Mark Billingham - Death Message

To wonder if it was the stupidest thing he’d ever done.

It was a tough chart to top…

From his window, he watched officer after officer coming through the Peel Centre gates. Some he knew well; some he didn’t know from Adam; others he’d no more than smiled at when they’d passed on the stairs or in the canteen. Somewhere, there was a police officer who, in league with a friend or colleague, had killed a gang leader and sent an innocent man to prison for it. And who, six years later, according to Marcus Brooks, had battered his partner in crime to death rather than risk seeing their criminal history exposed.

Thorne wanted to find that man. Wanted him every bit as much as he wanted Marcus Brooks.

‘Bright and early, Tom,’ Karim said, marching straight across to the kettle. He held up the teabags, asking if Thorne was ready for another.

Thorne nodded. ‘Plenty of fucking worms to catch.’

He wasn’t the only one making an early start. Richard Rawlings was on the phone before Thorne had finished his second mug of tea.

‘Any news?’

‘The PM confirms that the cause of death was blunt trauma to the head, and puts the time of death somewhere between three and five on Saturday afternoon.’

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

‘I’m not sure what else I can tell you,’ Thorne said.

‘Any news about Brooks? Any progress…?’

Nobody had spoken officially to Rawlings about Marcus Brooks, but Thorne was not surprised that he knew the name of their prime suspect. He could have found out through any number of sources: jungle drums; friends or friends of friends on the squad. Or even Skinner himself, who had probably told him all about the video clip he’d been shown, and what it meant.

And there was another possibility: a simple explanation for Rawlings knowing all about Marcus Brooks; for knowing more about the case than anybody else.

‘Is there anything you can tell us?’ Thorne said.

There was a pause. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as why Marcus Brooks, or anyone else, would want to smash your friend’s head in with a hammer.’

‘No fucking idea.’

‘That’s your first “fucking” of the conversation. I’m pleased you’re making an effort.’

Thorne was surprised to hear Rawlings laughing. ‘Well, I like to start off slowly, build up during the day, you know?’

Afterwards, Thorne failed to return several messages: one from Keith Bannard, the DCI from S &O: another from a CPS clerk, wanting to talk about a bloodstained training shoe that had ‘gone walkabout’ from an evidence locker; and a rambling message from his Auntie Eileen, who never got round to saying why she was calling. Thorne guessed she wanted to have the ‘What are you doing at Christmas?’ conversation.

He heard someone outside the door telling Kitson how good she’d been on TV the previous night. When she came in, Thorne added his own congratulations.

‘Anything?’

‘A few people ringing in to say they saw someone dropping something into the litter bin that could have been a knife, but I don’t think that gets us very far. The woman hasn’t called back.’

‘There’s time yet.’

Kitson was something of a closet football fan and they talked about the previous night’s European results. Arsenal were now at the bottom of their group having lost at home to Hamburg. Thorne hadn’t had a chance to talk to Hendricks yet, who he knew would be devastated.

‘Did you see the highlights?’ Kitson asked.

‘Better things to do,’ Thorne said.

He walked around to Colindale station; waited for Brigstocke to emerge from his meeting with the borough commander.

‘Sorry I called so early.’

‘Why the sudden urgency?’ Brigstocke asked.

‘No urgency. I just thought we should cover our arses.’

‘Like I said on the phone, I think they’re covered.’

‘It’s understandable that we’re focusing on the Skinner killing,’ Thorne said. ‘But there’s no reason to presume that Brooks has finished with the Black Dogs.’

‘We’re not presuming anything.’

‘That he shouldn’t want to hit them again.’

‘No, you’re right.’

‘You said there are people on the home address and the clubhouse?’

They walked into the station’s reception area, and out. Began to walk back across to Becke House. The sky was a grey wash, but here and there were glimpses of sun, like streaks of milky flesh seen through thin and frayed material.

Brigstocke smiled as he buttoned his overcoat. ‘It’s good to know you’re taking the welfare of the city’s biker gangs so seriously.’

‘I understand some of them do a lot of work for charity,’ Thorne said.

They crossed the road in front of a Met minivan which had just turned out of the main gates. The driver leaned on his horn and, recognising him as someone he knew, Thorne gave him a friendly finger.

Brigstocke was taller, with a longer stride, but had to jog a step or two to match Thorne’s pace. ‘Slow down, for fuck’s sake.’

‘I’m too bloody cold to dawdle,’ Thorne lied.

They showed their passes at the Driving School entrance as it was closer, and walked towards Becke House, which rose, less than majestically, brown and grey on the other side of the parade square. They passed the gym, and Brigstocke put a hand on Thorne’s arm. ‘Listen, I wanted to say sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘For being a twat.’

‘Which particular time?’

Brigstocke looked at the floor as they walked. ‘You know there’s been something going on.’

‘The Dark Side, you mean?’

‘Right. I don’t want to go into it, OK?’

Thorne had raised it three days before with Nunn. As they’d driven hell for leather towards Skinner’s house, Thorne had asked the DPS man what he knew about an investigation into his own team; about the Regulation Nines that appeared to be flying about in Russell Brigstocke’s Incident Room. Nunn had been as forthcoming as usual. He said that it was an Internal Investigation Command matter, that his was a separate department, that he couldn’t comment in any case. Seeing no point in another ‘couldn’t’ meaning ‘don’t want to’ conversation, Thorne had let it drop.

But he still wanted to know; now more than ever.

‘I told you before,’ Thorne said. ‘If you want to talk about it…’

‘Cheers.’

‘We can go and get hammered somewhere. Sit and slag the fuckers off.’

Brigstocke nodded. ‘It’s tempting, but I just wanted to explain why I’ve been walking around with a face like a smacked arse, that’s all.’

‘I couldn’t tell the difference,’ Thorne said.

They walked into Becke House and straight into a waiting lift. They rode up in silence, each staring ahead at his own reflection in the steel doors. Stepping out on the third floor, Thorne made straight for the Incident Room, watching Brigstocke head the other way along the corridor and close his office door.

He loitered for a minute, then went to find Holland. ‘How busy are you?’

‘Up to my tits in phone-company correspondence and CCTV requisition orders,’ Holland said. ‘Have you got a better offer?’

Ten minutes later they were arguing about which CD to listen to as Thorne drove towards Southall.

A quick glance at the Police National Computer had revealed not only a couple of fines for shoplifting and a suspended sentence for possession of a Class A drug, but the rather more surprising fact that Martin Cowans’ ‘old lady’ was actually a nice posh girl called Philippa. That she’d been brought up in Guildford and privately educated.

‘How the fuck should I know where he is?’