The man came back from the Gents’ and took his seat at the bar. Moloney handed him his pint of lager. When his Guinness had settled and been topped up, he raised the glass.
‘Good health,’ Moloney said.
Thorne and Chamberlain had shared a bottle and a half of red wine with their dinner, and the thickening head may have had something to do with his reaction, his over-reaction, when he’d walked into the living room. The smell had hit him the second he’d opened the outer door.
‘Fucking hell, Phil. Not in my flat…’
‘It’s only a bit of weed. I’m not shooting up. Jesus…’
‘Do it round at Brendan’s.’
Hendricks had needed to make a real effort not to laugh, and not just because he was stoned. ‘Take a day off, why don’t you?’
Thorne stalked off towards the kitchen. ‘I fucking wish…’
Waiting for the kettle to boil, Thorne had calmed down and tried to decide whether to apologise or just pretend the argument had never happened. He’d recently discovered that, within the City of London, a pregnant woman in need of the toilet was still legally allowed to piss in a policeman’s helmet. That dope should still be against the law was, he knew, only marginally sillier.
‘Make us a piece of toast while you’re in there,’ Hendricks had shouted.
‘What!?’
‘I’m kidding.’ Then, Hendricks hadn’t been able to stop himself laughing any more.
If he was honest, it was the associations that went with dope-smoking that riled Thorne. He’d tried it a couple of times at school and, even then, passing an increasingly soggy joint around and talking about how great the shit was and how they all had the munchies seemed ridiculous to him. The drugs being taken in the corners of playgrounds these days were more dangerous, but there was none of that palaver. The kids just dropped a pill and got on with it.
There was also the fact that his ex-wife had liked the occasional joint, provided, so it turned out, by the creative-writing lecturer she’d later left him for. Thorne had smelled it on him, the day he’d walked up his own stairs and dragged the skinny sod out of his own bed. Why he hadn’t punched him or put in an anonymous call to the Drugs Squad was still something Thorne occasionally woke up wondering about.
Thorne had mumbled something approaching an apology as he’d carried his tea into the living room. Hendricks had smiled and shaken his head.
They sat listening to the first Gram Parsons album. Thorne was wide awake and watched as Hendricks grew drowsier, then perked up, then began to wilt again…
‘The shit we have to deal with is the price we pay for being human,’ Hendricks announced, out of the blue.
Thorne slurped his tea. ‘Right…’
‘The difference between us and dogs or dolphins or whatever.’ Hendricks took a drag of his joint. He was starting to sound a little like someone stoned on a sketch-show. ‘We’re the only animal that has an imagination…’
‘As far as we know…’ Thorne said.
‘As far as we know, yeah. And all the dark, dark shit that gets done to people, the killing and the torture, started off as pictures in some weirdo’s head. It all has to be imagined.’
Thorne thought about what Hendricks was saying. It made sense, though how some of the horrors they’d both encountered over the years had ever been imagined by anybody was beyond him. ‘So?’
‘So…that’s the flipside of all the beautiful stuff. We get people who imagine great works of art and books and gardens and music, but the same imagination that creates that can also imagine the Holocaust, or setting fire to kids, or whatever.’
‘All right, Phil…’
‘You want one, you have to live with the other.’
They sat in silence for a while.
Finally, Hendricks leaned forward to stub out what was left of the joint, and to sum up: ‘Basically…you want Shakespeare, you also get Shipman.’
Dark as the conversation had become, Thorne suddenly found the concept strangely funny. ‘Right.’ He nodded towards the stereo. ‘Serial killers are the price we pay for country music.’
A massive grin spread slowly across Hendricks’ face. ‘I think…that…is a very tough choice…’
Moloney had decided to make a night of it. He strutted out into the freezing car park at closing time, full of Guinness and full of himself. ‘Don’t worry, I know a few places where we can still get a drink.’ Moloney chuckled and threw an arm around the shoulder of his new best friend. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I know plenty of fucking places.’
His drinking partner expressed surprise that Moloney was planning to drive. He asked him if he was worried about being pulled over.
Moloney unlocked the Jag. ‘I’ve been stopped a few times.’ He winked. ‘It’s not normally a problem…’
‘After you’ve been drinking?’
‘They tend to look the other way…’
‘Nice to have a bit of influence,’ said his friend.
‘Better than nice. Get in…’
They drove south through Islington, crossing the Essex Road and heading towards the City. The traffic was light and Moloney put his foot down at every opportunity. ‘This place I’m taking us, behind the Barbican, there’s usually a bit of spare knocking about as well. We lay out a few quid, they’ll give us a good night. Up for that?’
It was as the Jag was moving far too fast towards the roundabout at Old Street that the man in the passenger seat placed the muzzle of the Glock against Moloney’s waist.
‘Go left and head for Bethnal Green…’
‘What? Fuck…’
The gun was rammed into Moloney hard enough to crack a rib, to push him against the driver’s side door. He cried out and struggled to keep his feet on the pedals.
Moloney drove, following the instructions he was given, body seizing up and mind racing. He knew that there was no way he could reach his own gun. He knew that nobody had a clue where he was. He knew, now, that he was not a brave man. Every breath was an effort. Any attempt to speak resulted in another jolt of agony as the gun was jammed hard against the broken rib.
The traffic and the lights melted away behind them as Moloney steered the Jag off a quiet road and on to a narrow, rutted path. They crossed slowly over a stretch of black water, still, like motor oil, on either side of a graffiti-covered bridge.
‘Pull up over there.’
As soon as the car was stationary, the man raised the gun and pressed it against Moloney’s ear. He leaned across to the dashboard and turned off the headlights.
Moloney closed his eyes. ‘Please…’
He felt the man’s hand reach inside his jacket, move slowly around until it had located, and removed, the gun. He opened his eyes when he heard the door open, craned his head round to watch as the man moved behind the car.
The gunman tapped on the driver’s side window with the gun. He took a step away from the car as Moloney opened the door. ‘Move over to the other side,’ he said.
Moloney did as he was told, gasping in pain as he lifted himself up and over the gearstick. ‘Why?’
The man slid into the driver’s seat. He closed the car door behind him. ‘Because I’m right-handed,’ he said.
Then Moloney felt his guts go, and everything began to happen very quickly.
The gun was in his ear again, and a hand was twisting him over on to his front, pushing his head across the back of the seat. The hand was reaching down, scrabbling for something, and the seat suddenly dropped back until it was almost flat. The hand began gathering up Moloney’s jacket and the shirt beneath and pushing it up his back.
‘You’re making such a fucking mistake…’ Moloney said.
Then, in a rush, the breath was sucked up into him, as the man with the gun began to cut.
Thorne woke with a start, disorientated. He could hear music, and Hendricks was looming above the bed in his boxer shorts, holding something out to him and mouthing angrily.
As he tried to sit up, Thorne
realised that he’d fallen asleep with his headphones on. He turned off his Walkman, blinked slowly and moaned: ‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone three. It’s Holland, for you…’
Thorne reached out for his mobile, the ringing of which he’d been unable to hear, but which had clearly woken Hendricks up.
‘Thanks,’ Thorne said.
Hendricks grunted and sloped out of the bedroom.
‘Dave?’
Holland began to speak, but Thorne knew without being told that there was another body. Holland just needed to tell him which side it belonged to.
Thorne had no way of knowing it, but as he steered the BMW through the deserted streets towards the murder scene, he was following almost exactly the same route as the dead man had done a few hours earlier. Down to King’s Cross and then east. Along the City Road and further, through Shoreditch and into what, forty years before, had been Kray territory. The streets of east London were much safer then, if some people were to be believed.
Marcus Moloney might well have agreed with them.
The car was parked on an area of waste ground, no more than a hundred yards from the Roman Road. Here, the Grand Union Canal ran alongside a rundown piece of parkland called Meath Gardens and the railway line divided Globe Town from Mile End.
A man, asleep on a narrowboat moored further up the canal, had heard the gunshots. He’d come along five minutes later with his dog to investigate.
Thorne parked the car, walked across to do some investigating of his own.
The silver Jag was brightly lit by a pair of powerful arc-lights that had been set up on either side of it. Its doors were open. Thorne didn’t know whether that’s the way they had been found.
‘Sir…’
Thorne nodded as he passed a DC from SO7 walking quickly in the opposite direction. As he got nearer to the car, he could make out the shape of the body, folded across the front seat, like a suit carrier. Every few seconds, the white hood of a SOCO bobbed into vision through the rear windscreen. Stepping to the side, Thorne could see Holland and Stone huddled near the front wing. Holland glanced up, threw him a look he couldn’t read, but which definitely didn’t bode well. There were more SOCOs working in the footwells and on the back seats. There were stills and video cameramen. There were three or four other officers with their backs to him, talking on the edge of the canal bank.
The lights showed up every scratch, every mark on the car windows, every speck and gobbet of brain matter glued to the glass with blood.
Thorne grabbed a bodysuit from a uniform who was handing them out like free gifts. ‘Dave…’
Holland made to come over, then stopped and nodded towards the group of officers who were now walking back in the direction of the car. There were three men in suits of varying quality: Brigstocke, Tughan and a senior press officer called Munteen. It was the man in uniform who Thorne was most surprised, and horrified, to see there. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d encountered Detective Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond at a crime scene.
Jesmond pulled his blue overcoat tighter around him. ‘Tom.’
‘Sir.’
Thorne broke the short but awkward silence that followed. He nodded towards the car. ‘The Zarifs have really upped the stakes now. Marcus Moloney’s in a different league from Mickey Clayton and the others. It’s going to get a bit tasty from here…’
He looked at Russell Brigstocke, and received the same look he’d got from Holland.
‘The stakes have certainly been upped,’ Jesmond said, ‘but not for the reasons you’re assuming…’
‘Oh?’ Thorne glanced at Tughan, who was studying the gravel.
Jesmond looked as drawn, as defeated, as Thorne had ever seen him. ‘Marcus Moloney was an undercover police officer,’ he said.
TEN
Thorne left the Moloney murder scene as the sun was coming up and drove through streets that were showing the first faltering signs of life. He spent a couple of hours at home–showered, changed and had some breakfast–but he was still getting through on what little sleep he’d managed before being woken by Hendricks with the phone call.
Driving towards Hendon, he couldn’t decide whether the heaviness he felt was due to the lack of sleep, the wine from the night before or the memory of the atmosphere on that canal bank. The change in those who hadn’t known the truth about Moloney was clear to see as soon as word had got around. The volume had fallen; the movements in and around the Jag had become a fraction more delicate. Bodies were always accorded a measure of respect, but that measure tended to vary. Dead or not, a gangland villain was treated by the police a little bit differently to a fellow officer.
Thorne hated that ‘one of our own’ nonsense, but he understood it. The life of a police officer was clearly worth no more or less than that of a doctor or a teacher or a shop assistant. But it wasn’t doctors, teachers and shop assistants who had to pick up the bodies, inform the next of kin and try to catch those responsible. Yes, sometimes the self-righteous anger when a policeman died could make his skin crawl, and the speeches made by senior officers could sound horribly false, but Thorne told himself he could see it all for what it really was. There was nothing false about the relief and the fear, nor about anger at feeling both of those things.
Nothing false about ‘there but for the grace of God’…
It was early, but Thorne knew Carol Chamberlain would be up and about. She needed to know that everything had changed. He called her as he hit the North Circular and told her about Marcus Moloney.
‘Well, he certainly had me fooled,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ Thorne admitted. And neither of them was stupid.
Moloney was clearly a committed and brilliant undercover officer, but still, it bothered Thorne that he hadn’t sensed something. Anything. There was a lot of crap talked about ‘instinct’, but if there was one thing Thorne was certain of, it was that instinct was unreliable. He certainly possessed it himself, but it came and went, failing him at all the wrong moments, as inexplicable as a striker’s goal drought or a writer’s block. And it had landed him in the shit plenty of times over the years…
Occasionally, Thorne felt like he could look into a killer’s eyes and see exactly what was on his mind. See all those dark imaginings that Hendricks had been talking about the night before. Sometimes, Thorne thought he could spot a villain by the way he smoked a cigarette. Other times, he wouldn’t know the enemy if he was wearing a ski-mask and carrying a sawn-off shotgun.
‘How come you didn’t know?’ Chamberlain asked. ‘About Moloney?’
Thorne didn’t have an answer, and by the time he hung up on Chamberlain and pulled into the compound at Becke House, he was extremely pissed off about it. Why hadn’t Tughan told him? It was a fucking good question.
The answer wasn’t particularly satisfactory: ‘It wasn’t deemed necessary, or prudent…’
‘Talk English,’ Thorne said. He turned to Brigstocke. He and Tughan had both stood up when Thorne had come marching into the office without knocking. ‘Russell, did you know?’
Brigstocke nodded. ‘It wasn’t to go below DCI level,’ he said. ‘That was the decision.’
Tughan sat back down again. Thorne could see a copy of the Murder Investigation Manual on the desk in front of him. ‘Moloney’s role as an undercover officer was strictly on a “need to know” basis,’ he said, as if he’d just read the phrase in the book.
Thorne sighed, leaned back against the door. ‘Did he have a wife? Kids?’
Brigstocke nodded again, just once.
‘Have they been told he was carved up and shot in the head? Or is that on a “need to know” basis, too?’
‘Close the door on the way out,’ Tughan said, looking away.
‘A few things suddenly make a lot more sense, though,’ Thorne said. ‘I wondered how you could be so certain that the Izzigil murders were down to Ryan. How you knew where that threatening letter had come from. Obviously you had a hotline…�
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Tughan slammed a piece of paper on to the desktop. ‘Why the hell is everything always about you, Thorne? An officer has been killed. You just said it: “carved up and shot in the head”. The fact that you hadn’t been told that he was a police officer is pretty fucking unimportant, wouldn’t you say?’
Brigstocke was no great admirer of Tughan himself, but his expression told Thorne that he thought the DCI had a point…
And as Thorne calmed down, he could see Tughan’s point too. He felt a little ashamed of the outburst, of the sarcasm. He walked across the office, dragged a spare chair over to the desk and dropped into it. He was relieved to see that Tughan didn’t object.
‘How long had Moloney been in there?’
‘Two years, more or less,’ Tughan said.
Thorne was amazed it had been so short a time. ‘He got where he was in the organisation pretty bloody quickly.’
Tughan nodded. ‘He was bright, and Billy Ryan liked him. Stephen Ryan treated him like an older brother…’
‘He was doing a pretty good job,’ Brigstocke said.
Tughan corrected him: ‘He was doing a very good job and, with him dead, it’s all been worse than useless.’
‘Hang on,’ Thorne said. ‘In two years he must have put together a fair bit of evidence against Ryan.’
‘More than a “fair bit”, but Moloney was the key witness. He would have been the one standing up in court. All the evidence was based on conversations he’d had, things he’d seen, or been told. We’ve got sod all that’ll stand up without him.’
‘What about the Izzigil killings? He knew about that, right? There must be something…’
Tughan picked at something on his chin. He was freshly shaved, rash-red from the razor, but Thorne could see a small patch of sandy stubble that he’d missed to the left of his Adam’s apple. ‘He knew about it afterwards. He knew something was being planned a few days before it happened but couldn’t find out who was being hit or who’d been given the contract.’
‘It was true Ryan liked to have Moloney around,’ Brigstocke said. ‘But there were others he trusted to get the really dirty work done.’
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