Mark Billingham - Death Message

Like it was disrespectful, I don’t know, to your memory, or something.

I don’t think you’d really believe that. I reckon you’d probably think there was something wrong with me if I hadn’t been turned on watching that. That maybe I’d gone queer in prison or whatever.

Anyway, while it was happening, it was only ever you I was thinking about.

It’s always you…

Walked a long way again tonight, seven or eight miles maybe, thinking all this crap through and trying to work out what to write. I suppose what’s odd is that I can feel you and Robbie with me, which is fucking fantastic, but there’s things I don’t want you to see. Stuff that’s… not fit, you know?

And I feel bad because you do see it, and there’s that thing in your voice when you don’t approve, like when I’d had a few too many. I can hear you trying to explain to Robbie about me, about some of the things I’m doing.

And then there’s other times, the worst times, when what I’ve got of you is nowhere near enough. When all I can think of is how much better everything could be, if we could just have a few more minutes. Half a fucking hour.

Like knowing, if you were there to hold me, that I might be able to sleep.

I’ll take what there is, don’t get me wrong. Why wouldn’t I? Having you there how you are, feeling you there, is the best thing I’ve got, and I know I’d be totally lost without it.

There’d be less of me left than you…

Gone round the houses same as usual, I know, but forgive me?

Marcus xxx

The area bordering the canal towards Greenford was somewhat different to the one Thorne and Holland had seen earlier. The towpath was cleaner and wider; designated, according to a sign, as part of something called the Hillingdon Trail. On one side, the bank sloped up to a row of sleek, modern houses. Thorne could see residents behind many of the full-length windows, standing in dressing-gowns and staring down on the action at the waterside below.

It was a complicated set-up: lights, noise, a tent around the body. With the added pleasures for those working of muck and drizzle.

From a manning point of view, the timing presented certain ‘logistical dilemmas’. The Homicide Assessment Team had been and gone, having passed the job to the on-call Murder Team. As part of an ongoing investigation, however, it was now being handed back to Russell Brigstocke’s MIT, several of whom had had to sober up very bloody quickly.

‘Coffee’s good,’ Holland had said. ‘But a body does it quicker every time…’

This particular body had been spotted a couple of hours earlier, but had only been out of the water fifteen minutes or so by the time Thorne arrived. It had been wedged in tight between the bank and a narrowboat which was moored in front of the houses. Nothing could be done until the owner had been traced and the boat moved so that the body could be extracted.

Now it was laid out on the towpath, brown water running off the plastic sheeting beneath it.

Hendricks was already busy, as were a team of frustrated SOCOs, doing their best to preserve a scene that was compromised at best; the slimy bank dotted with cigarette ends and dog-shit, and the towpath a muddy confusion of footprints.

DCI Keith Bannard stared down the length of the canal, then turned and looked in the other direction. ‘Your man can’t have killed him too far away,’ he said, after he’d introduced himself.

Thorne had been right to think that the S &O man’s accent belied something grittier. He was tall and shithousesolid. He had a shock of greying, curly hair, with more sprouting from the neck of his white shirt. His face was weathered and fleshy, with watery eyes that all but disappeared when he smiled.

‘Doesn’t seem bothered about hiding the bodies, does he?’ Bannard continued. ‘So we can assume he dumped Cowans more or less where he killed him.’

‘Sounds reasonable.’

‘So, what the fuck was Bin-bag doing by the canal? Night-fishing?’

Thorne said nothing.

Whistling something to himself, Bannard started to stroll away down the towpath. Thorne followed. They walked for fifty yards or so and stopped under a low bridge. The banks and the water were black where they weren’t lit by orange lights fixed to the walls on either side.

‘Very artistic,’ Bannard said. He nodded towards a bizarre, three-dimensional mural on the far wall: a heron, a line of ducks, starfish and leaping rabbits, all created from pieces of coloured glass and shards of pottery.

Thorne presumed it was there for the benefit of those whose narrowboats passed beneath the bridge. Guessed it had also given the kids something nice to look at while they’d been spraying their graffiti tags on every spare inch of wall around it.

‘Well, I’ve had a good chat with your guvnor.’

‘That’s nice,’ Thorne said.

Bannard looked happy. ‘I think we can safely say none of this is gang-related, so I can probably get out of your way now.’

‘Whatever you think.’

‘That’s right. Try not to let on how delighted you are.’

‘Doing you a favour this, I would have thought.’

‘A few less arseholes like Martin Cowans does everyone a favour, don’t you reckon? But I can’t see it doing a lot for my workload, if that’s what you mean.’

Their voices echoed under the bridge. As Bannard spoke, he illustrated his words with elaborate gestures, and Thorne had trouble keeping his eyes off the man’s hands. They were enormous. His own had been virtually lost inside one of Bannard’s when they’d met over the body.

‘Will that be it for the Black Dogs, then?’ Thorne asked.

Bannard shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘Three of the longest-serving members gone. That must shake things up, surely?’

‘They’ll reorganise, bring other members through the ranks. There’ll be a new leadership sorted by tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Same as happened when Cowans took over from Simon Tipper.’

‘Right.’

They stopped, hearing movement on the far side of the water, stared into one of the pools of shadow opposite, but could see nothing. ‘Who might have wanted Simon Tipper out of the way six years ago?’

Bannard was about to light a cigarette. He stared across at Thorne for a few seconds; sounded almost amused when he finally replied. ‘Tipper was killed by Marcus Brooks, when he caught him turning his house over. That’s what the woman who nicked him told you, right? Lilley?’

‘That’s what she told me.’

Bannard lit his cigarette. ‘Which, as far as I’m aware, is why all this shit’s happening in the first place. Yes?’

‘Hypothetically, then,’ Thorne said. ‘Who would have been happy about it?’

‘Christ, hypothetically it could have been anyone. One of the other biker gangs, most likely. One of his own lot who didn’t think he was getting a fair shake. Someone whose bike he’d borrowed without asking. A bloke whose girlfriend he’d shafted…’

‘The Black Dogs? The other gangs? Many of them have coppers on the payroll?’

Bannard grinned, hissed smoke through his teeth. ‘You doing a spot of DPS work on the side, Inspector?’

Thorne dropped his voice, mock-conspiratorial. ‘Every little helps, doesn’t it?’

‘Listen, all these gangs try to buy themselves an edge,’ Bannard said. ‘Unless they’re stupid, they know it’s a good investment, long term.’ He started to whistle again; louder this time, enjoying the echo. He took two fast drags on his cigarette, then flicked it into the water.

Back at the crime scene, the body was being prepared for removal to the mortuary, and Brigstocke was already talking about how they’d be proceeding, and how quickly, the next morning. They would conduct a house-to-house, early, before any of the residents had left for work. All members of the Black Dogs who may have seen or spoken to the victim would also be interviewed, to piece together a picture of Martin Cowans’ movements. They’d request footage from the two CCTV cameras mounted on lampposts near by.