Death Message

Thorne took a few seconds to get it, then almost laughed, despite the horrendous possibilities. ‘You’ve had someone going through my bin?’

‘A friend of mine who lives in your neck of the woods pops by now and again to rummage around for me. Has done for quite some time.’ He paused, gave a wry smile. ‘I think I know you pretty well now, and I do mean above and beyond what brand of washing-up liquid you use.’

‘And you don’t think I’m going to do anything about this?’

‘I think you might buy a shredder.’ Nicklin said. ‘But if you mean do anything to me, I’m not sure it’s going to make an awful lot of difference to my sentence.’

Thorne knew he was right. Nicklin had been able to attack the inmate in Belmarsh safe in the knowledge that any extension to his sentence would have been purely cosmetic. It was what could make lifers, real lifers, such dangerous prisoners. ‘Why wait until now?’ Thorne asked.

‘I had no way to use the information. None that I would have been satisfied with, anyway. I did think about having some fun with your credit cards, but seriously, what am I going to do? Ring you up in the middle of the night and breathe down the phone at you? Doing this is a lot more interesting, has a lot more possibilities, and I need that in here. The drama classes just aren’t doing it for me, you know?’

‘I don’t see why Brooks would agree to sending photos of these people he’s killed to a copper. A little risky, I would have said.’

‘I told you, he’s doing me a favour and there’s really not a lot of risk.’

‘You reckon? If it wasn’t for the photos, we wouldn’t even know who he is. And every crime scene gets us closer to him.’

Nicklin shrugged. ‘Most murder victims show up eventually. They bob to the surface, or a dog starts digging, or some neighbour with a big nose sniffs them out. Since when has getting a sneak preview actually helped you catch anyone?’

It was a fair point. ‘And there was I thinking this was all about you being helpful.’

‘Fuck, no. I just want you frustrated.’ Nicklin grew more animated as he continued; searched for Thorne’s eyes with his own. ‘I want you involved in this because I know how much you care. You probably care a little less about dead bikers than you do about little old ladies, but you care enough to get caught up in it. I like the idea of that. I just fancied walking around in here, thinking about you going quietly barmy, while the bodies kept piling up on your queer mate’s chopping board.’

Thorne had not bothered to take off his jacket. He leaned back on the chair and forced his hands down into the pockets; let them tighten into fists when they were out of sight. ‘What’s your friend’s plan?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘How long is he going to carry on with this?’

‘Until he feels like they’ve paid enough, I would have thought. Or until he’s had enough. Whichever comes first.’

‘Can you contact him?’

‘No.’ Nicklin looked at Thorne, unblinking. Said it again.

‘I don’t believe you,’ Thorne said.

Nicklin seemed mildly disappointed. ‘Listen, there’s really no point lying when you’re in here. It’s like tidying up, or caring what you look like. It’s actually a relief not to have to bother.’

‘If Brooks decides to get in touch-’

‘He won’t,’ Nicklin said. ‘He’s moving on.’ He sighed and nodded when he saw that Thorne was about to press the point. ‘But if he does, I’ll be sure to give him your best.’

Thorne pushed back his chair.

‘Never know your luck.’ Nicklin scratched lazily at his neck, fingers curled against the stubble. ‘You might get the chance to do it yourself.’

Seeing that Thorne had left his chair, a prison officer stepped towards the door. Nicklin stood too, turned and leaned back against the table. ‘It’s not the same for me as it is for Marcus,’ he said. ‘I don’t hate you, not at all, and I don’t give two fucks about revenge. You do know that, don’t you?’

Thorne kept on walking. ‘I don’t care.’

Nicklin clearly found this hilarious. ‘Course you do,’ he said.

Brooks raised the handset, checked the small screen and pressed the button to shoot. Marvelling still at how much this technology had come on in the time he’d been inside. Back when he’d gone down, as far as he could remember, people had just been starting to use their phones to do other things than make calls. But Christ, he could hardly believe the stuff that could be done now, the extent to which these gadgets had come to dominate people’s lives six years later.

Celebrations. Accidents. Disasters.

It didn’t seem to matter what the occasion was, punters would be reaching for their Nokias and Motorolas and Samsungs, and chances were the camera would be used before loved ones were called. Wrong place, right time, right place, whatever. Fu

There was no denying, it was seriously handy.

He’d seen that stuff on TV when he was in Long Lartin; had discussed it with Nicklin. Marking out dead time on the landing; putting the world to rights in his cell or Nicklin’s. They’d talked about all sorts of shit like that, whatever was on the front page, until the news had come about Angie and Robbie and he’d had more important things to worry about.

The man was on the move, so he moved with him. Slowly, on the other side of the road. Keeping his subject in shot, staying that little way behind so he’d have time to lower the phone if the man turned round.

A year or two before, there’d been a lot of bollocks talked about the craze for ‘happy slapping’: kids filming strangers’ reactions when they attacked them, then passing the footage around like they were swapping football cards. Nicklin had thought it was fu

Brooks thought about what he was doing. Wasn’t it just a more extreme version of happy slapping? He wondered if maybe that’s where Nicklin had got the idea from.

A young black girl coming towards him slowed down and turned to see what Brooks was pointing his phone at. She looked across the street, then back at him, and carried on walking, not seeing a whole lot to get worked up about.

Brooks smiled at the girl, then continued filming, using his thumb to zoom in as far as he could go.

He was worked up enough for both of them.

Thorne had bought himself lunch at the station, eaten it while he was waiting for the train back to Paddington. Soggy pizza and piss-poor coffee. Replacing one bad taste for another. Thinking about Stuart Nicklin while he ate; the prisoner still laughing when the warder had put a hand in the small of his back to guide him from the room.

Brigstocke called before the train had pulled out of the station. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Long Lartin.’

‘Who the fuck’s in Long Lartin? Never mind-’

‘I’ve got lots to tell you.’

‘It’ll have to wait,’ Brigstocke said. ‘We’ve got a likely-looking match on a print from the Tucker scene.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Bloke was done for murder six years ago.’

The train wasn’t busy. There were only three other people in the entire carriage. Opposite and just ahead of Thorne, a man lay sprawled across two seats, his feet pulled up, his head dropping slowly on to his chest, before being jerked back up with a grunt, only to drop again fifteen seconds later. Life or alcohol. Thorne wasn’t sure which, but the man had obviously had too much of one or the other.