Death Message

SEVEN

He had seen his fair share of the capital’s stranger sights, most of them predictably situated at the ghoulish end of the spectrum. But on a Sunday morning a couple of months before, Thorne had stumbled upon what had to be among the most bizarre spectacles the city had to offer.

Now, hurrying past St John’s Church to meet Sharon Lilley, it was the smell of it he remembered more than anything else. If new carpets took him back to his childhood, perhaps he was destined for ever to associate churches with the stench of fresh horse-shit.

The last time he’d seen the place – the immense, ornate windows glittering from its Gothic façade – there had been upwards of a hundred horses gathered on its forecourt: shire horses and Shetland ponies; nags and thoroughbreds pulling carts, carriages and traps. Men, women and children in every conceivable type of outlandish equestrian outfit had paraded on horseback past a fully regaled minister. The priest – who, not to be outdone, was sitting happily astride a mount of his own – had proceeded to bless each and every animal, having first found out a little about them from their owners.

‘What’s his name? Squirrel? God be with you, Squirrel…’

Thorne and Louise had stood and watched in happy amazement. They’d asked a fellow spectator and established that the event was called Horsemen’s Sunday and that it took place every year. They’d enjoyed the bacon rolls and coffee that were laid on; listened as a small jazz band had provided the soundtrack. Then they’d wandered away, agreeing that whatever darkness London hid, or had visited upon it, any city where you could walk round a corner and see a frocked-up vicar on horseback was still a pretty good place to be.

The pub Sharon Lilley had suggested was more run-ofthe-mill. A stone’s throw from St John’s church, on the north side of Hyde Park, the Duke of Kendal was a small place, busy enough at six-thirty on a Thursday for a dozen or so punters to be sitting at the wooden tables outside, hunched over their drinks in coats and scarves.

Inside it was noisy, the chat almost, but not quite, drowning out an old Meat Loaf single. As Thorne walked towards a woman he thought might be Sharon Lilley, he passed a blackboard with a decent-looking Thai menu and decided that he might order something later, if the conversation went on a while. The woman saw him coming. She held up an almost empty wine glass and nodded. When Thorne pushed his way through to the bar, he was horrified to see that it was already decked out with tinsel and plastic holly.

‘This isn’t a coppers’ pub, then?’ Thorne said, handing Lilley her drink.

‘What gave it away?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. The fact that there’s an atmosphere. People enjoying themselves. That kind of thing.’

Lilley smiled, touched her glass to Thorne’s. ‘Place is pretty perfect, as it goes,’ she said. ‘It’s only five minutes from the station, but that’s just far enough to put off the serious pissheads. The ones who can’t be arsed to walk more than twenty-five yards to get a drink.’

The accent was pure Essex, but Lilley was a long way from the comic stereotype: she was sharp and fu

‘I was still a DI at the time,’ she said. ‘But my DCI was happy to step back and let me run the Tipper enquiry.’ Thorne raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t unheard of, but it was still rare for an inspector to be SIO on a major murder case. ‘I had my eye on moving up to chief inspector.’ Lilley smiled, remembering. ‘It’s important to see how you handle yourself, isn’t it? Try the shoes on for size.’

‘Never fancied them myself,’ Thorne said.

They talked for a while about her present job; about how Anti-terror had seemed a cushy enough unit when she’d first joined a few years before. There had been some scaling down as IRA activity on the mainland had fallen away. But, of course, everything had changed on 11 September; had been ratcheted up still further after the London bombings of July 2005.

Thorne told her how relieved he was that she hadn’t said ‘9/11’ or ‘7/7’. How he hated the numerical shorthand that had crept in to so much conversation. Lilley happily revealed herself to be a kindred spirit. She said that anyone who said ‘24/7’ was deserving of a slap. ‘Same as twats who talk about “windows” in their diaries or order drinks by asking if they can “get” a beer.’

She went to the bar. Asked if she could have another glass of wine and a pint of Gui

‘Simon Tipper started up the Black Dogs in the early nineties,’ she said. ‘He was president until he got carved up by a bloke called Marcus Brooks in his front room. July 2000.’ She sipped her drink, thinking back. ‘The place was a mess. Blood and papers and shit everywhere. Brooks was really turning the place over when Tipper came home and caught him.’

‘That the story?’

‘Well, it wasn’t Brooks’ story, but I reckon that was how it happened.’

‘How did you get him?’

‘He was too fucking cool for his own good. He tears the place apart, cuts Tipper up for good measure, then sits down and has a drink. We got a nice set of prints off a glass behind the settee, and we already had Brooks on record for all sorts of things.’

Thorne froze, the glass halfway to his mouth. Lilley’s description of events had rung a bell with him, and he was suddenly thinking about something Hendricks had said:

‘He smashes Tucker’s head in; then, while he’s stood there covered in blood… he calmly takes out his mobile phone and starts snapping away. Cool as you like.’

Thorne took a drink. ‘So, all nice and easy for you then?’

‘Well, like I say, it wasn’t what Brooks said happened. He reckoned he was “told” to rob the place, and when he got there someone had done the job for him. Said Tipper was already dead when he walked in.’

‘Told to rob the place by who?’

Lilley gri

Thorne had heard similar tales a hundred times. ‘Right, but he couldn’t tell you who they were?’

‘Oh yes, he could. He kept on telling us. Gave us their names, details of meetings, the lot.’

Thorne waited.

‘Well, it was bollocks, obviously. We looked into it and basically DI “Je

They were jammed together on one side of a small table, in a corner next to the cigarette machine. Thorne watched as an attractive blonde struggled to find the right coins while jabbering into her mobile. He got a filthy look and turned back to his pint.

‘Is any of this shit helping?’ Lilley asked.

Thorne told her about the murders of Raymond Tucker and Ricky Hodson. Seeing no reason not to, he told her that he’d been sent pictures of both dead men. He answered Lilley’s question without waiting for it to be asked. ‘No, I haven’t the faintest fucking idea why,’ he said.

The blonde was still on the phone. Now she was trying to extract a cigarette from the packet using her teeth.

‘Tell me about Brooks,’ Thorne said. ‘You said his prints were on record.’

‘Marcus had been a bad lad, no two ways about it. He was your typical south London tearaway, sort of kid who would’ve been drowning in ASBOs today, know what I mean? He does a couple of years in the army, buys himself out and ends up doing odds and sods for one or two of the nastier local firms. Deliveries, some security work, whatever. Nothing too heavy himself, as far as we could tell, but he was useful, you know?’