Death Message

Thorne’s team were all there, obviously, and he saw several officers from others on the same unit. He also recognised DS Richard Rawlings, with a group he guessed were from Albany Street. Nu

There were more coppers than Thorne had clapped eyes on at any crime scene he’d ever attended.

Especially if you included the dead one.

Eventually Thorne managed to grab Russell Brigstocke and guide him towards a corner of the patio. The light from a pair of carriage lamps attached to the back wall made the DCI’s face look even paler than it had been earlier in the day.

‘Ski

‘He wasn’t hugely keen, no,’ Thorne said. With so many experts around, he was not surprised that the process of covering arses had already begun.

‘Right. And actually, we got protection officers in position pretty quickly, all things considered.’

‘You don’t need to convince me, Russell.’

‘The wife’s screaming blue murder, saying we should have done more, but I think we did all we could.’

A uniformed officer brought them both teas in Styrofoam cups.

Ski

‘Brooks must have got inside some time between your visit and the surveillance team being put in place late afternoon.’

‘Maybe he was watching the house,’ Thorne said.

Brigstocke nodded towards the cordoned-off area around the back door. ‘Easy enough for him to get in,’ he said. ‘Broke a window and reached inside.’ He looked as though he wanted to spit out something bitter. ‘You’d have thought a fucking copper would have known better.’

‘Any prints?’

‘Plenty, apparently.’

They drank their tea, and Brigstocke filled Thorne in on a few more unpleasant details. Looking around as they talked, Thorne caught Rawlings looking his way more than once; and Nu

When Brigstocke was beckoned by the smallest of nods from Jesmond, he walked slowly back towards the house, like a man on his way into an oncologist’s office.

A little later, Thorne caught up with Hendricks when the pathologist came out to get coffee.

‘Your man’s on a roll,’ Hendricks said. ‘That’s three bodies in a week. He’s paying for my holiday.’

Thorne stared towards the back door and spoke as much to himself as to his friend: ‘They didn’t find the murder weapon.’

‘Sorry?’

‘He took it with him this time.’

‘So, he’s being careful.’

‘He’s left prints at every murder scene, left the weapon behind every time. It’s a bit bloody late to start being careful, isn’t it?’

‘Judging by how much force he used on that poor bastard’s head, he’s not exactly thinking rationally.’

‘He’s cool. That’s what you said.’

Hendricks shrugged. ‘Maybe I should stick to what’s going on inside dead people.’

Thorne let out a long, slow breath. Watched it drift up into the fug of blue-grey cigarette smoke that had formed above the patio. He noticed that several empty cups had been tossed into the narrow flower beds around its edge. Something else for the widow to complain about. ‘You’re probably right,’ he said, eventually.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Please yourself.’

‘I’m not sure I want to know.’ Over Hendricks’ shoulder, Thorne saw Rawlings moving past people, making his way, grim-faced, in their direction. He glanced back at Hendricks. ‘This should be fun.’

Hendricks saw what was coming and stepped away, suddenly fascinated by a hover-mower leaning against the fence.

‘Rawlings.’ Thorne had been prepared for some hostility as he proffered a hand, but saw that Ski

‘I can’t decide,’ Rawlings said. ‘I don’t know whether I’d rather have ten minutes alone in an interview room with the cunt who did this or fifteen with the cunt who organised the fucking protection.’

‘It’s a tough one.’

‘It’s OK, I know it wasn’t your call.’ He turned and stared blackly towards the corner where Trevor Jesmond and the area commander were deep in conversation. ‘The fuckers with the pips tell the likes of us what to do, right?’

Thorne said nothing.

‘Knew him ten fucking years. More. Only worked together for a couple of months, but we really hit it off, you know? Don’t know if it was the football or something else, but we clicked.’

‘Where was that?’

‘What?’

‘You and Paul working together.’

‘Flying Squad, late nineties. I was just moving on and he was getting his feet under the table. Like a fucking lifetime ago now…’

Thorne nodded sympathetically; watched as Rawlings looked back towards the house again, as he muttered ‘cunts’ and gave the dampcourse a kick. He couldn’t help thinking that Rawlings swore too much and wondered if he might be one of those coppers who was equally excessive when it came to sentiment; to showing it at moments like this. The righteous anger at the death of a fallen comrade; a great mate, a good copper; ‘just let me get hold of the bastard’… all that cobblers.

He remembered seeing Rawlings stroll into Ski

‘What happened yesterday morning?’ Thorne asked. ‘After we saw you.’

‘Come again?’

‘Did you stay long?’

Rawlings took a second, then smiled sadly. ‘Paul was all over the place, in a right old fucking state. Trying to persuade A

Thorne nodded. He and his father had done the same thing until the Alzheimer’s had got too bad. Before social niceties had gone out of the window, and the old man had begun to swear almost as much as Richard Rawlings. ‘So did you go?’ Thorne asked. Rawlings blinked, not understanding. ‘The game?’

Rawlings shook his head. ‘Listened to it on the radio in the end. Bleeding Doncaster equalised in the last fucking minute…’

The crowd at the front had dispersed by the time the body was brought out just before ten-thirty. The area commander and the DCIs were a picture of solemn outrage, while Nu

Once the mortuary van was on its way, Thorne took his final chance to speak to Hendricks, who immediately asked if he had called Louise yet. Thorne admitted that he hadn’t, neglecting to add that it would probably be better for both of them if they didn’t talk until the following day.

‘Shouldn’t go to bed on an argument,’ Hendricks said.

‘She could always call me…’