Death Message

‘This isn’t about your sister at all,’ Kitson said. The blood was rising to her face as she spoke. ‘This is about you.’

‘No…’

‘You didn’t kill Sedat because of what he did to your sister. You killed him because he told you about it. Because he disrespected you.’

Kemal waved his hand, trying to shut her up. ‘No, no. He disrespected both of us.’

‘You’re the animal,’ Kitson said.

Then it all came pouring out. How Kemal had gone to the Black Horse that night, intent on confronting Deniz Sedat, with a carving knife taped inside his coat. He told them that he’d been pla

By now, Thorne and Kitson were convinced that Harika had seen it happen anyway. That she’d come into the car park a little earlier than she’d first claimed and seen her brother leaving the scene; perhaps even witnessed the murder itself.

‘I moved in close and looked at him,’ Kemal said. ‘When the knife was all the way in. I made sure he could see how much I was enjoying myself.’

There was plenty of time to get the rest of the details later, and Kitson was on the point of winding things up when Kemal leaned across and began to confer with his solicitor.

Gina Bridges listened, then grimaced, as though she were only asking the question because she was obliged to do so, and already knew the answer. ‘Mr Kemal says that he would like to make a deal.’

‘I’m very happy for him,’ Kitson said.

‘He says he has information.’

Thorne smiled politely. ‘Tell him to save it up; use it to entertain his cellmate.’

‘I know things,’ Kemal said. ‘Drug deals, places where money gets lost, all sorts. I hear these things from Sedat, from his friends, different people.’

‘Not our department,’ Kitson said. ‘Write it all down and we’ll pass it on.’ She verbally terminated the interview and switched off the tape.

Bridges gathered her papers together. Thorne stood up.

‘What about a murder? That’s your department, yes?’

Kitson rolled her eyes at Thorne. ‘You’ve got thirty seconds.’

‘A young woman and her son, killed in June. They were run over in Bethnal Green, but it was not an accident.’

Thorne sat down again. He could feel something prickle at the back of his neck. ‘Whatever you think you know, Hakan, your timing’s bloody awful.’

‘I know who killed them…’

Kitson winked at Bridges. ‘Unfortunately for your client, that’s one we’ve more or less put to bed.’

‘I ca

‘I told you,’ Thorne said, ‘you’re too late. Not only do we know who the man is; he’s dead himself.’

Kitson pushed back her chair.

‘No, no.’ Kemal was waving his hands again. ‘He is certainly not dead. Not the man who organised the murder.’

Thorne looked at Kitson. So, maybe Martin Cowans hadn’t given the order. But if not him, then it had to have been Tucker or Hodson. Kitson shrugged.

‘Go on then,’ Thorne said. ‘What’s his name?’

When Kemal spoke, Thorne felt as though the breath had been punched out of him; as though the air had been sucked out of the room.

He tried to swallow. Couldn’t.

Aware of Kitson’s eyes on him, of everyone’s eyes on him, Thorne slowly asked Hakan Kemal to say the name again.

Kemal could see that something was happening. He hesitated, then said, ‘Zarif…’

THIRTY-FOUR

The speed camera got him doing fifty-five on the Camberwell Road. He swore and slammed his hands against the wheel; like his mood wasn’t bad enough already. He put his foot down again to make it through a set of lights, and left it there. He’d keep an eye out for any more cameras, but he certainly wasn’t worried about being pulled over. He could easily sort out any jumped-up fucker on traffic duty; was right up for a ruck, if it came down to it.

He turned left at the Green towards Peckham and New Cross.

He always got himself out of the shit; that was what he did. Whenever things had got sticky – and they had, plenty of times – he was the one who sorted it. And until a couple of weeks before, until Marcus Brooks turned up, things had been looking pretty good.

The cash from Martin Cowans and others like him; the pubs he drank in for free; the nods and the favours, and the saunas he could drop into for a late-night freebie at the end of a shitty day.

He always sorted it.

He had made the arrangements all those years before, when Tipper had got greedy and needed dealing with; and he had renegotiated an even more lucrative deal with Cowans afterwards. He had been the one to go into Tipper’s place and do the necessary. And he had been the one who had found Marcus Brooks. Lined him up nicely. After that, it was only fair that he’d taken a little more than half of whatever had come their way, and Ski

Ski

Jesus… as fast as he was going up the Peckham Road, there was still some boy-racer up his arse. He slammed on the anchors, two, three times for no good reason, until the tosser backed off. Then he floored it again.

Of course, Ski

He gripped the wheel even tighter, thought about the choice Thorne had given him earlier, when he’d called. The option he’d been offered. It wasn’t hard to work out what Ski

A week before, there’d been no way of knowing what Ski

Cowans had been calling even before Ski

Did he know what was happening?

Did he know why?

They paid him enough, so couldn’t he do something about it?

Yeah, well, once he’d found out who was knocking off the bikers, it was fairly obvious why, but he couldn’t do a fat lot, except tell them to keep their hairy fucking heads down.

It didn’t do them much good, obviously, and it was almost fu

Brooks coming after himself and Ski

He could do without the headache, no question, but he’d get it sorted. He wasn’t too worried about Brooks; he’d stitched up the toe-rag once already and this time he’d be waiting for him.

Thorne would be even easier to deal with.

He knew that the cocky fucker didn’t have anything concrete on him, and he also had a strong suspicion that he wasn’t exactly squeaky clean himself. That would be the way to go at him: he could dig up plenty of shit when he had to and he knew exactly how to make it stick.

Then he would offer Tom Thorne a few fucking options of his own.

He swung the car right towards Peckham Rye, then turned into a side street and eventually found a parking space fifty yards from his front door. He’d leave a note on the windscreen of the car outside his house; make sure the owner knew better than to park there again.

The other car turned into the road as he was stepping out. He’d just slammed his door when he saw the lights; was pressing himself back against the door to let the car past when he saw the headlights flick on to main beam and swing fast towards him.