Death Message

‘Let’s wait and see.’

Kemal was perhaps ten years older than his sister. A small man, with thi

Kitson looked across at the young black woman sitting next to Kemal. Gina Bridges, the duty solicitor, wore a beautifully tailored grey jacket and trousers and was perfectly made-up. She made Kitson feel like a badly dressed bag of shit.

‘You should tell your client that he isn’t going anywhere,’ Kitson said. ‘He can sit there being monosyllabic for twenty-four hours if he wants. Then I’ll happily get an extension and we can start all over again.’

Bridges smiled. Her teeth were perfect as well. ‘Until these prints of yours come back, presuming they’re of any use to you, I really don’t see that you have enough to hold him. Mr Kemal is cooperating fully, as far as I’m concerned.’

Kitson turned back to Kemal. ‘I don’t think you thought this murder through, Hakan. I think you panicked, which is why you dumped the knife in a litter bin. Nobody’s got you pegged as a master criminal, OK? Maybe you and Deniz had some kind of argument which got out of hand. Maybe he said something you didn’t like. You probably didn’t mean to kill him.’ She tried to make eye contact. ‘Is that what happened?’

Kemal was staring at a point somewhere to the left of her. He shook his head.

‘If you didn’t kill Deniz Sedat, why did you run? Why close up the shop and try to hide in Bristol?’

‘There is no evidence that Mr Kemal was hiding from anybody,’ the solicitor said. ‘He informed me that he was staying with his cousin.’

Kitson took a deep breath, glanced up at the camera in the corner of the interview room. At the digital clock that told her she’d been banging her head against a wall for nearly forty minutes. ‘Did you know Deniz Sedat?’

Kemal wiped his mouth, nodded.

‘For the benefit of the recording, please.’

‘Yes. I knew him.’

‘And did you see him on Saturday, November the sixth?’

He dropped his eyes to the tabletop. The grunt sounded positive.

‘Did you see Deniz Sedat at the Black Horse public house in Finsbury Park on the evening of November the sixth?’

‘I saw him.’

Kitson tried to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘What happened, Hakan?’

Kemal placed his hands against his head; pressing as though he were trying to push through the skull. After half a minute he looked up, and directly at Kitson for the first time.

She repeated the question, although Kemal’s gaze was making her bristle with discomfort. She’d felt sized-up plenty of times, and stared right back at men whose darker thoughts were all but dripping down their faces, but she couldn’t remember feeling quite so… disapproved of.

Kemal refused to say another word.

Later, having terminated the interview, Kitson blew off a little steam with the custody sergeant, then wandered across to the small waiting area, where Gina Bridges was sitting, a bundle of papers balanced on her knees.

Off duty, the woman was friendly enough for Kitson to forgive her appearance. They chatted for a few minutes about schedules and kids, and Kitson moaned about interviewing people who were determined to say as little as possible.

The solicitor laughed, and even though she was looking at things from the other side of the fence, she was happy to admit that Hakan Kemal was a particularly difficult customer. She told Kitson that she’d barely been able to get two words out of him herself.

‘Hi, it’s me again. Just ringing to see how you’re doing. Give us a call when you get this.’

For the third time that day, Thorne left a message on Hendricks’ answering machine. For the third time, Hendricks’ mobile had rung and the machine had cut in when the call had been dropped. Thorne thought about ringing Louise. He knew she would have spoken to Phil by now. In the end he decided he wasn’t going to chase him.

He was getting more than slightly a

Stupid fucker.

It could have been an awful lot worse…

Outside Thorne’s office window, the sky was brooding as much as he was. It was dense and darkening; there was rain coming.

He thought about what Brigstocke had told him. It was ridiculous, no question, but it also made him angry that the DPS could go after someone for something like that while Ski

When Yvo

‘How’s it going with Kemal?’ he asked.

‘I was going to talk to you about that.’

Thorne was relieved that his powers of detection hadn’t completely deserted him. ‘Not got a result then?’

She talked him through the session at Colindale. ‘It’s not like he’s denying anything, you know? I just don’t think he wants to talk to me.’

‘Have you tried bribing him with coffee?’

‘I think he has a problem with women.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘Shut up.’ She pressed her chin against the lip of her mug. ‘I don’t know if he’s that way all the time, or if he just doesn’t want to talk to a woman about this. Either way…’

‘You want me to have a go.’

‘We could have a crack together,’ Kitson said. ‘After lunch, if you’ve got half an hour.’

Thorne held up his coffee. ‘A biscuit would have done the trick.’

‘All gone, mate. Have you not seen how much weight Karim is putting on?’

Thorne was more than happy to get involved in something where he would be sure of his ground. Where there was a chance of making some progress. He told Kitson he’d think about it, and walked down to the toilets, where he found himself standing next to Andy Stone at the urinal.

‘This is where the big knobs hang out,’ Stone said.

Thorne said nothing. He’d heard it before anyway. When he’d finished, he zipped up and turned away towards the sinks. ‘Keeping out of trouble, Andy?’

‘Trying my best.’ A little of the confidence had given way to caution.

Thorne banged at the soap dispenser to no avail. Stuck his hands under the tap. ‘Good lad.’

‘What about you?’

‘Oh, you know what it’s like. Some of us need to watch what we’re doing a bit more than others.’

Stone laughed and nodded.

‘And some of us need to watch what we’re saying.’ Thorne let the water run until it was red hot. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

In the mirror, Thorne watched as Stone zipped himself up and walked out without a word. He wondered if he always left without bothering to wash his hands. Guessed he just wasn’t feeling quite as talkative as he did when beer and tasty barmaids were involved.

When he felt the phone buzz in his pocket, Thorne moved quickly across to the hand-dryer. There was precious little power and the air was cold. He wiped his hands on the back of his trousers and reached into his jacket.

The message from Marcus Brooks he’d known was coming.

Thorne leaned against the sink and played the video clip. He watched as a man walked a small, black dog along a dimly lit street; tossed a cigarette butt into the gutter; waited while the dog sniffed around the base of a tree.

Thorne recognised the man straight away. He’d had bigger shocks.

The police officer who had once called himself ‘Squire’ would not be getting away with anything for very much longer.