Death Message

Brigstocke took off his glasses, yanked out a corner of his shirt and rubbed at the lenses. ‘I know Paul Ski

Thorne blinked. He watched as Brigstocke tucked in his shirt and replaced his glasses, wondering what he meant.

I know him well enough to be sure that he isn’t bent?

I know him and right now it would be hugely embarrassing for me if he did turn out to be bent?

I know him, so do me a favour and drop it…

Thorne decided it was as good a time as any for grasping nettles. ‘Has this got anything to do with the DPS coming in to see you on Friday?’

It might have been the fact that the lenses had just been cleaned, but Brigstocke’s eyes seemed to brighten behind them. He sat up straighter. His voice was low and dangerous. ‘Why the fuck should it?’

‘Russell…’

‘And why would you think for one minute that it would?’

Thorne could do little but bluster and bluff and try to limit the damage. He said that it was a perfectly i

‘You should go whichever way you want on this,’ Brigstocke said eventually. ‘You’re the one getting these messages. You were drawn into this, and I suppose you’re giving the case a certain… impetus. As far as Ski

For a few minutes after that, they proved Brigstocke’s point and talked about something other than the case, the awkwardness dissipating slightly over the first few laughs. A story about a mutual ex-colleague; kids; a recent episode of The Bill. Thorne dug out the copy of The Job he’d stashed and they shared a joke at the expense of Holland and his table-te

It finished on about the best terms Thorne could have hoped for. But when Brigstocke was leaving, Thorne stopped him at the door. ‘I’m still not sure what you’re telling me, Russell.’

Brigstocke sounded resigned as much as anything else. ‘When has me telling you anything ever made the slightest bit of fucking difference?’

Not wanting to spend too long thinking about it – worrying about friendship and favours and the sickly smell of burning bridges – Thorne didn’t wait more than a couple of minutes after Brigstocke had left before putting in the call to Albany Street police station.

He put on his most efficient voice, and tried not to laugh as he asked to be put through to Human Resources. He chatted for a minute or two with the civilian administrative officer. He gave his name and warrant-card details, a fax number and email address, then asked for the Personal Information Management System record on Detective Inspector Paul Ski

Thorne cast an eye across the pages.

Three sheets detailing every posting held by Paul Ski

There were no suspensions and Ski

Thorne was interested to see that Ski

To his knowledge, Thorne had never been tested, and he couldn’t say with certainty that he’d pass when they finally got around to him. With a pint or two inside him, he’d tell anyone who gave a toss that they were testing for the wrong thing: it wasn’t about pocketing a few quid if it came your way; it was a question of lines, always had been. Where you drew yours, relative to where the fuckers you were after drew theirs. Whether those lines grew closer together as experience chipped away at you. And whether you stepped across it for the right reasons, with your eyes open, or drifted to the wrong side without even knowing it.

He read through the report once more, his frustration growing with every page. Brooks had been set up by two officers, so in order for this information to be of any use, Thorne would need to cross-reference it with a PIMS report on somebody else. He was fairly certain that Ski

Thorne let out a long, slow breath.

He had to presume that this unknown man, both men, were dangerous. They had framed Marcus Brooks for murder, but Ski

Somebody had killed Simon Tipper, after all.

The longer Thorne stared at the information in front of him, the more pointless it became. He had no real idea where to attack it from; what else he would need to make the task easier. There were days when he felt ill equipped to deal with regular police work, but he couldn’t even begin to think like a DPS officer. He was not sure if he should feel frustrated or relieved.

When Yvo

‘Thought you were booked out,’ she said.

‘Couldn’t keep away.’

A nod, like she knew what he meant. ‘My other half’s got his mates round to watch the rugby, and the kids are being little bastards at the moment. What’s your excuse?’

‘Louise is working. You know.’

‘How’s it going?’

Thorne remembered the exchange with Brigstocke an hour or so before. With the exception of that conversation, and Thorne’s request for Paul Ski

‘It’s good,’ he said. He wondered if Louise was still pissed off with him. Still as pissed off with him. ‘It’s great…’

Kitson seemed pleased.

Thorne watched her sort through some papers on her desk and begin reading. ‘They still got you riding two horses with one arse?’

She looked up, sour-faced suddenly. ‘This is the only chance I’ve had to even think about the Sedat murder in days.’

‘And?’

‘I think I should’ve stayed at home.’