Death Message

SIXTEEN

The sun was just coming up, and Thorne scraped a thin crust of frost from his windscreen with the edge of a CD case. The trees on his road – he had no idea what sort they were – were completely bare, and all had been severely cut back for the winter. Looking along the pavement, there was an almost perfect line of them. Bleached and stumpy in the half-light.

The message had woken him half an hour before. The tone he’d set up on the prepay handset.

He’d stood there in his dressing-gown, the cat pushing at his shins, and watched the clip. If he hadn’t recognised the man, he might have thought he’d been sent some random snippet of amateur porno. But dark and fuzzy as the image was, there was no mistaking the face; the punter being serviced by a woman who was almost certainly a hooker and was definitely not the man’s wife.

Not Mrs Bin-bag.

Thorne had stared at his other phone, at the mobile that was being monitored, and waited anxiously to see if the message would be sent to that handset too. He had given it a couple of minutes: felt colder and more uncertain with every few seconds that passed.

Louise had staggered through, pulling on a robe and asking who his message had been from.

‘Some fucking upgrade offer…’

‘What?’

‘Do I want an upgrade?’

She mumbled something, still half asleep, then turned and walked back into the bedroom.

Brigstocke had sounded only barely more awake when he’d answered the phone. ‘Fucking hell, Tom…’

‘How much surveillance have we got on Martin Cowans?’

‘What? Er… there’s an officer at his home address.’

‘What about the clubhouse?’

‘Can’t we do this later?’

Thorne had heard a woman’s voice; a muffled question as a hand was placed over the mouthpiece; children shouting somewhere. The Brigstockes had three kids to get ready for school every morning. ‘Russell?’

‘Yeah, there’s someone at the clubhouse. And I think S &O have got people on the place as well.’

‘How many?’

‘Fucked if I know. Nobody’s breaking into there though, are they? You said it was like Fort Knox.’

‘We thought we’d got Ski

Brigstocke was wide awake now, and irritated. ‘We’ll talk about this at work, OK? I’ve got a meeting at nine…’

Thorne tossed the CD case back into the boot and climbed into the car. He had already started the engine, giving the BMW’s ancient heating system a chance to take the chill off, but the steering wheel was still freezing to the touch and he couldn’t be arsed to go back inside for his gloves. He looked at his watch; it was a good time to be driving. All being well he’d get in before seven-thirty.

Pulling the car round into a three-point turn, his eye was caught by movement above him, and he glanced at the tree opposite; at a fat, wet pigeon, perched awkwardly, halfway up. Its movements – the umbrella-shakes of its feathers – made it seem as if it were shivering.

Cold and pissed off; naked as the tree.

He didn’t quite have the place to himself, but for half an hour or so he was able to sit in relative peace and quiet. To eat toast and drink tea, and worry about the health and safety of a drug dealing, heavily tattooed gangster. To reflect on a course of action that meant he was the only one who knew Martin Cowans was in immediate danger.

To wonder if it was the stupidest thing he’d ever done.

It was a tough chart to top…

From his window, he watched officer after officer coming through the Peel Centre gates. Some he knew well; some he didn’t know from Adam; others he’d no more than smiled at when they’d passed on the stairs or in the canteen. Somewhere, there was a police officer who, in league with a friend or colleague, had killed a gang leader and sent an i

Thorne wanted to find that man. Wanted him every bit as much as he wanted Marcus Brooks.

‘Bright and early, Tom,’ Karim said, marching straight across to the kettle. He held up the teabags, asking if Thorne was ready for another.

Thorne nodded. ‘Plenty of fucking worms to catch.’

He wasn’t the only one making an early start. Richard Rawlings was on the phone before Thorne had finished his second mug of tea.

‘Any news?’

‘The PM confirms that the cause of death was blunt trauma to the head, and puts the time of death somewhere between three and five on Saturday afternoon.’

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

‘I’m not sure what else I can tell you,’ Thorne said.

‘Any news about Brooks? Any progress…?’

Nobody had spoken officially to Rawlings about Marcus Brooks, but Thorne was not surprised that he knew the name of their prime suspect. He could have found out through any number of sources: jungle drums; friends or friends of friends on the squad. Or even Ski

And there was another possibility: a simple explanation for Rawlings knowing all about Marcus Brooks; for knowing more about the case than anybody else.

‘Is there anything you can tell us?’ Thorne said.

There was a pause. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as why Marcus Brooks, or anyone else, would want to smash your friend’s head in with a hammer.’

‘No fucking idea.’

‘That’s your first “fucking” of the conversation. I’m pleased you’re making an effort.’

Thorne was surprised to hear Rawlings laughing. ‘Well, I like to start off slowly, build up during the day, you know?’

Afterwards, Thorne failed to return several messages: one from Keith Ba

He heard someone outside the door telling Kitson how good she’d been on TV the previous night. When she came in, Thorne added his own congratulations.

‘Anything?’

‘A few people ringing in to say they saw someone dropping something into the litter bin that could have been a knife, but I don’t think that gets us very far. The woman hasn’t called back.’

‘There’s time yet.’

Kitson was something of a closet football fan and they talked about the previous night’s European results. Arsenal were now at the bottom of their group having lost at home to Hamburg. Thorne hadn’t had a chance to talk to Hendricks yet, who he knew would be devastated.

‘Did you see the highlights?’ Kitson asked.

‘Better things to do,’ Thorne said.

He walked around to Colindale station; waited for Brigstocke to emerge from his meeting with the borough commander.

‘Sorry I called so early.’

‘Why the sudden urgency?’ Brigstocke asked.

‘No urgency. I just thought we should cover our arses.’

‘Like I said on the phone, I think they’re covered.’

‘It’s understandable that we’re focusing on the Ski

‘We’re not presuming anything.’

‘That he shouldn’t want to hit them again.’

‘No, you’re right.’

‘You said there are people on the home address and the clubhouse?’

They walked into the station’s reception area, and out. Began to walk back across to Becke House. The sky was a grey wash, but here and there were glimpses of sun, like streaks of milky flesh seen through thin and frayed material.

Brigstocke smiled as he buttoned his overcoat. ‘It’s good to know you’re taking the welfare of the city’s biker gangs so seriously.’