Death Message

‘Ten,’ Thorne said. ‘Ten-year-old boy.’

They were together on the sofa. Louise nursed a cup of tea, pulled stockinged feet up beneath her. ‘You’d be destroyed,’ she said.

Thorne turned his attention from the television. ‘What?’

‘Getting that sort of news. Then.’

‘Or any time…’

‘What you said before, though, you know? About the moment when he should be getting his life back.’ She shifted position, slid one of her feet beneath Thorne’s leg. ‘Whatever this bloke might have done in the past, that’s a shitty thing to happen. You’ve been thinking about nothing but coming out for months, right? Getting back to your girlfriend and your kid. Having that to look forward to might be the only thing that gets you through your sentence.’

‘In which case, having it taken away from you sounds like a fairly decent motive.’

‘Like a fucking decent motive.’

Thorne couldn’t be certain that Louise’s enthusiasm for his theory was completely subjective. But the support felt good.

‘We both know that some of these people are toerags,’ she said. ‘The sort who are just waiting to get out and do whatever it was they did all over again. But some just want to do their time and get back to their families. There’s plenty that just want to stay safe and… uncorrupted.’

‘Plenty?’

‘All right, then. Some.’

Louise’s words meant all the more, because Thorne knew that she was no bleeding heart. She was someone who preferred to give the benefit of the doubt, but if it was taken and pissed away, she would be hard as nails second time around. He really started to believe that Marcus Brooks could be the sort of prisoner she was describing; the sort on whom a death message – especially one delivered when it was – would have wreaked unimaginable havoc. ‘Six years out of an eleven stretch,’ he said. ‘He can’t have got himself into too much trouble inside.’

‘Which says a lot, because he’d have been, what? Cat B? That’s a high-security prison, with some serious company.’

‘Parole boards look at what prisoners are coming out to, right?’

‘Absolutely. Brownie points for solid family units…’

‘Christ, if we’re right about this-’

‘What do you mean “we”?’ Louise said. ‘I’m just agreeing with you in the hope of getting a shag later.’

Thorne’s smile died quickly, as he began to reflect on what would be as cold an act of revenge as he had ever come across. ‘If I’m right about this, and the Black Dogs wanted Brooks to suffer for killing their old president, they certainly picked their moment. They waited until just the right time, when they could really fuck up his life.’

‘Or the wrong time,’ Louise said. ‘And the wrong bloke. Because they’re getting it back in spades now, aren’t they?’ She got up and took the plates and mugs through to the kitchen; shouted back to Thorne over the noise as she loaded them into the dishwasher. ‘Even if it is Brooks,’ she said, ‘we still don’t know what this photo business is all about. Why he’s sending them to you, I mean…’

But before Louise had even finished speaking, Thorne suddenly felt as though he might know; could feel a dreadful possibility rushing towards him. What had Louise said before? ‘That’s a high-security prison, with some serious company…’

He got up and grabbed his phone; dialled the number that Sharon Lilley had given him as he was leaving the pub.

He could hear the music in the background, the chat of her fellow-drinkers, when Lilley eventually picked up. He wasn’t hugely surprised that she was still where he’d left her.

‘It’s Tom Thorne. Listen, I’m sorry for calling so late.’

‘Lucky you caught me,’ she said, slowly. ‘I was about to head home.’

‘Just one quick question.’ Something began to jump in Thorne’s stomach. He took a deep breath and asked which prison Marcus Brooks had been released from.

Got the answer he didn’t want to hear.

And then, Thorne knew.

Baby,

I’ll probably keep this one short, because I’m so wiped out, and even though I know I won’t sleep for very long, I’ll have to get up and out. I need to walk when I wake up, to keep moving. If I just lie there, things that I don’t want to think about for too long get in my head, and I’m afraid they might stick, and I can’t stand it.

Actually, the walking has been brilliant. You probably think that sounds stupid, or like I’m taking the piss, because of how much I used to hate it. You couldn’t even get me to walk to the bus stop, remember? It’s weird, but it makes me less tired, not more. I can’t explain it. It sharpens me up, you know? Like the exercise did when I was inside. I just go for miles every night, don’t matter where, and when I get back here, things are a bit clearer. It isn’t like I might forget what I’m going to do or anything, but it helps me focus.

It reminds me why I’m doing this. Why I don’t really care about anything except doing it.

Last night, after I sorted Hodson out, I walked towards these lights I could see out of the window. Across fields and a motorway. I know they were just houses and cars and whatever, so don’t think I’m going totally mental, but while I was walking in the dark, up to my knees in mud and shit and Christ knows what, it felt like I was getting closer to you and Robbie. Like you were both waiting in the lights somewhere.

I had to stop myself ru

Like I said, mental. I’m even gri

Kiss him for me, will you?

I’m sending kisses and all sorts of other stuff to you as well, COURSE I AM. I’ll write again soon, tomorrow maybe, but now I’ve got to at least try and get my head down. I’m so fucking tired.

Sleep well, angel.

X

EIGHT

The last time Thorne had seen Stuart Nicklin had been across a crowded courtroom at the Old Bailey, when he had spoken from the witness box at his trial. But the last time he had been this close to him, Thorne had been screaming and spattered in blood. A school playground in Harrow. A man dead at Thorne’s feet and a woman, a police officer, dying a few yards away while he could do nothing. ‘Congratulations on being alive,’ Nicklin had said to him, smiling. ‘Being alive’s the easy bit though, isn’t it? It’s feeling alive that’s the hard part.’

Thorne had reacted then, lashed out, and watched Stuart Nicklin spitting out the wreckage of teeth and long strings of blood as he was finally seized and led away.

The smile growing broader as he went.

That winter had been mild, and terrible. Nicklin had killed at least four people himself – three young women and an old man – and been directly responsible for as many deaths again. One of them, a man named Martin Palmer, had murdered two women at his behest; killings he had carried out simply because he had been easy to manipulate, and too terrified of his tormentor not to.

Nicklin had learned early that fear was the most powerful weapon of all. He wielded it as skilfully as any butcher used a blade and with as much deadly force as the police marksman who had finally gu

It had been a little under two hours on the train to Evesham, then a fifteen-minute cab ride from the station to the prison. Thorne hadn’t eaten anything the whole way, and now, staring at Nicklin’s wide, rejuvenated smile, he was happy to put the feeling in his stomach down to hunger.

‘I feel like I should be sitting in a swivel chair,’ Nicklin said. ‘Stroking a white cat or something.’

‘This’ll have to do.’

‘I was expecting you sooner, if I’m honest.’

‘I only got the first picture four days ago.’

‘Oh, I take that back then. Sorry.’

‘I should think so.’