Death Message

‘Your mystery woman not called back?’

‘We’ve blagged five minutes on Tuesday night’s Crimewatch,’ Kitson said. ‘See what we can do to persuade her.’

‘You doing it yourself?’

‘They couldn’t get anyone else.’

‘Well, providing there’s no football on, and they’re not repeating Animal Hospital or Watercolour Challenge, I’ll be watching…’

For an hour or so, they swapped Crimewatch stories, their own and other people’s. They moaned about the perpetually ta

Thorne thought a good hard slap would do the job just as well.

The day dimmed quickly outside: Hendon a glinting patchwork beyond the glass, and headlights brightening on the cars that crept away from Brent Cross or north towards the M1. But Thorne could not summon up the energy to head home. To call Louise and continue the argument. By the end of the day, he and Kitson had decided to grab an early di

Brian could be an arsehole in the wrong mood, and he wouldn’t let Tony Blair in without seeing an ID, but he’d watched every kind of copper from cadet to commander pass under his barrier, and he could usually be relied on when it came to a thumbnail sketch.

‘He’s DPS,’ Brian said.

‘Oh, great. You sure?’

‘Twenty quid says he’s from the Dark Side.’

Thorne knew better than to take the bet. ‘From Colindale, you reckon?’

‘Nah, he’s not local. His overcoat was too nice.’

‘You’re wasted on the gate, Brian.’

‘He says he’ll wait for you at reception…’

‘We’re popular suddenly,’ Kitson said, when Thorne hung up. ‘Maybe it’s the same lot who were in here the other day with the DCI.’

Thorne told her that Brian hadn’t thought so. ‘He’s keen though, whoever he is. Five o’clock on a Sunday.’

‘Somebody else as job-pissed as we are. Or with nobody who wants to spend a Sunday with him.’

Thorne said he’d be as quick as he could. He grabbed his coat and told Kitson to pick somewhere they could eat when he got back.

He took the stairs, the smell of the new carpet assaulting him again, taking him back to that uncertain moment somewhere in his childhood.

Adding to the apprehension.

Talking to police officers, ordinary citizens would often be overcome with feelings of guilt, however i

Racking his brain, Thorne trudged towards the ground floor of Becke House. Wondering exactly what it was that he had done.

THIRTEEN

They walked in the dark, across the parade square, through the HGV testing area and slowly around the track that bordered the athletics arena.

‘This seemed a hell of a lot bigger when I was a cadet.’

‘When was that?’ Thorne asked.

‘I left here eighteen years ago.’

It didn’t tell Thorne precisely how old Detective Sergeant Adrian Nu

‘You?’ Nu

‘A lot longer…’

Five minutes before, in those few moments between stepping into the reception area at Becke House and shaking hands, Thorne’s assessment of his visitor had been much the same as his friend’s at the gate.

Neither of them had lost their touch.

The Anti-Corruption Group dealt only with the most serious crimes involving Met officers, and Nu

Whatever the reason for his visit, Nu

‘I thought it would be best to wait down here.’ He’d walked towards the door; an invitation to follow him outside. ‘People tend to jump to conclusions. Start imagining all sorts.’

‘It wouldn’t be anything they haven’t imagined before,’ Thorne had said. Watching Nu

‘It’s all a lot different now though, right?’

They were standing beneath one of the orange lamps on the edge of the ru

However, as Nu

‘That’s pretty damning,’ Thorne said. ‘Especially coming from some of the people I’ve worked with over the years.’

‘It trickles down though, right? The drop in standards.’

‘Well, it’s hardly going to trickle up.’

‘CSOs,’ Nu

Thorne quickly marked Nu

They carried on walking. Nu

Thorne knew the chat was merely a precursor to conversation of a trickier kind, and he was happy to cut to the chase. ‘Listen, I was about to go and get something to eat,’ he said.

‘Is that an invitation?’ Nu

‘What was it you wanted?’

Nu

‘What’s your interest in Paul Ski