Death Message

‘OK.’

‘We’re just talking about the idea of kids, Tom. Why should that be scary?’

Thorne knew that she was right, in theory, but also knew it was not quite as simple as she was making out.

He wasn’t scared of vampires or zombies, in theory, but a well-made horror movie could still scare the shit out of him.

TWENTY-ONE

Davey Tindall looked up from his paper and eyed the two men at his window above off-the-shelf reading glasses.

‘Eight quid,’ he said, tearing off two tickets. He sighed when he saw the warrant cards; tossed the tickets into the bin and nodded towards the door that led through to the auditorium. ‘In you go then. Film’s already started, mind you.’

‘Does that really matter?’ Thorne asked. He peered at the poster taped below the box-office window. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Shy and Shaven has too much in the way of plot.’

Holland thanked Tindall for the offer, explaining that they weren’t from Clubs and Vice, looking for a freebie. Thorne told him where they were from and that they needed a word.

‘I was in with your lot the other day,’ Tindall said. ‘DC Stone and the other bloke, Asian…’

‘That was the other day. With two other officers. And before you spoke to Marcus Brooks.’

Tindall puffed out his cheeks, folded his paper.

‘Let’s go through to the back and put the kettle on,’ Thorne said.

The cinema was one of a string in Soho, all managed by a south London family who also owned clubs and massage parlours and ran a network of girls in and out of several of the city’s top hotels. Tindall had been on the payroll for years, doing a variety of jobs. He worked the box office, ferried girls around, collected the takings. He also passed a tip or two on to DCI Keith Ba

Tindall locked up the ticket booth and led Thorne and Holland to a small office that doubled as a storeroom. His skin looked as grey as it had on the tape Karim had shown to Thorne, although the eyes were blacker, darting around behind his glasses, as if desperately looking for a friend, or an exit. He had to be pushing sixty; short and whippet-thin, with hair that was silver, yellowing at the temples. He wore new-looking jeans with a sharp crease ironed down the legs, his top half lost inside a thin green cardigan.

‘No tea,’ he said.

‘It was just an expression,’ Thorne said. ‘We’re not stopping.’

There were newspapers and magazines scattered across what passed for a desk and piles of videotapes on the floor. A Je

‘When did you talk to Brooks?’ Holland asked.

‘Who says I did?’

‘We got some of his stuff. We found your phone number.’

‘So? I’ve got lots of people’s numbers. Doesn’t mean I ring them all up every day.’

The Scottish accent was stronger than Thorne remembered from the tape. He wondered if Tindall thickened it when he didn’t feel like communicating; when it might be costly.

‘We can go through your phone records easily enough,’ Holland said. ‘We can go through all sorts of stuff; dredge up all ma

Thorne flicked through the calendar. ‘He’s not talking about DCI Ba

‘I hadn’t spoken to him when I came in on Sunday, I swear.’

‘So, when did you speak to him?’ Thorne said.

Tindall thought about it. ‘He called up the next day. I was here.’

‘And you never thought to tell us?’

‘Slipped my mind,’ Tindall said. He began digging around in drawers and cupboards. He asked Thorne and Holland if either of them had a cigarette. Holland had a packet of ten for emergencies, but kept his mouth shut.

‘Have you seen him?’ Holland asked.

Tindall shook his head. ‘I have not.’

‘You sure?’ Thorne shoved some papers aside and leaned back against the edge of the table. ‘Think really hard.’

‘He wanted a car, OK? Asked if I knew someone who could get him something quickly, for cash.’

Thorne and Holland exchanged a glance. Tindall was talking about the day before Cowans was killed. Thorne wondered if that was why Brooks had wanted the car. He would certainly have needed it to follow Cowans, if the biker had driven around in search of a hooker and headed down to the canal once he’d found one he liked the look of.

‘Did you help him?’

‘I had a few contacts in the motor trade years ago,’ Tindall said. ‘Back when I got to know the lad, when we were hanging about with some of the same people. But not any more. I told him he’d have to try someone else.’

‘And that was it?’

‘That was it, aye. Just a couple of minutes. A cough and a spit.’

‘You didn’t suggest anyone in particular?’ Holland said.

‘Told you, I’ve been out of that game a long time.’

‘No offence, Davey,’ Thorne said, ‘but you’re full of it.’

‘I swear-’

‘Swear all you like. I reckon you helped “the lad” out; for old time’s sake, because you feel sorry for him, who knows? Maybe you’ve been helping him ever since he came out of prison. Fixing him up with the right people…’

‘Have I fuck.’

‘None of your friends on the force can help you with this one. Not if you’ve been aiding and abetting a murderer, mate. Especially one who’s taken to killing coppers.’

‘Look, he called again yesterday, all right?’ Tindall looked quickly from one to the other; checking to see he’d provoked a reaction. ‘Late last night. Got me out of fucking bed, matter of fact.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He needs somewhere to stay,’ Tindall said. Thorne looked across at Holland again. Tindall had to be telling the truth. There was no way he could have known about the raid in Hammersmith. ‘Wanted to know if I could think of anywhere he could crash for a few days. Someone who’d put him up and leave him alone.’

‘And?’

‘We talked about one or two people he could try.’

‘Such as?’ Thorne asked.

Tindall looked pained. ‘Come on, you know the sort of people I’m talking about…’

Thorne grabbed a ballpoint from the table, tore a strip of newspaper off and passed them both across. ‘Write the names down.’

Tindall was starting to look like he needed that cigarette very badly. He cursed under his breath as he scribbled down a few names, pretending to dredge them up. From the cinema on the other side of the wall, the soundtrack of the main feature was all too audible.

‘Someone sounds out of breath,’ Holland said. He listened for a few more seconds. ‘That’s top-quality grunting.’

‘How many’s in there?’ Thorne asked.

Tindall sniffed. ‘Half a dozen…’

Thorne was amazed there were even that many enjoying Shy and Shaven at eleven o’clock in the morning. Why hadn’t they just stayed at home and watched something on DVD? With whatever kind of stuff you were into now available on disc or download, Thorne couldn’t understand why anyone went to porno cinemas any more, or picked magazines off the top shelf while pretending they were looking at What Hi-Fi? He could only presume they enjoyed the sleazy thrill of it; like movie stars getting caught with fifty-dollar whores when they could sleep with any woman they wanted.

Thorne took the piece of paper that Tindall thrust gracelessly at him. ‘Thanks, Davey,’ he said. ‘We’d best let you get back to work. Now, you will let us know if he calls again, won’t you?’

Tindall scoffed: ‘You think I need more of this shite?’

Thorne walked slowly past him towards the door. ‘Seriously,’ he said, ‘I hope nothing else slips your mind. You know what Ba