Death Message

by Mark Billingham

  There wasn’t really too much to say.

  Holland had plenty of questions for Thorne, but he knew they would have to wait. In silence, braced against the dashboard, he asked himself a few questions that he didn’t have any answers for. Some of the ones Sophie would ask, if she knew.

  Thorne had to pull over hard as an ambulance screamed up the wrong side of the road. He waited, revving the BMW’s engine and smacking his hand against the wheel.

  ‘Think about it,’ Holland said. ‘Brooks isn’t going to do anything in the middle of a club, is he? He’s probably followed him, same as he did with Cowans.’

  Thorne nodded, yanked the wheel across and accelerated out in front of a bus. The driver flashed his lights and leaned on the horn.

  ‘Presuming Hendricks is still…’ Another nod. Alive. Holland didn’t need to say it. ‘We’ve probably got until the end of the night.’

  Thorne looked at his watch: it wasn’t even nine o’clock.

  ‘There’s time,’ Holland said.

  What Holland was saying made sense, but Thorne took precious little comfort from it. Driving like a maniac, thinking like one, he struggled to focus, to order this thoughts.

  He didn’t have a picture of Hendricks; nothing to show to bouncers or bar-staff. He’d just have to use his eyes. He thought about the few times he’d been to places like these in the past. There was little enough light to read the label on your beer bottle.

  He wondered if he could use the video clip that Brooks had sent…

  What have I got to do with any of this?

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

  Thorne knew now that it was more than that, but he was also certain that he was the primary reason why Hendricks had been targeted. Chosen ahead of another biker, a police officer, anyone.

  They crossed Oxford Street on a red light; slowed to weave through the traffic in front of them.

  ‘These two clubs are a couple of minutes’ walk from each other,’ Thorne said. ‘Which one do you want?’

  Holland shook his head. ‘We do both of them together.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, aren’t we being stupid enough? Whatever you might think about Brooks, about why he’s been doing this…’

  ‘Fine. Together then.’

  ‘I’m shitting myself,’ Holland said, half smiling. ‘Don’t know about you.’

  Thorne knew Holland was right and the last thing he needed was to put anybody else in danger. ‘We split up but try to stay in sight of each other.’ He knew that he should be afraid of a man who had killed three times, that it ought to make him careful, but it wasn’t the thought of confronting Marcus Brooks that was making his stomach jump.

  Thorne turned right at Cambridge Circus and stopped the car on yellow lines outside the Spice of Life. They got out.

  ‘So, if I see Hendricks?’

  Thorne’s fists clenched, and he felt something like relief that he was as angry at Phil Hendricks as he was at anybody else.

  ‘Jump on him,’ he said. ‘Jump on the fucker hard.’

  It had only taken Porter ten minutes to find three officers willing to do as she asked without getting overly curious. She would have liked to put it down to respect, or even affection, but in a couple of cases she thought simple arselicking was closer to the truth.

  It didn’t much matter.

  On Thorne’s insistence she’d sent a DC to Hendrick’s place in Deptford, in case he decided to call it a night early. Another officer who lived south of the river was heading for New Cross – to a local place Hendricks used when he couldn’t be bothered to go all the way into town. Of all the venues Porter had mentioned to Thorne, she thought that one was the least likely. It was rather more sedate, less ‘scene’ than the others, and when Thorne had told her that Hendricks had not been answering his phone, she’d felt sure it was because he was somewhere noisy. She thought back to the mood he’d been in earlier, listening to the thrash-metal; guessed that he’d want to be somewhere he could dance, get off his face. Maybe fuck someone until he felt better.

  More than anything, she wished she’d said ‘yes’ the day before, when he’d asked her to go out with him.

  Of course, she knew now that Hendricks’ mood had been due to his conversation with Thorne. There hadn’t been time to get into that when Thorne had finally come clean, but once this was over, however it finished, she’d want to know why he hadn’t told her earlier; why he’d asked Hendricks not to tell her.

  ‘Guv…?’

  Detective Sergeant Kenny Parsons pointed towards a small queue running back from a pair of high glass doors, along the front windows of a Pizza Express. Most of those waiting stood under umbrellas, but a few, like Porter and Parsons, didn’t seem awfully bothered by the rain.

  The Adam was a members-only place, tucked away behind Charing Cross station. It was more bar than club most of the time, but once the dancing kicked off on a Friday or Saturday night, it could get pretty lively. Porter had been here a couple of times with Hendricks and she remembered that this was where he’d met his ex-boyfriend Brendan.

  Parsons led the way to the front of the queue and flashed a warrant card at an immaculately dressed female bouncer. She leaned on the door and let them in.

  It sounded like the club was in full swing.

  Hurrying down the steep staircase, Porter checked her phone. The signal could get iffy below ground, and with Airwave units out of the question for obvious reasons, she and Thorne had agreed to keep in touch via their mobiles.

  The music grew louder, and the thought smacked her in the face: if, wherever he was, Hendricks couldn’t hear his phone, what guarantee was there that she, Thorne or anyone else would hear theirs? If there was a signal, they’d need to keep the phones on vibrate.

  She caught the look from the cloakroom girl as she and Parsons walked past, then pulled Parsons back as he was heading inside and raised her voice above the music. ‘Up for this, Kenny?’

  Parsons said he was.

  Porter had given him a pretty good description of Phil Hendricks, and a somewhat less detailed one of Marcus Brooks. ‘Don’t worry, he’s never used a gun or a knife,’ she said, looking through the doorway. ‘And look, it’s heaving in there. There isn’t room to swing a hammer.’ She leaned in close to his ear. ‘Seriously. If I tell you to take someone out, don’t fucking think about it twice.’

  The club was called Crush, and it lived up to its name, though the place itself wasn’t huge, and Thorne didn’t think there were more than a hundred people in there. But it was tight and sweaty. The speakers pumped out hardcore soul and Motown, and the small dance floor was heaving with people, most of whom seemed to be dancing at each other.

  It looked like a serious business.

  Thorne took the left-hand side and, as he moved from one end of the main room to the other, he tried to keep Holland in view. The problem wasn’t so much the absence of light as the fact that it kept moving. The reds and greens swooped, the circles of white light spun and jumped, and none of it stayed in the same place long enough to get a good look at anyone.

  Thorne knew he wouldn’t need a good look to recognise Hendricks, but Brooks was a different matter.

  There was a narrow corridor running off from either side at the far end of the room. To Thorne’s left, men were sprawled across chairs, smoking and chatting; some just recovering. He took a long look, then walked back the other way and joined the steady stream of people heading into the toilets.

  He put his head around the door; was checked out by several men at the mirror and ignored. He shouted, ‘Phil,’ and waited. Somebody muttered something and someone else laughed, and the metal hand-dryer rattled against the wall to the bass-beat from the dance floor.

  Outside, he caught sight of Holland, who shook his head, and the two of them moved back down the centre of the room to the L-shaped bar by the entrance.

  There was a cheer from the dance floor at the opening notes of ‘Band of Gold�
� by Freda Payne. Some kind of remix.

  The barman wore a tight black T-shirt with ‘Crush’ across the chest.

  ‘Yes, guys?’ Australian.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ Thorne said. He realised instantly that it was a foolish thing to say and was grateful that the barman didn’t bother with a waspish comeback. He launched into a description of Hendricks.

  There was a smile this time. ‘Loads of people in here look like that.’

  Thorne had seen all sorts since he’d walked through the door. There were soul boys and mods in Fred Perrys. Combats and leathers and expensive jeans with barely any arse in them. No more piercings and tattoos than you’d see in any other club on a Saturday night.

  ‘Not that fucking many,’ Thorne said.

  The barman swallowed. ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘So?’

  A nod towards bar-staff further down. ‘Ask some of the other boys.’

  Thorne slid along the bar, and got luckier.

  ‘He got an Arsenal tattoo on his neck?’

  Thorne said yes; held his breath.

  ‘Right, I know the guy you mean. Not seen him tonight, though. You want to leave a message in case he comes in later?’

  Thorne was already on his way out.

  The DJ in The Adam was trying and failing to be Fatboy Slim, but though the music wasn’t to Porter’s taste, she could see that the clientele were enjoying themselves. She noticed that Parsons was nodding his head in time as he moved among the crowd, clocking everyone. She also saw some of the looks Parsons was getting in return. He was a tall, good-looking black man, and though to Porter he looked every inch a copper, none of the men eyeing him up seemed to notice. Or perhaps they did, she thought. Maybe that was part of the attraction.

  The club was spread over two floors and they took one each. It was less crowded than it had first appeared and they managed to sweep the place in fifteen minutes. They spotted a few people who matched the most recent description of Brooks, but no Phil Hendricks.

  They began to question the staff, and, after only a few minutes, Porter glanced up to see Parsons beckoning her across to a corner. He continued to wave as she pushed her way across the dance floor. Next to him, a waitress was perched on a small leather cube. Porter wasn’t sure if it was a stool or a foot-rest. The girl’s ridiculously long legs were emphasised by stockings and a pink tutu. She had dark spiky hair and huge breasts.

  Parsons nodded towards Porter. ‘Tell her what you told me.’

  It was reasonably quiet where they’d gathered and the girl had no need to shout. Her voice was hoarse, though, as if she had been doing a good deal of shouting earlier. ‘The bloke he was asking about? He was in here a while ago. He comes in here a lot.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘I didn’t see him leave, but, yeah, he was here an hour or so ago. Northern bloke, right?’

  ‘Was he with anyone?’ Porter asked.

  She ran a hand through her hair; teased up the spikes. ‘He was talking to a couple of people, I think. A few of them left at the same time, so maybe he was with them.’ She looked harder at Porter. ‘I’ve seen you with him, haven’t I?’

  ‘Any idea where he might have gone?’

  ‘Sorry, love, not a clue.’ She pushed herself up, grabbed a silver tray which she’d dropped by the side of the chair. She had heels on, but even without them she’d have had a foot on Porter. ‘Right, tits and tips…’

  ‘Thanks,’ Porter said.

  The girl’s image was as camp as Christmas, but Porter guessed that the tits were probably wasted on the majority of the club’s punters. She took a few steps, then came back. ‘I heard some people talking about this new place across the bridge,’ she said. ‘He could have gone there, I suppose.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Waterloo, just along from the Old Vic, I think. I don’t know, ten minutes’ walk?’

  When they came back up on to the Strand, Porter checked her mobile for messages. Hendricks hadn’t shown up at home, and the second officer had struck out at the club in New Cross. He wanted to know if there was anywhere else she wanted him to visit. Porter called back as she walked, asked him to get across to Brixton. Hendricks had mentioned going to a gay night at The Fridge once, and, unlikely as it was, it seemed a shame to send any of her team home when he was still out there.

  Saturday night, we’ll have a laugh, he’d said.

  When they reached the car, Parsons suggested that it might be quicker to walk. ‘There’s no right turn on to the bridge. I’ll need to go round the Aldwych.’

  Porter yanked at the door handle. ‘So, go round it fast.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  One of the things prison did was change the way you waited.

  However long you were inside, and whatever you did while you got through your sentence, you were killing time. Which meant that you never did anything for its own sake. A game of pool was fun or it wasn’t, but it was always half an hour’s time done. Which meant that you looked forward to things in a different way, or at least he had. Being impatient, getting pissed off because a class got cancelled or whatever, was pointless because always, while you were waiting for something to pass the time, it was passing anyway.

  Obviously, it depended on what you had on the outside. Some people were pretty calm as it went, but there were always blokes likely to kick off if you looked at them the wrong way. They were usually the ones who didn’t care how quick it went, because they had sod all waiting…

  He waited differently now.

  It made him irritable, same as everyone else, and the tiredness didn’t help. He’d snapped at Tindall the day before, which he knew was out of order, all things considered.

  He’d never bothered with a watch inside; there were always plenty of bells and smells to tell you what time it was. Now he had one, he looked at the thing every few minutes. Feeling every second stagger by on its knees.

  Rolling his neck, and swinging the plastic bag.

  There were bigger clubs than Beware, Thorne knew that. G-A-Y and Heaven, with thousands of people and four or five different dance areas in the same club. But this was big enough as far as he was concerned. Big enough for Hendricks too, who had told him that the huge places freaked him out. ‘The music’s better in the smaller clubs,’ he’d said. ‘Plus, there’s not so much competition when it comes to eligible men.’

  ‘Not so much to choose from, either.’ Thorne had grinned. ‘Slimmer pickings.’

  ‘I only need to find one good one,’ Hendricks had said.

  There were three, maybe four hundred people in the club, the strobe lighting making it hard to be any more precise. The sound level made the place he and Holland had just left seem intimate. He had no idea what it was called, and couldn’t have cared less, but it was not the sort of music you needed when you were as tense – as scared – as he was.

  ‘Not going to be easy,’ Holland said.

  Thorne shook his head. He looked up at the lighting rig, at the huge mirrors and the rough sea of reflected heads, and for a few disconcerting seconds he lost a sense of where he was and why he was there. It was as though the noise, the pressure of it, was starting to squeeze out the simple thoughts; fuck around with the functions.

  He wondered if he’d even know Hendricks if he saw him.

  He lost sight of Holland within seconds, as he began to push through the crowd. Ignoring the elbows, and the shoes that scraped his ankles, as he looked at faces and studied the backs of necks.

  Christ, it was loud. And hot.

  He struggled between two tall men, turned to get a good look at the one with the shaved head. Got glared at by both of them.

  The sound pulsed up through his feet and pounded in his head like a hammer wrapped in cotton wool.

  Hitting and pressing and sucking away the air.

  Shtoompshtoompshtoomp…

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

  Don’t joke about it…

  Thorn
e took off his jacket. Craned his head to look for Holland. Caught light gleaming off the metal in a face, and on a jacket, and stared until the man danced away again.

  Shtoompshtoompshtoomp…

  Eyes open, eyes closed as they danced. Putting on a show or lost in it. Face after face and body after body; the shape usually more than enough.

  Fuck, Phil…

  A big man wheeled into the side of him, grinned and mouthed a ‘sorry’.

  Fuckfuckfuckfuck…

  He could taste his own sweat and other people’s. At the corner of his mouth; diluting the tang of adrenaline.

  Salt and metal.

  Pushing into warm, wet air and sweaty backs; shoes searching for space on the polished floor; ugly and dull among the Adidas and Nike. What would Phil be wearing?

  Trainers, surely; those flashy white and silver ones.

  You couldn’t dance in biker boots.

  Shtoomp…

  A voice behind, a man he’d just struggled past, telling him to watch where he was fucking going. Thorne stopped and sucked in a hot breath; squinting as a beam of light moved back and forth across his face. Fighting the urge to swing round and lay the twat out.

  Saving it up.

  Instead, he turned and walked quickly past, pushed back through the crowd towards the raised platform at the far end of the room. Plenty of people mouthing off at him now as he barged across the floor. Leading with his head, sending drinks flying and lurching up to the DJ booth.

  Reaching up to slap his warrant card against the glass.

  ‘Turn it off…’

  The DJ peered down at him as though he were mad. Thorne moved round swiftly and climbed up the short staircase. Realising that this was no ordinary request, the DJ was already pulling off his headphones as Thorne leaned across the decks to grab a handful of his shirt.

  ‘TURN. IT. OFF!’

  It was odd, that second or more before the dancing stopped. The lights still swooped and wheeled around the floor as all heads turned towards the platform. A few shouts above the hubbub; arms raised as clubbers demanded to know what was happening.