Death Message

It was the sort of surprise that Thorne enjoyed. That London provided now and again.

‘One of them went for me when I was a kid,’ Holland said. ‘Vicious fuckers.’

Thorne moved a few feet along the wall, towards the warehouse. There was a track down to a small area of accessible wasteland, canal-side of the huge metal skips and stacks of wooden pallets. Twenty feet further on, the scrub became the car park of a squat, grey pub; a sign below the flag of St George advertised ‘Food and Live Premiership Football’.

He replayed the video in his head.

It was here, or somewhere very like here, that Brooks had hidden, to film Martin Cowans’ sordid encounter. Had he followed them? Maybe Brooks had set up Cowans in advance, had paid the hooker himself. Thorne tried to remember the fuzzy image of the man with the woman kneeling in front of him; to picture the outlines of the buildings just visible against the black sky behind them. He stared around in the vain hope of seeing something familiar.

‘Are we looking for something?’ Holland asked.

Thorne saw only a distant gasometer, and, emerging from a house in the terrace below them, an Asian woman waving a stick, sending a clump of pigeons rising from her front garden.

He wasn’t sure what he would have done if he had recognised something.

‘What’s that?’ Holland asked, pointing.

Thorne looked down and saw something football-sized and almost round in the water. It bobbed against the black brick, catching the light. ‘It’s a coconut,’ he said. ‘Wrapped in plastic.’

‘Come again?’

‘Some of the local Hindus chuck them in during religious festivals, as a sacrifice. It’s the closest they can get to a sacred river.’

‘The Grand Union Canal?’

‘Well, in theory, the coconuts can float all the way out to sea. Maybe find their way into the Ganges one day.’

‘That’s fucking ridiculous. They’ll be washed up in Southend, if they’re lucky.’

‘It’s just a gesture, Dave.’

Holland shook his head, carried on staring. ‘Is it even possible?’

‘Nothing wrong with being optimistic,’ Thorne said.

Especially when it was just about all you had left…

They wandered for a few minutes along the main road, resisting the temptation of the food on offer at the pub, and opting instead for lunch at a Burger King. Thorne felt a twinge of altogether more manageable guilt as they carried Whoppers, fries and onion rings to a table near the window and tucked in.

‘Sophie still smelling the fags on you?’ Thorne asked.

Holland nodded, grunting through a mouthful of food, but Thorne could see a wariness around his eyes at the mention of his girlfriend’s name. She had never been Thorne’s biggest fan. He couldn’t remember ever falling out with her, had not even met her that many times, but she had some idea that he was the sort of copper she never wanted Holland to turn into. Whatever she might think of him, it was clear to Thorne that the woman only had Holland’s best interests at heart. And that she was a pretty good judge of character.

‘I bet the baby keeps her busy.’

‘Chloe’s three,’ Holland said.

‘You know what I mean.’

Holland looked like he hadn’t the faintest idea. He went to the toilet, and stopped at the counter on his way back to get them both tea.

‘Christ, you’ll be thinking about schools any minute.’

‘Already started, mate.’

‘Anywhere decent round your place?’

‘Sophie wants to get out of London.’ Holland looked down, stirred his tea.

‘OK.’ Thorne wondered how long that idea had been floating around; if it was more than just an idea. ‘You not keen?’

Holland shrugged, certainly not keen on talking about it.

‘Well, hopefully she’s less pissed off with me these days,’ Thorne said. Holland was about to reply, but Thorne stopped him. ‘It’s fine, I know what she thinks. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Why “these days”?’

‘Well, I’m not leading you into quite so much trouble.’ Holland’s face darkened a little, so Thorne tried to lighten things, beckoning with a finger across the table. ‘Not luring you towards the shadows…’

They said nothing else until they got up to leave, when Holland stood waiting for Thorne to get his jacket on, and said: ‘What makes you think you were leading me anywhere?’

With no further news of any sort, Thorne was tense and jumpy by the end of the day. Unaware of quite how much he needed a drink until it was suggested. He happily joined Stone, Holland and Karim on their way across to The Oak, but when Kitson caught up with him in the pub’s car park he let the others go on ahead.

‘Where’ve you been all day?’ she asked.

‘Trying to stay invisible,’ Thorne said. ‘Why are you so horribly full of yourself?’

‘My mystery woman called again.’

‘Told you she would.’

‘And she’s not a mystery any more…’

‘Go on then.’

‘Harika Kemal.’

Thorne took a second. ‘Sedat’s girlfriend? The one who was in the toilet?’ Kitson nodded. Thorne twisted his face into a parody of confusion.

‘Fuck knows,’ Kitson said. ‘I’m bringing her in for a chat tomorrow and we’ll find out.’

‘Sounds like something to celebrate, though.’

‘God, yes.’ They walked towards the entrance. ‘What about you?’

‘Let’s stick with good news…’

Inside, The Oak was busy for a midweek evening with the noisiest and smokiest pockets indicating the presence of the men and women from the Peel Centre and Colindale, the majority of the pub’s regular clientele. The ‘traditional’ atmosphere and drab decor had remained unchanged for as long as Thorne could remember, thanks to a landlord who now understood that his customers’ tastes did not run far beyond beer and simple pub grub. He had occasionally tried to ring the changes, but usually with little success. A quiz night had ended in a brawl. Two weeks earlier there had been a karaoke evening in the back bar, but two rat-arsed constables caterwauling their way through ‘I Fought the Law’ had forced several of the most hardened drinkers to make an early night of it.

Thorne and Kitson got in their drinks and joined Holland and the others. They congratulated Kitson on the break in her case, wished her luck with her interview, but nobody raised a glass just yet. That would have to wait until she’d made an arrest.

‘What’s it been, then?’ Kitson said. ‘Four, five days, since the last message from Brooks?’

Thorne took a healthy gulp of beer. ‘Five. The Ski

‘That might be the lot. He’s got a couple of the bikers, a copper he thinks is responsible for fitting him up. Maybe he’s called it a day.’

‘Maybe…’

‘How much revenge can anyone want?’

‘Depends how much they’ve suffered.’

‘It’s not going to bring back his girlfriend, is it? Or his kid.’

‘Imagine they were your kids,’ Thorne said.

When Brigstocke arrived, the group shuffled around the table to make room, and began to let off steam. They joked about a recent court case which had seen a man prosecuted, having taken payment from a mentally disturbed woman in return for promising to kill her, and then failing to honour the contract.

Karim said it was a waste of money, that somebody in the CPS needed shooting. Stone wondered, while they were on the subject, how much it was costing to play nursemaid to a bunch of ‘hairy-arsed drug dealers’. Holland said that if they really wanted to talk about waste, they should do something about the time and energy he’d had to spend over the past two days filling in mandates and fucking requisition forms. That it was small wonder they weren’t solving more cases…

Stone raised his glass. ‘Here’s your answer, matey. They’ve done research proving that alcohol – in moderation, obviously – can help you think more clearly. I swear. They should just let us all have a drink or two during the day.’ There was laughter, a couple of small cheers from around the table. ‘I’m telling you… stick a beer barrel in the Incident Room, a few optics by the coffee machine, and watch the clear-up rates go through the fucking roof.’