Mark Billingham - Death Message

Five minutes before, in those few moments between stepping into the reception area at Becke House and shaking hands, Thorne’s assessment of his visitor had been much the same as his friend’s at the gate.

Neither of them had lost their touch.

The Anti-Corruption Group dealt only with the most serious crimes involving Met officers, and Nunn’s introduction of himself as one of their dread number meant that this was no simple disciplinary matter. He wasn’t there because some idiot had filed an iffy expenses claim. Someone had fucked up on a grand scale; shaking hands, Thorne could only pray that it wasn’t him.

Whatever the reason for his visit, Nunn did seem to be smiling an awful lot.

‘I thought it would be best to wait down here.’ He’d walked towards the door; an invitation to follow him outside. ‘People tend to jump to conclusions. Start imagining all sorts.’

‘It wouldn’t be anything they haven’t imagined before,’ Thorne had said. Watching Nunn step outside, he’d seen that Brian had been right about the coat as well.

‘It’s all a lot different now though, right?’

They were standing beneath one of the orange lamps on the edge of the running track. ‘I suppose,’ Thorne said. There was still a cadet school based at the Peel Centre, but there seemed to be fewer of them around these days, and the dormitories in which recruits had once slept were now the self same offices in Becke House from which Thorne and his team operated.

However, as Nunn continued, Thorne understood that he was talking about more fundamental changes. It wasn’t about the abolition of height and vision requirements, or because the training period was shorter, and it wasn’t just a question of judgement being clouded by nostalgia. Anyone with half a brain cell could see that the quality of personnel coming into the force had fallen. Maybe there was a need to increase recruitment, to get bodies on the street faster. Whatever the reason, the perception among many serving officers was that, these days, any idiot could become a copper.

‘That’s pretty damning,’ Thorne said. ‘Especially coming from some of the people I’ve worked with over the years.’

‘It trickles down though, right? The drop in standards.’

‘Well, it’s hardly going to trickle up.’

‘CSOs,’ Nunn said. ‘Fucking Plastic Plod…’ Nunn muttered in measured, unaccented tones about Community Support Officers being no more than coppers who couldn’t cut it. About the commissioner’s policy of increasing their numbers in the capital being brought into horrifying perspective. ‘It’s an accident waiting to happen,’ he said.

Thorne quickly marked Nunn down as the type who had plenty to say for himself. The sort who would write meticulously drafted letters to The Job and Metropolitan Life. Who ate, drank and slept the Police Service. Like Kitson had said: ‘Job-pissed’. Whatever Nunn wanted with him, Thorne decided this was probably bad news.

They carried on walking. Nunn was a six-footer, several inches taller than Thorne, and well built. He had American teeth, and had made the best of thinning hair by cutting it brutally short, with what was left no more than dark stubble against the scalp. The coat, grey and elegantly tailored, reached almost to his ankles and moved around his legs with each long stride. He told Thorne that several of those with whom he’d once been a cadet were now working within the DPS; that it was a branch of the Met that many were keen to be a part of.

Thorne knew the chat was merely a precursor to conversation of a trickier kind, and he was happy to cut to the chase. ‘Listen, I was about to go and get something to eat,’ he said.

‘Is that an invitation?’ Nunn asked.

‘What was it you wanted?’

Nunn stopped. He stared over Thorne’s shoulder long enough for Thorne to turn around; to see whatever it was that Nunn found so interesting. On the far side of the track, a lone recruit was tearing down the straight. He slowed at the hundred-metre mark, then stopped. The breath drifted back from him, caught in the glow from the orange lamps, as he rested, his hands braced against his knees. Just watching made Thorne feel tired, and he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.

‘What’s your interest in Paul Skinner?’

Thorne turned back. ‘Bloody hell, that was quick work.’

‘We’ve got a flag on the PIMS system. Lets us know if anyone’s taking a look.’

‘Where are you based?’

‘Jubilee House, Putney.’

‘Well, that’s at least an hour away, even with no traffic, so you must have left the minute your “flag” came up.’

‘I finished my tea first.’

‘This must be important.’

‘Sundays are slow,’ Nunn said. ‘Not a lot else on.’

‘Same here.’

‘So, tell me about Skinner.’

They looked at each other. The fact that Thorne was the senior officer meant nothing. When the DPS was involved, rank went out of the window. A DC could interview a commander as aggressively as he or she liked; and, unless they were supremely confident and well connected, a wise commander would answer all their questions.

‘I’m investigating a series of murders,’ Thorne said. ‘Skinner’s been targeted by my prime suspect.’

‘Your prime suspect’s name?’

Another look; another pause. ‘Marcus Brooks. And if you’re that interested in Skinner, I’m guessing the name’s probably familiar to you.’

Nunn’s face showed nothing. ‘So, you thought information in Skinner’s PIMS record would be helpful to your murder investigation?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it?’

‘Not hugely, to be honest.’ Thorne carried on quickly, before Nunn had a chance to ask anything else. ‘Look, I’m guessing this is a one-way street. That I don’t get to ask why you’re interested in Skinner.’

‘You can ask, by all means.’

‘OK, then. Why?’

Nunn showed a great many of his American teeth. ‘Paul Skinner is an officer that my team has been… monitoring for some time.’

‘As in months? Years?’

More teeth. ‘Some time.’

‘In which case, you’re probably monitoring at least one other officer with whom Skinner’s involved, right?’ Nunn held up his hands; now they were straying into ‘need to know’ territory. Thorne pressed on. ‘This is information that would be helpful to my investigation. This other man is somebody my prime suspect will almost certainly be taking a pop at next.’

‘I can’t,’ Nunn said.

‘“Can’t” as in “not allowed” or “can’t” as in “don’t know”?’

‘“Can’t” as in “can’t”.’

‘So, you tell me sod all, and possibly endanger the life of another officer. Meantime, I carry on trying to catch a killer, with no help whatsoever from you, while your team maintains an “active interest” in my case. That about right?’

‘Close enough.’

‘Then you step in when it’s done and dusted and help yourself to the bits that’ll do you any good.’

‘Look, none of this is my decision. But everything’s done for a very good reason.’

‘Well, you’ve got competition, mate. I don’t suppose you know Keith Bannard, do you? A DCI in Serious and Organised…’

Nunn was shaking his head before Thorne had finished speaking.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Thorne said. ‘Just someone else who’s “interested” in my case. Someone else who’s happy to sit back, while me and all the other mugs on the Murder Squad work our arses off. Tell you the truth, I’ve never worked on anything in which so many different people were so desperately interested. It must be the most fascinating case of my entire fucking career…’

Thorne’s phone rang, and he turned away to answer it. The runner had come a little closer; was jogging slowly towards them. He grabbed at his feet, pulling them up towards the small of his back as he ran. Considering that his fellow-cadets were almost certainly making nuisances of themselves in The Oak, Thorne guessed he was either hugely keen or had made very few friends.