Kitson carried the cassette player through to her office and closed the door. She’d listened to the most recent batch of calls in the Incident Room, leaning close to the speaker to hear above the chatter; had jabbed at the buttons, pressed REWIND, and listened again to one call in particular.
One that was exciting and confusing in equal measure.
In her office, she played the tape again, studying the transcript of the call as she listened. It was no more than twenty seconds long. Then she went back out and helped herself to the headphones from Andy Stone’s iPod, came back and listened one more time, to make sure.
The voice had sounded familiar to Kitson immediately, but not because she’d heard it when the woman had called before. That first time, when she had obviously rung from a mobile on the street, the voice had been competing with the noise of traffic. The words had been muffled; hesitant and choked with nerves.
This time, there was only the sound of her voice. This time, the woman had been braver. Clearer.
‘I know who killed Deniz.’
And Kitson recognised the voice. The woman had still not been quite brave enough to mention a name, and Kitson could not be sure she was telling the truth. But she knew for certain who the caller was.
From Cowans’ house they drove up on to the main drag and east along the Broadway. The traffic moved slowly through the densely populated half-mile of Asian shops and markets – the Punjabi Bazaar, Rita’s Samosa Centre, the Sikh Bridal Gallery – before they turned into a small road that ran alongside the canal and parked just below the bridge.
Thorne got out and walked back up to lean on a low wall a dozen or so feet above the water. To his right, razor-wire coiled along the top of a fence separating the towpath from a huge B &Q warehouse, its windows dull and its red metal siding streaked brown with dirt and rust.
Holland took a pack of ten Marlboro Lights from his pocket. He pushed at the wrapping with a fingernail for a few seconds, then put it back. ‘What are we doing here?’
It was a perfectly fair question, and Thorne could do no better than duck it. ‘Would you rather be back at the office filling those forms in?’
Dotted along the edge of the black water, overflowing rubbish bags hung from fence-posts every twenty feet or so. The banks were littered with cans and plastic bottles, but Thorne was amazed to see, concentrated in one small spot next to the water, upwards of two dozen swans, gathered as if for a meeting. Most were all white, but a number had darker bills and feathers, seemingly covered in dust. The grass around them was thick with small, white feathers.
It was the sort of surprise that Thorne enjoyed. That London provided now and again.
‘One of them went for me when I was a kid,’ Holland said. ‘Vicious fuckers.’
Thorne moved a few feet along the wall, towards the warehouse. There was a track down to a small area of accessible wasteland, canal-side of the huge metal skips and stacks of wooden pallets. Twenty feet further on, the scrub became the car park of a squat, grey pub; a sign below the flag of St George advertised ‘Food and Live Premiership Football’.
He replayed the video in his head.
It was here, or somewhere very like here, that Brooks had hidden, to film Martin Cowans’ sordid encounter. Had he followed them? Maybe Brooks had set up Cowans in advance, had paid the hooker himself. Thorne tried to remember the fuzzy image of the man with the woman kneeling in front of him; to picture the outlines of the buildings just visible against the black sky behind them. He stared around in the vain hope of seeing something familiar.
‘Are we looking for something?’ Holland asked.
Thorne saw only a distant gasometer, and, emerging from a house in the terrace below them, an Asian woman waving a stick, sending a clump of pigeons rising from her front garden.
He wasn’t sure what he would have done if he had recognised something.
‘What’s that?’ Holland asked, pointing.
Thorne looked down and saw something football-sized and almost round in the water. It bobbed against the black brick, catching the light. ‘It’s a coconut,’ he said. ‘Wrapped in plastic.’
‘Come again?’
‘Some of the local Hindus chuck them in during religious festivals, as a sacrifice. It’s the closest they can get to a sacred river.’
‘The Grand Union Canal?’
‘Well, in theory, the coconuts can float all the way out to sea. Maybe find their way into the Ganges one day.’
‘That’s fucking ridiculous. They’ll be washed up in Southend, if they’re lucky.’
‘It’s just a gesture, Dave.’
Holland shook his head, carried on staring. ‘Is it even possible?’
‘Nothing wrong with being optimistic,’ Thorne said.
Especially when it was just about all you had left…
They wandered for a few minutes along the main road, resisting the temptation of the food on offer at the pub, and opting instead for lunch at a Burger King. Thorne felt a twinge of altogether more manageable guilt as they carried Whoppers, fries and onion rings to a table near the window and tucked in.
‘Sophie still smelling the fags on you?’ Thorne asked.
Holland nodded, grunting through a mouthful of food, but Thorne could see a wariness around his eyes at the mention of his girlfriend’s name. She had never been Thorne’s biggest fan. He couldn’t remember ever falling out with her, had not even met her that many times, but she had some idea that he was the sort of copper she never wanted Holland to turn into. Whatever she might think of him, it was clear to Thorne that the woman only had Holland’s best interests at heart. And that she was a pretty good judge of character.
‘I bet the baby keeps her busy.’
‘Chloe’s three,’ Holland said.
‘You know what I mean.’
Holland looked like he hadn’t the faintest idea. He went to the toilet, and stopped at the counter on his way back to get them both tea.
‘Christ, you’ll be thinking about schools any minute.’
‘Already started, mate.’
‘Anywhere decent round your place?’
‘Sophie wants to get out of London.’ Holland looked down, stirred his tea.
‘OK.’ Thorne wondered how long that idea had been floating around; if it was more than just an idea. ‘You not keen?’
Holland shrugged, certainly not keen on talking about it.
‘Well, hopefully she’s less pissed off with me these days,’ Thorne said. Holland was about to reply, but Thorne stopped him. ‘It’s fine, I know what she thinks. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Why “these days”?’
‘Well, I’m not leading you into quite so much trouble.’ Holland’s face darkened a little, so Thorne tried to lighten things, beckoning with a finger across the table. ‘Not luring you towards the shadows…’
They said nothing else until they got up to leave, when Holland stood waiting for Thorne to get his jacket on, and said: ‘What makes you think you were leading me anywhere?’
With no further news of any sort, Thorne was tense and jumpy by the end of the day. Unaware of quite how much he needed a drink until it was suggested. He happily joined Stone, Holland and Karim on their way across to The Oak, but when Kitson caught up with him in the pub’s car park he let the others go on ahead.
‘Where’ve you been all day?’ she asked.
‘Trying to stay invisible,’ Thorne said. ‘Why are you so horribly full of yourself?’
‘My mystery woman called again.’
‘Told you she would.’
‘And she’s not a mystery any more…’
‘Go on then.’
‘Harika Kemal.’
Thorne took a second. ‘Sedat’s girlfriend? The one who was in the toilet?’ Kitson nodded. Thorne twisted his face into a parody of confusion.
‘Fuck knows,’ Kitson said. ‘I’m bringing her in for a chat tomorrow and we’ll find out.’
‘Sounds like something to celebrate,
though.’
‘God, yes.’ They walked towards the entrance. ‘What about you?’
‘Let’s stick with good news…’
Inside, The Oak was busy for a midweek evening with the noisiest and smokiest pockets indicating the presence of the men and women from the Peel Centre and Colindale, the majority of the pub’s regular clientele. The ‘traditional’ atmosphere and drab decor had remained unchanged for as long as Thorne could remember, thanks to a landlord who now understood that his customers’ tastes did not run far beyond beer and simple pub grub. He had occasionally tried to ring the changes, but usually with little success. A quiz night had ended in a brawl. Two weeks earlier there had been a karaoke evening in the back bar, but two rat-arsed constables caterwauling their way through ‘I Fought the Law’ had forced several of the most hardened drinkers to make an early night of it.
Thorne and Kitson got in their drinks and joined Holland and the others. They congratulated Kitson on the break in her case, wished her luck with her interview, but nobody raised a glass just yet. That would have to wait until she’d made an arrest.
‘What’s it been, then?’ Kitson said. ‘Four, five days, since the last message from Brooks?’
Thorne took a healthy gulp of beer. ‘Five. The Skinner clip.’
‘That might be the lot. He’s got a couple of the bikers, a copper he thinks is responsible for fitting him up. Maybe he’s called it a day.’
‘Maybe…’
‘How much revenge can anyone want?’
‘Depends how much they’ve suffered.’
‘It’s not going to bring back his girlfriend, is it? Or his kid.’
‘Imagine they were your kids,’ Thorne said.
When Brigstocke arrived, the group shuffled around the table to make room, and began to let off steam. They joked about a recent court case which had seen a man prosecuted, having taken payment from a mentally disturbed woman in return for promising to kill her, and then failing to honour the contract.
Karim said it was a waste of money, that somebody in the CPS needed shooting. Stone wondered, while they were on the subject, how much it was costing to play nursemaid to a bunch of ‘hairy-arsed drug dealers’. Holland said that if they really wanted to talk about waste, they should do something about the time and energy he’d had to spend over the past two days filling in mandates and fucking requisition forms. That it was small wonder they weren’t solving more cases…
Stone raised his glass. ‘Here’s your answer, matey. They’ve done research proving that alcohol – in moderation, obviously – can help you think more clearly. I swear. They should just let us all have a drink or two during the day.’ There was laughter, a couple of small cheers from around the table. ‘I’m telling you… stick a beer barrel in the Incident Room, a few optics by the coffee machine, and watch the clear-up rates go through the fucking roof.’
Next to him, Thorne felt Kitson jump when Brigstocke banged his glass down on the table. ‘Don’t talk like a cunt, Andy. Fuck’s sake…’
Everyone watched, dumbstruck, as Brigstocke stood up and stalked away towards the bar. Stone sniggered awkwardly, Karim raised his eyebrows at Holland, and the others shrugged or stared into their drinks.
Thorne got up to follow Brigstocke, but thought better of it halfway there, and made for the exit instead. Outside, in the doorway, he used his prepay phone to call Louise. Told her he was having just the one more, and that he wouldn’t be back too late.
The bell had rung half an hour earlier to clear out the civilians, and Thorne had decided that one more drink couldn’t hurt. He guessed Louise would be in bed now anyway; hoped she wouldn’t think he was avoiding her, after what had happened the night before.
Was he avoiding her?
Kitson had left well before last orders. She wanted to say goodnight to her kids, and sort out the next day’s interview with Harika Kemal. Brigstocke was ensconced in a corner with Stone. Thorne hoped everything was OK, but the conversation looked pretty animated. He had drunk three pints of Guinness but had taken them slowly, in halves. He knew he’d be OK to drive home.
He heard his mobile ringing, reached for his jacket, dug around, but missed the call. He was looking at the details when it rang again in his hand: Bannard.
‘You got Cowans’ mobile number for me?’ Thorne asked.
‘I don’t think that phone’s working any more,’ Bannard said. ‘It got a bit wet…’
Thorne listened, and when the call was finished, he walked across to the bar. Holland was already there, reaching for a fresh pint. ‘They found Martin Cowans,’ he said. ‘Pulled him out of the canal, a few miles up from where we were this morning.’
‘Fuck.’ Holland pushed himself away from the bar. ‘Are we on?’
Thorne was already turning for the door. ‘Poor sod didn’t even make it as far as the coconuts,’ he said.
Hello babe,
Am I in trouble? I feel guilty enough…
I could always tell, the second I’d walked through the door, when I’d pissed you off about something. You had that look, you know? The one that told me I was in the shit, but wanted me to start guessing exactly what it was I’d done wrong.
Seriously, I do feel strange about last night, about what I felt, watching that twisted little fucker. What he was getting. It sounds like something you’d hear someone say in one of those soap operas you always had on, but afterwards, I felt dirty for what I’d been thinking. Really fucking hated myself… still feel like I let you down.
Like it was disrespectful, I don’t know, to your memory, or something.
I don’t think you’d really believe that. I reckon you’d probably think there was something wrong with me if I hadn’t been turned on watching that. That maybe I’d gone queer in prison or whatever.
Anyway, while it was happening, it was only ever you I was thinking about.
It’s always you…
Walked a long way again tonight, seven or eight miles maybe, thinking all this crap through and trying to work out what to write. I suppose what’s odd is that I can feel you and Robbie with me, which is fucking fantastic, but there’s things I don’t want you to see. Stuff that’s… not fit, you know?
And I feel bad because you do see it, and there’s that thing in your voice when you don’t approve, like when I’d had a few too many. I can hear you trying to explain to Robbie about me, about some of the things I’m doing.
And then there’s other times, the worst times, when what I’ve got of you is nowhere near enough. When all I can think of is how much better everything could be, if we could just have a few more minutes. Half a fucking hour.
Like knowing, if you were there to hold me, that I might be able to sleep.
I’ll take what there is, don’t get me wrong. Why wouldn’t I? Having you there how you are, feeling you there, is the best thing I’ve got, and I know I’d be totally lost without it.
There’d be less of me left than you…
Gone round the houses same as usual, I know, but forgive me?
Marcus xxx
EIGHTEEN
The area bordering the canal towards Greenford was somewhat different to the one Thorne and Holland had seen earlier. The towpath was cleaner and wider; designated, according to a sign, as part of something called the Hillingdon Trail. On one side, the bank sloped up to a row of sleek, modern houses. Thorne could see residents behind many of the full-length windows, standing in dressing-gowns and staring down on the action at the waterside below.
It was a complicated set-up: lights, noise, a tent around the body. With the added pleasures for those working of muck and drizzle.
From a manning point of view, the timing presented certain ‘logistical dilemmas’. The Homicide Assessment Team had been and gone, having passed the job to the on-call Murder Team. As part of an ongoing investigation, however, it was now being handed back to Russell Brigstocke’s MIT, several of whom had had to sober up very bloody quickly.
‘Coffee’s good
,’ Holland had said. ‘But a body does it quicker every time…’
This particular body had been spotted a couple of hours earlier, but had only been out of the water fifteen minutes or so by the time Thorne arrived. It had been wedged in tight between the bank and a narrowboat which was moored in front of the houses. Nothing could be done until the owner had been traced and the boat moved so that the body could be extracted.
Now it was laid out on the towpath, brown water running off the plastic sheeting beneath it.
Hendricks was already busy, as were a team of frustrated SOCOs, doing their best to preserve a scene that was compromised at best; the slimy bank dotted with cigarette ends and dog-shit, and the towpath a muddy confusion of footprints.
DCI Keith Bannard stared down the length of the canal, then turned and looked in the other direction. ‘Your man can’t have killed him too far away,’ he said, after he’d introduced himself.
Thorne had been right to think that the S &O man’s accent belied something grittier. He was tall and shithousesolid. He had a shock of greying, curly hair, with more sprouting from the neck of his white shirt. His face was weathered and fleshy, with watery eyes that all but disappeared when he smiled.
‘Doesn’t seem bothered about hiding the bodies, does he?’ Bannard continued. ‘So we can assume he dumped Cowans more or less where he killed him.’
‘Sounds reasonable.’
‘So, what the fuck was Bin-bag doing by the canal? Night-fishing?’
Thorne said nothing.
Whistling something to himself, Bannard started to stroll away down the towpath. Thorne followed. They walked for fifty yards or so and stopped under a low bridge. The banks and the water were black where they weren’t lit by orange lights fixed to the walls on either side.
‘Very artistic,’ Bannard said. He nodded towards a bizarre, three-dimensional mural on the far wall: a heron, a line of ducks, starfish and leaping rabbits, all created from pieces of coloured glass and shards of pottery.
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