Death Message

by Mark Billingham

  Thorne walked along the corridor towards his office. Lilley had said she was unsure where her DCI had ended up; something about him being the sort to land on his feet. Thorne made a mental note to try and find out where he had landed.

  As he turned into the office, he almost bumped into Kitson coming out.

  ‘We’ve found Kemal,’ she said. ‘He’s in Bristol, or at least he was two days ago.’

  ‘Aren’t you even a bit disappointed?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I know you were angling for a trip to that Turkish fishing village.’

  ‘I’ll settle for a day out in Bristol,’ Kitson said. ‘It’s got good shops.’

  They stood in the narrow corridor. There were posters behind glass promoting new initiatives: a crackdown on bail absconders; a campaign to keep hate crime out of sport. A bar-chart proudly trumpeting an increase in the clear-up rate of murders Met-wide to 87 per cent.

  If they didn’t catch Marcus Brooks, Thorne thought, they’d need to redraw the chart.

  ‘There was a parking ticket issued two days ago in Bristol city centre. A Renault registered to Hakan Kemal.’

  ‘Has he paid it yet?’

  ‘I think he’s got bigger things to worry about.’

  ‘So what’s in Bristol?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Somewhere to hide, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you going to talk to the sister again?’

  From the office, Thorne became aware of a muffled beeping – the tone from his prepay, sounding in the pocket of his jacket. The sound of a message arriving. He walked casually past Kitson and across to the chair, trying to keep at least one ear on what she was saying.

  ‘… called earlier, and got her answering machine…’

  Nodding, saying, ‘Go on,’ Thorne took out the phone and automatically angled his body away from Kitson, who had followed him inside, still talking.

  ‘I was thinking about having a word with the parents.’

  A small envelope was flashing on the screen. Another number Thorne didn’t recognise.

  ‘But I think we should give Harika a chance to get back to me first.’

  He clicked SHOW then scrolled down; pressed PLAY to begin the video clip.

  At that moment everything they’d been talking about, everything that Thorne had been thinking, went out of his head in an instant. Kemal, the follow-up on Sharon Lilley’s DCI… everything. Kitson’s words faded, as though huge hands had been clamped hard across Thorne’s ears.

  Like she was talking to him underwater.

  The fifteen-second clip ended. Froze. A silver estate car; a man walking away from it.

  Thorne was looking at a picture of Phil Hendricks.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Hendricks laughed when Thorne told him. Nervous laughter perhaps, but he certainly sounded unconcerned. ‘He’s trying to wind you up, mate.’

  ‘Well, he’s fucking succeeded.’

  ‘That’s been the point all along, hasn’t it? Trying to get a reaction.’

  Thorne could not remember what he’d blurted out at Kitson as he’d rushed from their office, carrying the prepay phone down to the far end of the corridor. He’d stepped into the stairwell, taken a large, unwelcome breath of apprehension from that new carpet, and dialled Hendricks’ mobile.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Getting smashed over the head with a hammer, apparently.’

  ‘Don’t joke about it.’

  ‘It is a fucking joke.’

  ‘Listen, you should probably stay inside. And get somebody to stay with you-’

  ‘Just calm down…’

  Thorne was trying his best, but it wasn’t easy. Hendricks’ refusal to be alarmed was only increasing his own agitation; his own panic. ‘For fuck’s sake, Phil. Have you not seen what’s been happening for the last couple of weeks? How many bodies have you worked on?’

  ‘Bikers and bent coppers, the lot of them. All people Brooks blamed for his girlfriend’s death. That’s the pattern, right?’

  ‘All people I got sent pictures of.’

  ‘It’s a wind-up, I’m telling you.’

  ‘Sorry, but you’re not the one who gets to make that decision.’

  Hendricks laughed again, but to Thorne it felt like a finger jabbed into his chest. ‘Before you start playing the by-the-book copper, you should remember who you’re talking to, mate.’

  ‘Who gets to do your PM, Phil? Do you have to nominate someone?’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘Seriously,’ Thorne said, ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘And I’m the one that’s supposed to be the drama queen. Christ…’

  Thorne stared down over the narrow banister, listening to his friend breathe. This was how they argued. Politics or the Premiership, Thorne would be the one to lose it, to do most of the shouting, while Hendricks mocked him; blasé or sarcastic, then often seething for hours, even days afterwards.

  ‘What have I got to do with any of this?’ Hendricks said, eventually. ‘Just think about it for one minute, and you’ll see how ridiculous it is.’

  ‘You’re connected to me. That might be enough.’

  ‘Come on, this bloke doesn’t kill for kicks, does he? He’s doing it to settle scores.’

  Thorne’s initial panic began to subside a little as he saw the sense in what his friend was saying. There was no good reason for Brooks to want Hendricks dead; certainly not the Brooks Thorne thought he’d been starting to understand. ‘I know that, and you’re probably right, but I’m just asking you to be careful. Stay where you are and watch TV or something. Get a pizza delivered. It won’t kill you.’

  ‘Do you want to rephrase that?’

  ‘Not really,’ Thorne said. ‘Where are you? At home?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘That’s good, now stay put.’ Thorne had not only recognised Hendricks’ car in the video clip. He had watched it pull up outside Hendricks’ home address. ‘Is there anybody with you?’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Hendricks said. ‘I’ve got a nice, tough police officer to look after me. Well, she’s in the shower at the minute, but I don’t think she was planning on going anywhere.’

  He was at Louise’s place.

  ‘She’s got strange taste in blokes, but I think she can take care of herself.’

  Thorne couldn’t argue with that, and he was growing more certain by the second that Hendricks was right – that there was no real cause for concern – but he couldn’t help asking himself, bearing in mind where Brooks had probably got his information from, if he knew where Louise lived as well.

  He tried to put the thought out of his mind.

  ‘What does Brigstocke say?’

  Suddenly, Thorne had an even tougher question to answer. ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘Because…?’

  Because I’m a fucking idiot, Thorne thought.

  He told Hendricks about the night he’d received the first text from Brooks, in the garden of Paul Skinner’s house. The moment when he’d realised there was a police officer at the centre of the case who had probably killed twice already and was responsible for many more deaths. When Thorne had realised that was not information he wanted to share. He told him that he’d been in contact with Brooks several times since, on a line that was not being monitored; that he’d known Cowans was dead before his body was ever discovered.

  That he knew Brooks was planning to kill again.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ Hendricks said, when Thorne had finished. ‘Lecturing me.’

  ‘Warning you.’

  ‘Well, thanks very much, I’ll consider myself warned.’

  ‘This doesn’t change what I said, Phil.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be a twat.’ Thorne was shouting; losing it again. But deep down, he knew it was because he’d also lost any authority. ‘So, I’ve fucked up. It isn’t the first time.’

  ‘Might well be the last, though.
’

  ‘It can’t hurt to be careful. All right?’

  ‘Why don’t you just ask your friend Brooks if he’s planning on doing me in? Might save us all a lot of trouble.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  Thorne could hear the anger in his friend’s silence. Imagined an expression he’d seen only once or twice and felt a flutter of relief that they were not talking face to face.

  ‘I’d better go and lock the doors,’ Hendricks said. ‘Like a good boy.’

  ‘Listen, Phil… don’t tell Louise.’

  ‘What? That someone might be trying to kill me? Or that you’ve been getting matey with him on the quiet?’

  Thorne didn’t have a quick answer.

  ‘If you really wanted to play God, mate, you should have become a fucking doctor…’

  Whatever his face was saying to the contrary, Thorne spent much of his lunch hour in the Royal Oak telling people that nothing was the matter. He found it hard to share Kitson’s excitement at the possibility of tracking down Hakan Kemal in Bristol. Or to react to news that, of those on Tindall’s list thus far interviewed, none had cooperated when questioned about helping Marcus Brooks find somewhere to stay.

  ‘Struck dumb as soon as they see a warrant card, those fuckers,’ Karim said.

  Laughter and jeers when Stone added: ‘I wish it worked with some of the women I know.’

  Thorne pushed lukewarm shepherd’s pie around his plate and thought about what Hendricks had said before hanging up on him.

  Home truths and hard questions.

  Had he chosen to go his own sweet and stupid way because it was his best chance of nailing Brooks and the corrupt officer who’d sparked off the killing spree? Because he’d begun to doubt which side anyone was on? Or was it really because he thought that his own judgement was sounder than anyone else’s? That a snap decision was smarter than the combined wisdom of a hard-working squad, every bit as experienced as he was?

  God wasn’t part of a team, after all.

  Hendricks had been trying to score a point, but Thorne was starting to think his friend had hit the bull’s-eye. His was one of the few opinions that Thorne respected. Which was, he concluded miserably, precisely the problem.

  Depressing as these moments of self-realisation were, he was at least feeling more confident that Hendricks was in no immediate danger. But there had still been that nauseating jolt of alarm, when he’d wondered if Louse’s flat was any safer than Hendrick’s own.

  Bearing in mind where Brooks had probably got his information from…

  Hendricks had been right; it was almost certainly a wind-up. But it hadn’t been Marcus Brooks ratcheting up the torment. Thorne decided that he’d be paying another visit to Long Lartin as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

  Walking out of the pub, Kitson put a hand on his arm, clearly less convinced than others by his assurances that all was well.

  ‘You’re going to get a result,’ she said. ‘We both are.’

  Thorne thought about that bar-chart outside their office and did his best to smile.

  ‘Come on, Guv, it’s your job to motivate the rest of us.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Acting DCI.’

  Thorne pulled on his jacket. I’ve been acting for days, he thought.

  The day was cold; a wind roaring into their faces as they stepped out into the car park. A horn sounded behind them and Thorne turned to look at a black Volvo parked alongside a row of wheelie-bins. He recognised the back of the driver’s head and told Kitson and the others he’d catch up.

  The Volvo’s driver leaned across to push open the passenger door and Thorne climbed gingerly in; backing on to the leather seat first, then swinging his legs around and into the footwell before pulling the door to.

  ‘You OK?’ Nunn asked.

  Thorne nodded. He’d had back surgery a few months previously and though the pain had gone, he was still cautious. A small part of him still fantasised about stepping in next time Spurs were going through a goal drought, but the more practical side told him not to get out of bed too quickly.

  ‘Nice car,’ Thorne said. The Volvo’s interior was immaculate; smelled new.

  ‘Thought you were more of a vintage bloke.’

  ‘Have you got Dave Holland working undercover?’

  Nunn stared, not getting it. Thorne told him it didn’t matter.

  It was warm in the car, and Nunn had been listening to the radio. He nudged down the volume. ‘How was your chat with Richard Rawlings?’

  Thorne saw that the radio was tuned into Magic FM; an old Petula Clark song. ‘Was it me you were watching, or Rawlings?’

  ‘Maybe we were watching the pub and got lucky,’ Nunn said. ‘What did Rawlings want?’

  So, Nunn knew that Rawlings had requested the meeting. It was the most likely scenario, but Thorne still wondered if the DPS were privy to the intercept on his home phone. He was past being surprised by anything.

  ‘He reckons you lot have got it in for him. Wanted me to use my “influence” to get you to ease off. Or something.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That I don’t have any influence.’

  ‘That took you an hour and a half, did it?’

  ‘Mostly it was him, swearing.’ Nunn smiled. ‘I don’t have any influence, do I?’

  ‘It’s not the word I would use, but we’re working on cases that are hopefully going to cross over at some point. What you do will probably be influential.’

  At some point. The moment when the identity of the man they were both after – although Thorne could still not be sure if they were chasing him for the same reason – was brought out into the open. Then it would be down to clout, pure and simple, and Thorne knew who was carrying the most.

  ‘Rawlings is an aggressive little bastard though, isn’t he?’ Nunn sucked his teeth. ‘I wouldn’t like to be around when he loses his temper.’

  ‘He’s scared.’

  ‘No point being scared if you haven’t done anything.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ Thorne said. ‘You know very well that you lot are there to scare people.’

  ‘To remind them, maybe.’

  ‘They give you special training, don’t they?’

  ‘You’re not scared, are you?’

  ‘Constantly.’

  Nunn nodded. ‘Makes sense. We’ve got a good-sized file on you, so you’d be stupid not to worry a little.’

  Thorne stared straight ahead. Petula had cross-faded into Glen Campbell singing ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’.

  Three years before, Thorne had been indirectly responsible for the death of a prominent north London gangster. Few had mourned, but Thorne lived with the knowledge that the day might come when he would have to answer for it. He could not know if this event, or others that came close, was in a DPS file; but more worrying were the reasons why Nunn had chosen to tell him such a file existed at all. Thorne could sense that an offer of some kind was being made, but there had also been a threat thrown in for good measure.

  He looked across, but Nunn had turned to peer out of his window at nothing in particular.

  You’d be stupid not to worry a little…

  Thorne didn’t like Richard Rawlings, and trusted him even less, but he’d been happy enough to remain noncommittal in an effort to get Nunn’s take on it. Suddenly, it seemed like there was no further point in going round the houses. Not when he was up against an expert. ‘When Skinner was killed, I asked if you felt disappointed, that you’d missed out on nicking him, remember?’

  ‘“Robbed” was the word you used,’ Nunn said. ‘And I told you that yes, I did.’

  Thorne wondered if Nunn had a good memory or a tape recorder. Decided he was getting seriously paranoid. ‘“Robbed” because you’d lost the chance to put one bent copper away? Or two?’

  ‘Two’s always better than one. Always.’

  ‘Well, either you know who the other copper is and you were hoping Skinner woul
d give you the evidence. Or you were banking on Skinner telling you who his partner was.’

  ‘Doesn’t really matter now he’s dead.’

  ‘Which is it?’

  The advantage of playing virtual poker, especially when your face gave away as much as Thorne’s usually did, was that you could dance around with glee when your hole cards were revealed and only someone in the room with you would know you’d been dealt aces. Thorne looked at Nunn, hoping to see some sort of ‘tell’. Saw him nodding along with the song on the radio and decided that the DPS man was probably a far better poker player than he was.

  ‘Look, we both know what this man’s done,’ Thorne said. ‘“Squire”.’ That got a reaction. It was the first time the name had been mentioned between them. ‘We both want him put away, but it seems to me like one of us thinks it’s some sort of competition.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Am I? Way it’s going, we’ll only find out who this fucker is when he turns up with his skull smashed in.’

  Nunn looked frightened suddenly. ‘That’s not going to happen.’ It certainly sounded as though he knew something.

  ‘So, is it Rawlings?’ Nothing. ‘Does Rawlings know?’

  Thorne let out a long sigh, sucked it back in hard when Nunn turned in his seat to stare at him.

  ‘So, one of us thinks it’s a competition,’ Nunn said. ‘And I suppose only one of us is being totally honest. Gobbing off like he’s the only one playing straight, not keeping anything to himself…’

  Try as he might, Thorne knew he was reddening. If Nunn knew that he’d been communicating secretly with Marcus Brooks, then Thorne was fucked, file or no file. He felt as cornered as Rawlings had claimed to feel; as he knew Brigstocke felt, whatever he had been accused of doing. ‘It’s not hard to see why you fuckers are so unpopular.’

  Nunn smiled, as though it was a predictable response from someone on the back foot. Like it was something he’d heard plenty of times before. ‘You don’t think it’s worth doing? Making sure the shit gets flushed away?’

  ‘It’s not just the shit though, is it?’

  ‘I don’t do this because I enjoy the looks when people know which department you’re working for. I don’t love being called a scab and a fuck of a lot worse, hearing the conversation stop when you walk into the canteen. Do you honestly reckon I’d be doing it if I didn’t think it was important?’