Death Message

‘Still haven’t learned to keep my big mouth shut, have I?’ the DS said. At Thursday’s briefing, he’d suggested that they might be able to find out where Brooks had bought his car. Aside from his trip into Soho with Thorne, he’d spent most of the time since regretting it.

He pushed a stack of papers across his desk, towards Thorne. ‘Used-car dealers in Acton, Brentford, Chiswick and Shepherd’s Bush. Hundreds of the buggers, and that’s without the dodgy ones.’ He reached for a Post-It on which he’d scribbled some notes. ‘Found a couple of decent second-hand BMWs you might be interested in. You know, whenever you fancy trading in the puke-mobile.’

‘Not listening,’ Thorne said.

Holland rolled back his chair, pointed at a thick pile of old newspapers and car magazines. ‘That’s been a treat, too. Calling up every low-life who might’ve flogged a dark Mondeo for cash a few days ago. You should hear the intake of breath when I tell them where I’m calling from. Like someone’s been killed because they’ve sold some poor sod a death-trap…’

‘Sounds like you’ve had fun,’ Thorne said. Holland had been joking, but as far as the cases they normally picked up went, the car was the murder weapon more often than the gun or the knife. Thorne handed the sheaf of papers back across, suddenly reminded that paperwork of his own was tucked away in his desk drawer.

Letters from a man to his dead wife and child.

‘The DCI was looking for you,’ Karim said, behind him.

Thorne turned. ‘Well, he wasn’t looking very hard. I’ve only been here and in the office.’

Karim pulled a what do I know? face, and followed it with one that suggested they continue the conversation somewhere else.

They walked into the corridor.

‘Brigstocke’s got some appointment or other.’

Karim had emphasised the word enough for Thorne to know that the DCI had not gone to see his dentist. Thorne asked the question with a look.

‘Solicitor,’ Karim said. ‘Sounds like this DPS business, whatever it is, has moved up a gear.’

Same as everything else, Thorne thought.

‘So, you’re acting DCI.’

‘What?’

‘Only until he gets back. Shouldn’t be more than a few hours.’

‘Why me? It isn’t usually me.’

‘You’re not usually around. Anyway, that’s what he said, and personally I reckon you could do with more responsibility.’

Karim was laughing as he wandered away, but Thorne’s mind was already elsewhere: thinking of something Sharon Lilley had said that night in the pub, when she’d told him that her DCI had stepped back to let her run the Tipper inquiry.

Had she mentioned a name?

She’d said that the idea had been for her to ‘try the shoes on for size’, get used to heading up a major investigation. But Thorne was thinking of less altruistic reasons why an officer might not want to be involved.

If he knew the prime suspect personally, for example. If he’d been one of the two men responsible for making him the prime suspect.

Thorne walked along the corridor towards his office. Lilley had said she was unsure where her DCI had ended up; something about him being the sort to land on his feet. Thorne made a mental note to try and find out where he had landed.

As he turned into the office, he almost bumped into Kitson coming out.

‘We’ve found Kemal,’ she said. ‘He’s in Bristol, or at least he was two days ago.’

‘Aren’t you even a bit disappointed?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I know you were angling for a trip to that Turkish fishing village.’

‘I’ll settle for a day out in Bristol,’ Kitson said. ‘It’s got good shops.’

They stood in the narrow corridor. There were posters behind glass promoting new initiatives: a crackdown on bail absconders; a campaign to keep hate crime out of sport. A bar-chart proudly trumpeting an increase in the clear-up rate of murders Met-wide to 87 per cent.

If they didn’t catch Marcus Brooks, Thorne thought, they’d need to redraw the chart.

‘There was a parking ticket issued two days ago in Bristol city centre. A Renault registered to Hakan Kemal.’

‘Has he paid it yet?’

‘I think he’s got bigger things to worry about.’

‘So what’s in Bristol?’

‘I’ve no idea. Somewhere to hide, I suppose.’

‘Are you going to talk to the sister again?’

From the office, Thorne became aware of a muffled beeping – the tone from his prepay, sounding in the pocket of his jacket. The sound of a message arriving. He walked casually past Kitson and across to the chair, trying to keep at least one ear on what she was saying.

‘… called earlier, and got her answering machine…’

Nodding, saying, ‘Go on,’ Thorne took out the phone and automatically angled his body away from Kitson, who had followed him inside, still talking.

‘I was thinking about having a word with the parents.’

A small envelope was flashing on the screen. Another number Thorne didn’t recognise.

‘But I think we should give Harika a chance to get back to me first.’

He clicked SHOW then scrolled down; pressed PLAY to begin the video clip.

At that moment everything they’d been talking about, everything that Thorne had been thinking, went out of his head in an instant. Kemal, the follow-up on Sharon Lilley’s DCI… everything. Kitson’s words faded, as though huge hands had been clamped hard across Thorne’s ears.

Like she was talking to him underwater.

The fifteen-second clip ended. Froze. A silver estate car; a man walking away from it.

Thorne was looking at a picture of Phil Hendricks.

TWENTY-FIVE

Hendricks laughed when Thorne told him. Nervous laughter perhaps, but he certainly sounded unconcerned. ‘He’s trying to wind you up, mate.’

‘Well, he’s fucking succeeded.’

‘That’s been the point all along, hasn’t it? Trying to get a reaction.’

Thorne could not remember what he’d blurted out at Kitson as he’d rushed from their office, carrying the prepay phone down to the far end of the corridor. He’d stepped into the stairwell, taken a large, unwelcome breath of apprehension from that new carpet, and dialled Hendricks’ mobile.

‘What are you doing today?’ Thorne asked.

‘Getting smashed over the head with a hammer, apparently.’

‘Don’t joke about it.’

‘It is a fucking joke.’

‘Listen, you should probably stay inside. And get somebody to stay with you-’

‘Just calm down…’

Thorne was trying his best, but it wasn’t easy. Hendricks’ refusal to be alarmed was only increasing his own agitation; his own panic. ‘For fuck’s sake, Phil. Have you not seen what’s been happening for the last couple of weeks? How many bodies have you worked on?’

‘Bikers and bent coppers, the lot of them. All people Brooks blamed for his girlfriend’s death. That’s the pattern, right?’

‘All people I got sent pictures of.’

‘It’s a wind-up, I’m telling you.’

‘Sorry, but you’re not the one who gets to make that decision.’

Hendricks laughed again, but to Thorne it felt like a finger jabbed into his chest. ‘Before you start playing the by-the-book copper, you should remember who you’re talking to, mate.’

‘Who gets to do your PM, Phil? Do you have to nominate someone?’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

‘Seriously,’ Thorne said, ‘I’m interested.’

‘And I’m the one that’s supposed to be the drama queen. Christ…’

Thorne stared down over the narrow banister, listening to his friend breathe. This was how they argued. Politics or the Premiership, Thorne would be the one to lose it, to do most of the shouting, while Hendricks mocked him; blasé or sarcastic, then often seething for hours, even days afterwards.

‘What have I got to do with any of this?’ Hendricks said, eventually. ‘Just think about it for one minute, and you’ll see how ridiculous it is.’

‘You’re co