Mark Billingham - Death Message

‘Well, he might have had some stashed away, but let’s presume he hadn’t, that he needed to get some.’ Karim slid a plastic wallet containing a CD across the desk. Thorne looked at the printed label, took out the disk and pushed it into the computer’s drive as Karim continued: ‘We got some names from S &O. Pulled in a snout from one of the firms Brooks used to do some driving for in the mid-nineties.’ The image appeared on the screen: time-coded, black-and-white footage from the fixed camera in a typical interview room. Karim pointed to the man sitting at a table, opposite himself and Andy Stone. ‘This bloke’s been giving your new mate Bannard bits and pieces for years.’

‘Looks like a charmer,’ Thorne said. ‘Where’s this?’

Karim jerked a thumb towards the window. ‘Colindale. Me and Andy had a chat with him first thing.’ He leaned over and moved the mouse, taking the footage forward until he reached the section of the interview he wanted. ‘Here we go…’

Thorne turned up the volume. The interviewee, a skinny old sort with leathery chops and eyes like black beads, had plenty to say for himself. He spat his words out in a reedy voice laced with Glaswegian; leaned through the smoke that rose from a cigarette.

‘Plenty of people owe Brooks, you know? It’s not a secret that he could’ve made a deal when they did him for that murder. That he was offered a year or two off his sentence in return for a wee chat, and he told them where to stick it.’

Stone had been unable to resist. ‘Unlike you, you mean?’

The man had ignored the dig. ‘These are people he could easily have gone to for money when he came out. People who remembered that he kept his mouth shut when he didnae have to. They’d have been more than happy to help him out.’ The man took a deep drag on his cigarette, then looked up, well aware where the camera was, blowing out smoke through a smile. ‘They’ll be queuing up to do him a favour now. Considering some of the arseholes he’s getting rid of…’

‘I don’t think Brooks needs a bank,’ Karim said, stopping the playback.

Brigstocke entered without knocking, and Karim quickly got the message that there were other things he could be doing.

‘Thanks, Sam,’ Thorne said, as the door closed.

Brigstocke leaned against Kitson’s desk. ‘How’s it going?’

Thorne straightened the papers on his desk. ‘Well, it looks like Brooks was as good as gold while he was setting all this up, then he just dropped out of sight. He’s not making it easy for us… well, other than helping us identify his victims, obviously. His potential victims. But you know, we’ll get there…’

Brigstocke nodded. ‘Why “potential”, suddenly? Why do you think he’s started sending videos? Sending us pictures before he kills them?’

‘A psychiatrist would probably say he wants us to stop him.’

‘What do you say?’

‘I think he’s just fucking us around.’

Brigstocke nodded, like he was thinking about it. ‘I was really just asking how you were, by the way.’

‘Sorry?’

‘When I asked how you were doing. It’s possible to talk about something other than the job for five minutes.’

Thorne laughed. ‘Have you been talking to Louise?’

Not getting it, Brigstocke smiled anyway, and Thorne could see that he was in a better mood than he had been since the DPS had come calling. But still, there was no invitation to reciprocate and ask how Brigstocke was doing. Or to enquire as to the nature of the Regulation Nine he had been served.

Thorne had known Russell Brigstocke for years. Had met his wife and kids, had eaten at their house. It suddenly didn’t seem to count for very much.

‘Right.’ Brigstocke dragged round a chair. ‘This Skinner business. These allegations…’ Thorne waited. ‘I just think we need to be careful. Prison testimony can be iffy at the best of times.’

‘I know-’

‘Remember what sort of a headcase we’re dealing with here.’

‘I’m hardly likely to forget,’ Thorne said. ‘But everything Nicklin told me made sense. It may turn out to be nothing, but Marcus Brooks certainly thinks Skinner and somebody else set him up for murder six years ago. He’s sure enough to want them dead for it, so, even if he’s wrong, it’s got to be worth looking into.’

Brigstocke took off his glasses, yanked out a corner of his shirt and rubbed at the lenses. ‘I know Paul Skinner, Tom.’

Thorne blinked. He watched as Brigstocke tucked in his shirt and replaced his glasses, wondering what he meant.

I know him well enough to be sure that he isn’t bent?

I know him and right now it would be hugely embarrassing for me if he did turn out to be bent?

I know him, so do me a favour and drop it…

Thorne decided it was as good a time as any for grasping nettles. ‘Has this got anything to do with the DPS coming in to see you on Friday?’

It might have been the fact that the lenses had just been cleaned, but Brigstocke’s eyes seemed to brighten behind them. He sat up straighter. His voice was low and dangerous. ‘Why the fuck should it?’

‘Russell…’

‘And why would you think for one minute that it would?’

Thorne could do little but bluster and bluff and try to limit the damage. He said that it was a perfectly innocent question, that he’d been worried by Brigstocke’s mood, and there was really nothing more to it. That he was there if Brigstocke wanted to talk about anything, anything at all.

‘You should go whichever way you want on this,’ Brigstocke said eventually. ‘You’re the one getting these messages. You were drawn into this, and I suppose you’re giving the case a certain… impetus. As far as Skinner goes…’ He trailed off, his head dropping, fingers picking at what might have been a loose thread on his trouser leg.

For a few minutes after that, they proved Brigstocke’s point and talked about something other than the case, the awkwardness dissipating slightly over the first few laughs. A story about a mutual ex-colleague; kids; a recent episode of The Bill . Thorne dug out the copy of The Job he’d stashed and they shared a joke at the expense of Holland and his table-tennis trophy.

It finished on about the best terms Thorne could have hoped for. But when Brigstocke was leaving, Thorne stopped him at the door. ‘I’m still not sure what you’re telling me, Russell.’

Brigstocke sounded resigned as much as anything else. ‘When has me telling you anything ever made the slightest bit of fucking difference?’

Not wanting to spend too long thinking about it – worrying about friendship and favours and the sickly smell of burning bridges – Thorne didn’t wait more than a couple of minutes after Brigstocke had left before putting in the call to Albany Street police station.

He put on his most efficient voice, and tried not to laugh as he asked to be put through to Human Resources. He chatted for a minute or two with the civilian administrative officer. He gave his name and warrant-card details, a fax number and email address, then asked for the Personal Information Management System record on Detective Inspector Paul Skinner. He paid a visit to the canteen while the admin officer accessed the PIMS file. The information he’d requested was spewing from the fax machine in the Incident Room before he’d finished his coffee.

Thorne cast an eye across the pages.

Three sheets detailing every posting held by Paul Skinner in nearly thirty years as a police officer: dates and locations; contributions to significant operations; courses attended and qualifications gained. When he had spoken to Thorne the previous morning, Skinner’s memory had not let him down: he had been a DS on the Flying Squad at the time of Marcus Brooks’ arrest for murder in 2000. He had worked on a variety of borough units prior to that, as well as with the AMIP East Murder Squad, and he had subsequently spent time on a stolen vehicle unit in addition to three years as part of a team attached to the Drugs Squad, concentrating on European trafficking.