Death Message

He wondered if he could use the video clip that Brooks had sent…

What have I got to do with any of this?

You’re co

Thorne knew now that it was more than that, but he was also certain that he was the primary reason why Hendricks had been targeted. Chosen ahead of another biker, a police officer, anyone.

They crossed Oxford Street on a red light; slowed to weave through the traffic in front of them.

‘These two clubs are a couple of minutes’ walk from each other,’ Thorne said. ‘Which one do you want?’

Holland shook his head. ‘We do both of them together.’

‘No.’

‘Come on, aren’t we being stupid enough? Whatever you might think about Brooks, about why he’s been doing this…’

‘Fine. Together then.’

‘I’m shitting myself,’ Holland said, half smiling. ‘Don’t know about you.’

Thorne knew Holland was right and the last thing he needed was to put anybody else in danger. ‘We split up but try to stay in sight of each other.’ He knew that he should be afraid of a man who had killed three times, that it ought to make him careful, but it wasn’t the thought of confronting Marcus Brooks that was making his stomach jump.

Thorne turned right at Cambridge Circus and stopped the car on yellow lines outside the Spice of Life. They got out.

‘So, if I see Hendricks?’

Thorne’s fists clenched, and he felt something like relief that he was as angry at Phil Hendricks as he was at anybody else.

‘Jump on him,’ he said. ‘Jump on the fucker hard.’

It had only taken Porter ten minutes to find three officers willing to do as she asked without getting overly curious. She would have liked to put it down to respect, or even affection, but in a couple of cases she thought simple arselicking was closer to the truth.

It didn’t much matter.

On Thorne’s insistence she’d sent a DC to Hendrick’s place in Deptford, in case he decided to call it a night early. Another officer who lived south of the river was heading for New Cross – to a local place Hendricks used when he couldn’t be bothered to go all the way into town. Of all the venues Porter had mentioned to Thorne, she thought that one was the least likely. It was rather more sedate, less ‘scene’ than the others, and when Thorne had told her that Hendricks had not been answering his phone, she’d felt sure it was because he was somewhere noisy. She thought back to the mood he’d been in earlier, listening to the thrash-metal; guessed that he’d want to be somewhere he could dance, get off his face. Maybe fuck someone until he felt better.

More than anything, she wished she’d said ‘yes’ the day before, when he’d asked her to go out with him.

Of course, she knew now that Hendricks’ mood had been due to his conversation with Thorne. There hadn’t been time to get into that when Thorne had finally come clean, but once this was over, however it finished, she’d want to know why he hadn’t told her earlier; why he’d asked Hendricks not to tell her.

‘Guv…?’

Detective Sergeant Ke

The Adam was a members-only place, tucked away behind Charing Cross station. It was more bar than club most of the time, but once the dancing kicked off on a Friday or Saturday night, it could get pretty lively. Porter had been here a couple of times with Hendricks and she remembered that this was where he’d met his ex-boyfriend Brendan.

Parsons led the way to the front of the queue and flashed a warrant card at an immaculately dressed female bouncer. She leaned on the door and let them in.

It sounded like the club was in full swing.

Hurrying down the steep staircase, Porter checked her phone. The signal could get iffy below ground, and with Airwave units out of the question for obvious reasons, she and Thorne had agreed to keep in touch via their mobiles.

The music grew louder, and the thought smacked her in the face: if, wherever he was, Hendricks couldn’t hear his phone, what guarantee was there that she, Thorne or anyone else would hear theirs? If there was a signal, they’d need to keep the phones on vibrate.

She caught the look from the cloakroom girl as she and Parsons walked past, then pulled Parsons back as he was heading inside and raised her voice above the music. ‘Up for this, Ke

Parsons said he was.

Porter had given him a pretty good description of Phil Hendricks, and a somewhat less detailed one of Marcus Brooks. ‘Don’t worry, he’s never used a gun or a knife,’ she said, looking through the doorway. ‘And look, it’s heaving in there. There isn’t room to swing a hammer.’ She leaned in close to his ear. ‘Seriously. If I tell you to take someone out, don’t fucking think about it twice.’

The club was called Crush, and it lived up to its name, though the place itself wasn’t huge, and Thorne didn’t think there were more than a hundred people in there. But it was tight and sweaty. The speakers pumped out hardcore soul and Motown, and the small dance floor was heaving with people, most of whom seemed to be dancing at each other.

It looked like a serious business.

Thorne took the left-hand side and, as he moved from one end of the main room to the other, he tried to keep Holland in view. The problem wasn’t so much the absence of light as the fact that it kept moving. The reds and greens swooped, the circles of white light spun and jumped, and none of it stayed in the same place long enough to get a good look at anyone.

Thorne knew he wouldn’t need a good look to recognise Hendricks, but Brooks was a different matter.

There was a narrow corridor ru

He put his head around the door; was checked out by several men at the mirror and ignored. He shouted, ‘Phil,’ and waited. Somebody muttered something and someone else laughed, and the metal hand-dryer rattled against the wall to the bass-beat from the dance floor.

Outside, he caught sight of Holland, who shook his head, and the two of them moved back down the centre of the room to the L-shaped bar by the entrance.

There was a cheer from the dance floor at the opening notes of ‘Band of Gold’ by Freda Payne. Some kind of remix.

The barman wore a tight black T-shirt with ‘Crush’ across the chest.

‘Yes, guys?’ Australian.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ Thorne said. He realised instantly that it was a foolish thing to say and was grateful that the barman didn’t bother with a waspish comeback. He launched into a description of Hendricks.

There was a smile this time. ‘Loads of people in here look like that.’

Thorne had seen all sorts since he’d walked through the door. There were soul boys and mods in Fred Perrys. Combats and leathers and expensive jeans with barely any arse in them. No more piercings and tattoos than you’d see in any other club on a Saturday night.

‘Not that fucking many,’ Thorne said.

The barman swallowed. ‘Sorry, mate.’

‘So?’

A nod towards bar-staff further down. ‘Ask some of the other boys.’

Thorne slid along the bar, and got luckier.

‘He got an Arsenal tattoo on his neck?’

Thorne said yes; held his breath.

‘Right, I know the guy you mean. Not seen him tonight, though. You want to leave a message in case he comes in later?’

Thorne was already on his way out.