasn’t too much more chat after that.

Thorne turned at the door as though he’d forgotten something, and stabbed a finger at the Black Dogs’ rules. ‘This is a strange one,’ he said. ‘“Members found to be injecting drugs will be subject to the severest punishment, and may be expelled from the club.”’ He looked at Cowans, thought about what Ba

He screwed up the piece of paper and tossed it towards the bikers. Gazza swore, and swatted it away, while Cowans just smiled and reached into his tea; fished out bits of biscuit with dirty fingers.

‘I didn’t think it would be too long before we were talking again,’ Ba

Thorne turned from the phone and pulled a face at Holland; long-suffering and scornful. ‘Why’s that then?’

‘Well, now there’s two dead bikers. Changes things a bit.’

‘I need to pick your brains about the Black Dogs,’ Thorne said.

‘There’s no other reason why you’d be calling.’

‘You OK with that?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be? We’re not trying to step on anyone’s toes.’

‘Yeah, you said.’

‘We’re happy to let you run with this one.’

Despite the nonsensical corporate language and the West Country accent, the ‘we’ still managed to sound faintly ominous. ‘But you’re still keeping an eye on things?’

‘Oh shit, yes.’ Ba

‘Course.’

‘But it would also be pretty stupid to come in over the top of you, when you’ve got such a… co

Thorne mumbled a ‘yes’, thinking: Will you let me know if you find out what it is?

‘So, I take it you’ve been to see Bin-bag and got fuck all?’

‘Tea and biscuits.’

‘He must have liked you.’

Ba

Thorne was suitably grateful, and equally pissed off at having to be. He asked how far back the file went. He’d started to wonder to what extent the club’s activities in the last few years were co

‘Probably no more than you,’ Ba

‘It might be interesting to have a look.’

‘Are you out and about?’

Thorne said that he was. He didn’t bother to mention that he and Holland were sitting in a car fifty yards from the Black Dogs’ clubhouse, but Ba

‘I’ll dig out the name of the original SIO and get back to you,’ Ba

The Airwave system, rolled out across the Met over the previous two years, had become the bane of many coppers’ lives; more specifically the built-in GPS, which enabled those in the control room to pinpoint the location of any officer, if they so chose. There were times, however, when the combined phone/radio/data transmitter came into its own. When Ba

DCI Sharon Lilley worked on an anti-terrorism unit based at Paddington Green station. Pleasantly enough, she told Thorne that the rest of her day was a bastard. But, if he fancied it, he was welcome to sit in on an important debriefing session after work.

Thorne had cracked tougher codes. He asked her what she would be drinking.