Might have happened…
There had been moments earlier, just one or two, when Thorne had looked at the man across the table; when he had asked himself, in the absence of any prison officer and in the light of what he knew Stuart Nicklin to be capable of, if he should be concerned for his safety. Now, as he felt his own reservoir of bad blood start to leak, cold into his veins, he knew that Nicklin was the one who should be afraid.
‘Your friend,’ Thorne said. ‘The one who goes through my rubbish whenever he fancies it. Tell him it’s finished, OK?’ Nicklin held the stare. ‘Tell him that if I as much as see a rat nosing round my bins, I’m going to presume it’s him in disguise. That I’m going to find him and fuck him up. Make sure he gets that message.’
Nicklin gave a small salute.
Thorne pointed. ‘And you need to do some forgetting. Whatever you know… numbers, dates, names. Anything about me, or anyone close to me, just let it go.’
Nicklin shook his head. ‘As it happens, I’ve almost forgotten your girlfriend’s address already. The number, I mean. But I’m sure the street name will go as well, eventually.’ He jabbed at his temple. ‘Maybe my mind’s going, same as your old man’s did. I’m having some trouble remembering the last two digits of Auntie Eileen’s phone number as well, so I don’t think you need to worry.’
Thorne could feel the dark blood starting to rush, singing beneath the skin. ‘You need to forget it all,’ he said.
‘It’s such a shame…’
‘Really, you do. Because even if you spend the rest of your life inside, whether or not you think you’ve got fuck all left to lose, trying to use any of this stuff would not be clever.’
Nicklin chuckled, but he suddenly looked tired. ‘Well, you were as good as your word in that playground.’ He grinned, showing Thorne his false teeth. ‘As good as your threat, I should say. But those were exceptional circumstances, weren’t they? I’m not sure you’d be up to it this time.’
Thorne leaned back, folded his arms. ‘Just take a good, long look, and remember me sitting in this chair.’
But Nicklin was already pushing his arms along the tabletop. He leaned down slowly and turned his head to lay his face on top of them. From where Thorne was sitting, he could see several small, irregular patches, dark against the baby-pink of Nicklin’s bald head. Purplish blots or lesions, like wine stains, on his scalp.
Paul Skinner steadied himself against the worktop and tried to stop the can rattling against the glasses as he poured out the beer. He stopped and took a deep breath, fought the urge to vomit.
He’d been telling himself that the sweat was a result of being frantically busy all day, but it was sounding less convincing by the minute. Not that he hadn’t been tearing around like a blue-arsed fly. He’d spent the best part of two hours persuading his wife what a nice idea it would be for her to take the kids across to her mum’s for the weekend. He’d helped them pack, loaded up the car and waved them off. Once they’d gone, he’d continued to charge around; aimlessly, he knew, but he couldn’t stop. He refused just to sit and wait for whatever was coming.
The sweat had begun to prickle the moment those two Murder Squad twats had stepped across his doorstep, and it had been pouring from him, thick and sticky, ever since. It wasn’t the same as sweat on a hot day, or after a kick-about in the garden with the kids. He’d smelled fear on plenty of people in his time, but his own sweat was richer and more rank, worse than anything he’d caught coming at him across a cell or over an interview-room table.
The stink of his own terror made him gag.
He dropped the two empty cans into the bin and told himself that things were sorting themselves out. He’d made the call as soon as Annie and the kids were out of the way, and it had calmed him down a little. He’d been told to relax, to try not to panic; that there was nothing to get worked up about. They’d been in this sort of mess before, hadn’t they? No, not this kind, he’d tried to say, and it’s not like it’s you on that fucking video clip, is it? But in the end, after some arguing, he’d been as reassured as he could have hoped for.
There had been trouble over the years, of course. That was the risk when you went the way they’d chosen to go, he knew that. A couple of colleagues had got nosey once or twice. The rubber-heelers had sniffed around on occasion, too, but to no avail. And when it came to those on the other side of the fence, there were always one or two toerags who tried to have it both ways: happy to hand over cash to get you onside, then trying to be clever and putting the squeeze on once they thought they owned you; when they thought they’d got enough to put you away.
Arseholes like Simon Tipper. Top Black Dog and stupid, greedy, dead bastard. Which was where Marcus Brooks had come into all this in the first place…
Skinner carried the beers back into the sitting room, cursing as he tripped and banged his head against the edge of the door. He pushed himself up on to one knee, moaning and puffing; rubbed at his head and at the spilled beer that was soaking into his trouser leg. He looked up at the familiar figure standing above him; saw the blood that seemed to be painted on to his hand, that was dripping on to the carpet, and realised that he hadn’t tripped at all.
That he hadn’t banged his head.
The room grew suddenly hot and bright, the whiteness screaming inside his skull, and his tongue was heavy in his mouth as he tried to speak. ‘Do we really need to do this?’
And, gasping for breath, the smell grew richer still: the bite of urine, the coppery smack of his own blood.
‘Yes, we really do.’
But the words never reached Skinner’s ears. They were lost in the grunt of effort as the hammer was brought down a second time.
Down to the last four in a no-limit tournament, playing as the ‘old lady’, Thorne called a ten-dollar raise with a king-queen suited, and sat back to see what Number1Razr made of it. He looked at the chair that was occupied, as always, by the huge, bald man in the Hawaiian shirt; chewing on his cigar, ready for anything. Thorne couldn’t help but be reminded of Nicklin. The figure looked as full of himself and was equally difficult to read. The major difference was that the cartoon looked a damn sight healthier.
Number1Razr lived up to his name, and when Thorne missed out on the flop completely, he got out of the hand while the going was good.
By the time his train had reached Paddington there was no point going back to the office, so he’d filled Brigstocke in over the phone. Since the call, he’d tried to convince himself that he’d simply misread the DCI’s mood, but there was no doubting the strangeness of his boss’s reaction when Thorne had suggested that Skinner was one of a pair of corrupt officers being targeted by Marcus Brooks. There had been a weariness in the long silence before Brigstocke had spoken: ‘This is based on what you’ve been told by a convicted serial killer, is it?’
‘He’s got no reason to bullshit me.’
‘He doesn’t need a reason.’
‘It makes a lot of sense,’ Thorne had said.
Another pause. Then: ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’
He’d as good as told Thorne to sleep on it. That Skinner was tucked up, safe and sound, with officers outside his house. He’d said there was nothing they could usefully be doing that night anyway, and even if the accusations being thrown around by reliable chaps like Stuart Nicklin were true, it wouldn’t make much difference in terms of trying to stop him being murdered, if that was all the same to Thorne.
Thorne had let it go. He knew very well that Brigstocke had plenty on his mind; knew even better there would be no point asking if he wanted to share any of it.
He folded a low pair when Number1Razr went all-in and was called by The Big Slick, playing as the cool black guy in the snazzy waistcoat.
Thorne had lost count of the times he’d been swayed by Brigstocke’s opinion; when his judgement in doing so had proved to be spot on. But this time the DCI’s lack of enthusiasm had done nothing to lessen Thorne’s conviction that Nicklin, and by asso
ciation Brooks himself, had been telling the truth…
At the table, Slick showed a pair of tens, and even though he’d hit a third, he was put out of the game by Razr’s low flush. Thorne watched as a message appeared on the site’s dialogue box: Bye Nigga!
Thorne didn’t know if he was outraged in spite of or because of the absurdity in racially abusing a cartoon. Either way, he made the decision that he was going to put Number1Razr out of the game if it took him all night.
They each folded their next three hands early. Then, with a decent-sized pot already built up and with two cards still to come, Thorne found himself sitting on 8-9, with 10-jack-queen on the board. He should probably have slow-played it, but couldn’t resist making a big bet and typing out a message to go with it: Come on then, you racist fuck…
Number1Razr took the bait and went all-in. Thorne called immediately. When the hole cards were revealed, Thorne saw the ace-king which gave his opponent the higher straight, and with the final two cards of no further help, he crashed out of the tournament in third place.
Later, getting ready for bed, he realised that he’d probably been stupid. He knew well enough that players deliberately wound each other up in the hope that someone at the table might start to bet rashly; might go ‘on tilt’, as poker parlance put it.
Fifty dollars down on the night, it had been an expensive lesson to learn, but Thorne didn’t much care. He’d loved every minute of it and was still buzzing an hour later, wide awake.
He enjoyed the game anyway, but having someone to go after had made it even better.
Baby,
I don’t know how far I walked tonight and I don’t suppose it matters. But I swear I don’t know how I kept putting one leg in front of the other, because it feels like my head’s full of dirty cotton wool. I know I said I was enjoying it, and it’s better than rotting in the flat, but all I could think about tonight was sleep. How much I want it, and how much I’m dreading it. Knowing that when I do get off, it won’t last long, that I’ll be up again feeling like shit in a couple of hours.
I think that, maybe, there’s dreams I don’t remember. Worse than the normal ones, I mean. So fucking terrible that something, some survival instinct or whatever, knocks me out of them and wakes me up before anything really bad happens. God knows what they’d be, though. The ones I can remember are shitty enough. Stuff about you and Robbie, about what happened. Or worse, when nothing’s happened at all and everything’s just fine, just the way it was. But then I remember, in the dream I remember, and when I wake up it’s like I’ve only just found out, you know? Like I’m back at Long Lartin, listening to those coppers all over again, every word kicking the shit out of me.
Talking of which…
One of them’s dead. One of the two from before, I mean, when I got sent down. But there’s other stuff going on now, other people involved. Things are happening that are bugger all to do with me, and I don’t really feel like I’m in control of this any more. Not to worry, the details don’t matter. You were never that big on the nuts and bolts of stuff anyway, not unless there was a handbag or shoes involved!
I’m not going to stop, though. I just wanted to tell you that. However fucked up or strange things get, I’m going to finish it. And yes, I do remember the shelves I never got round to putting up, and the bathroom that stayed half-tiled for over a year, so I know damn well you’ll be having a good laugh about me finishing anything.
That’s fine, I don’t care. As long as I can see you laughing…
Right, time to try and sleep again. I’ll go through the cupboard full of pills I’ve got and see if there are any I haven’t tried. Maybe I should mix up a sodding cocktail. Give the boy a squeeze for me. And all sorts for yourself, baby.
Marcus XX
TWELVE
Camden Market was one of the capital’s top tourist attractions; the fourth-biggest retailer in the country, according to some sources, with up to one hundred thousand people descending on the place every weekend. Making his way slowly up from Mornington Crescent station towards Camden Lock, Thorne had decided that he’d been held up or jostled by twice that many.
Well, there were only forty-two shopping days left until Christmas.
He had scowled, weaving through the mêlée, leading with his shoulder. ‘I told you this would be mad.’
‘Shut it, Grandad…’
Louise had suggested the trip a day or two before, saying it had been years since she’d been. Then Hendricks had got wind of the idea and it had rapidly turned into an outing. The three of them had met for breakfast at a café near the Tube station, and there was talk of walking up to Primrose Hill later on, or of splashing out at Marine Ices when they got shopped out.
At the very least, it should have been distracting.
Pushing his way through a sea of black leather and multicoloured hair extensions ought to have allowed Thorne some time away from thinking about Marcus Brooks. Wondering why there were so many people, relative to the huge amount of quirky pottery and faux-antique tat; moaning about the fact that cleaning up after the market each week was like painting the Forth Bridge; grumbling, sweating in spite of the drizzle, feeling too old to be anywhere near the place. All of that should have taken Thorne’s mind off dead bikers and bent coppers for at least an hour or two.
After the first half-hour, though, Thorne suggested they split up, so that he could browse through the second-hand CDs in the Stables, look for a couple of Cash albums he only possessed on vinyl. In reality, it was because, alone, he could focus more easily on the case: on Brooks and the drive for revenge that Nicklin had stoked up and described with such relish; on Skinner and his partner; on the slow and terrible chain of events that they had begun six years earlier.
He could think about a woman and her child being mown down on a zebra crossing. About men who lived by rules and believed in a reckoning.
About a whirlwind being reaped…
When he caught up with Louise and Hendricks, who were drinking coffee on a crowded pavement, it was only to let them know he’d decided to go into work, even though he was booked out for the day, with a DI from another team covering for him.
Louise wasn’t happy about it. She pointed out that the case would not fall apart without him. He said that she’d do the same thing if she had to.
‘Yeah, if I had to,’ she said.
Hendricks raised his hands. ‘Uh-oh! Domestic…’
Louise threw him a look, in no mood to let it drop.
‘You two can stay,’ Thorne said.
‘Can we? Thanks a lot.’
‘I haven’t got time for this.’
‘No, you’d better get a move on,’ Louise said. ‘They’ll all just be standing around, wondering what to do until you get there.’
Thorne looked to Hendricks for support, for a ‘bloody women’ raise of the eyebrows that might diffuse the situation, but his friend stared resolutely into his coffee cup. Thorne turned back to Louise. ‘We said we wouldn’t do this.’
‘That was when I thought you were “dedicated” or whatever,’ Louise said. ‘That you just liked the job.’ She pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I like the job, but I’m not a nutter about it…’
Walking back as quickly as he could towards the Tube station, Thorne swore at more than one person for not getting out of his way fast enough. He seethed at being described as a ‘nutter’, shaking his head and muttering to himself, and cursing anyone with the temerity to be sharing his pavement.
Queuing at the ticket barrier, he was approached by an overweight individual with neatly combed blond hair and a warm smile.
‘Do you want to live for ever?’
‘Sounds all right,’ Thorne said.
The man thrust a leaflet at him. ‘You need to let Jesus into your life.’
‘There’s always a fucking catch,’ Thorne said.
As she watched Thorne disappear into the crowd, Louise felt a twinge of guilt cut through her anger – remembering that the case had ra
ther found him, that there had probably been times when she had been equally driven – but the guilt cooled rapidly into resentment at having lost her temper. At being made to feel guilty.
She’d been irritable all day – since Thorne had announced that there would be three of them going out together. She loved Hendricks to bits, how could she not? But she’d been hoping that she and Thorne could enjoy a Sunday without company. Joint days off were few and far between, and she could count on one hand the number of times they’d spent one on their own. She’d hoped that they could relax for a few hours; that they might get the chance to talk about a few things.
There were so many things they’d never discussed…
She turned to Hendricks, pulled a face. ‘Tosser…’
Hendricks lowered his head, then looked up at her, doe-eyed and batting his lashes. He had the voice off to a T: posh and wistful, Princess Diana with piercings: ‘The thing is… there were three of us in that relationship, and, you know… it was a bit crowded. Me, him and the Metropolitan Police…’
Louise smiled, just a bit. ‘It’s not the job.’
Hendricks shrugged, like it was none of his business. They finished their coffees. ‘So, what shall we do?’
Louise wanted to go home. She wanted to spend some time on her own, to let her resentment breathe. To bloom or burn itself out. She wanted to climb into jogging bottoms and kick around in her nice, warm flat for the rest of the day, until she knew whether she should cling on to this relationship or think about cutting her losses.
‘Lou?’
She reached for her bag. ‘I think we should carry on shopping. Buy a few things we don’t need. Then we should both treat ourselves to enormous, fuck-off ice creams.’
The hunt for Marcus Brooks was up and running…
With Nicklin’s information backed up by fingerprint matches from both murder scenes, the team and all resources at its command were now focused in the same direction. The cell-site intelligence on the sending of the Skinner video indicated that the call had been made from a site near Shepherd’s Bush Green.
Death Message Page 12