Mark Billingham - Death Message

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t fucked up before, but he couldn’t remember ever being this far out of his depth, with no other option than to keep kicking away from the shore.

Brigstocke led a briefing at four o’clock.

While most of the team had been busy in Hammersmith, others had followed up on the discovery of Cowans’ body the night before. Interviews with residents of the canal-side flats had so far proved unproductive, and the CCTV cameras had contained nothing but footage of a late-night drinker reeling around on the bank. The conclusion was that Cowans had been dumped in another part of the canal, near to where they’d found his van shortly after finding him. That his body had drifted and remained trapped behind the narrowboat for more than twenty-four hours until it had been discovered. A preliminary PM report indicated that Cowans had been killed by several blows to the head, in the same way as Tucker and Skinner.

The lack of progress on this front made the discovery in Hammersmith all the more important.

‘Obviously, we’ve yet to examine all the evidence taken from the house,’ Brigstocke said. ‘But by tomorrow morning, I reckon we’re going to have a decent number of leads to chase. We took a lot of stuff out of there.’

Thorne stood off to one side. It was possible that Brigstocke was right to be as bullish as he was. That they might get to Marcus Brooks quickly, before Thorne received any more messages. Thorne might still have some awkward questions to answer, but it would probably be the best outcome for everyone, himself included.

Whether the second copper – the man indirectly responsible for the deaths of Angela Georgiou and her son; the man who had probably killed both Tipper and Skinner – would ever be caught was another matter.

One that troubled Thorne deeply.

‘We took a notebook away which we’re hoping will be significant,’ Brigstocke said. ‘There are a couple of phone numbers scribbled in there which we’ll be chasing up.’

Thorne’s stomach clenched. He wondered if the number he’d texted to Brooks was one of them; if he’d be answering those awkward questions sooner rather than later. He stared out at the ranks gathered in the briefing room and hoped the worry wasn’t showing on his face.

Whatever Brigstocke’s problems were, he was showing no signs of them. In fact, he seemed newly focused; up for it. ‘You’ve all got copies of the E-fit which our helpful security guard came up with, and which has gone out to the press overnight. This is what Brooks looks like now.’

Thorne stared at the picture. Marcus Brooks had cut his hair very short and his face was thinner than it had been when he went into prison. A very different man, in every sense.

Brigstocke continued: ‘The security guard also reckons that Brooks might be driving a dark blue or black Ford Mondeo. An old one. It was parked outside the house several times and we certainly can’t trace it to anyone living in the street. It’s only a vague description, but it’s something we need to be aware of.’

Holland stuck a hand up. ‘Presuming it was bought for cash, we could start looking at the local used-car dealers.’

‘Got to be worth a shot,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Let’s check out the back copies of Loot and Auto Trader while we’re at it. We need a registration number.’ He turned to Thorne. ‘Anything to add, Tom?’

All sorts of things, Thorne thought, but instead he just echoed the DCI’s positive message. Said that they were getting close, and that they wouldn’t have a better chance of a result than they did at that moment. He assured them that the man they were after would try to kill again; reminded them that it didn’t matter who he was targeting. Whether it was a copper or a biker or a little old lady, they needed to catch Marcus Brooks before there was another victim.

Brigstocke stepped forward again. ‘We’ve worked a lot of hours over the last few days and most of you are fucked, I know. So anyone who isn’t on a late one tonight, stay out of the pub, OK? Go home, get eight hours, then get yourselves in here first thing and put this to bed. Then we can all go back to a few nice easy domestics and drug shootings.’

With the briefing over, the assembled officers scattered fast, moving back to phones and computers. There was a good deal of upbeat hubbub. Someone shouted, ‘Come on, let’s fucking have it.’

Thorne watched the inquiry shifting up a gear.

Stone-cold sober…

Later, Brigstocke called Thorne and Kitson into his office.

‘We need to get something out of today,’ he said. ‘There was no message before he killed Cowans, so it looks like he’s decided to stop making things so easy for us.’

Kitson nudged Thorne. ‘Or maybe he’s just gone off Tom.’

Thorne summoned a smile, or something close to it.

‘Maybe he thinks he’s cleared his debt,’ she said. ‘The whole message thing was just for Nicklin’s benefit, right? Doesn’t mean Brooks has to keep doing it.’

Brigstocke agreed that it made sense. ‘Any luck with Sedat’s girlfriend earlier?’

‘I was just writing it up,’ Kitson said. ‘A big, fat “fuck all”, I’m afraid.’

‘Could be there’s fuck all to get.’

‘She might just want some attention,’ Thorne suggested.

‘I’m going to have another crack at her tomorrow.’ Kitson looked as determined as Brigstocke had done at the briefing. ‘She’s scared, that’s all. Maybe she’s scared of whoever killed Sedat, because I think she knows who that is.’

‘Get it out of her then,’ Brigstocke said. ‘See if we can get both these jobs off the books by the end of the week.’

Kitson and Thorne walked slowly back down the corridor towards their office.

‘He seems happier,’ Thorne said.

‘ Seems …’

‘Maybe whatever it was has gone away.’

‘Since when do the DPS “go away”?’

‘Serious, you reckon?’

‘That’s the thing with them,’ Kitson said. ‘You never know. He might have lost it and battered someone in an interview room or he might have nicked some paper clips. They still have the same look on their faces.’

They stopped at the door and Thorne offered to go and get them both coffee.

‘You OK?’ Kitson asked.

‘Like he said at the briefing. Fucked.’

‘Well, go and have a night in with Louise. Get your end away and forget about it until tomorrow.’

Thorne seriously doubted he would be doing both. ‘Listen, if Sedat’s girlfriend does know something, I’m sure you’ll get it.’

‘I’m going to give it a go.’

‘Take it easy with her, though. Talk to her somewhere she’s more relaxed. Everyone’s scared in the bin, even if they’ve got no reason to be.’ Kitson just nodded. ‘Sorry,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m not trying to tell you how to handle it.’

‘That’s fine,’ Kitson said. ‘I’ll take any advice you’ve got. As long as you remember to take mine.’

Thorne went to fetch the coffees, thinking about how easy it was to stick your oar in, to be objective, when it wasn’t your own case. Not that he felt like the Brooks case was his any more. Not his to work, at any rate.

Walking across to the kettle, he glanced at the whiteboard; at the job mapped out in numbers, names and black lines; times of death and photographs of wounds. He almost expected to see his own name right next to those of the dead and the prime suspect. In the middle of the board, among the list of those central to the inquiry, instead of scribbled in capitals at the top.

When Thorne had called Louise to say that he wouldn’t be back late, and to ask what time she was likely to get away, they’d talked about going to see a movie. She’d seemed in a good mood, certainly relative to the one she’d been in at half past six that morning. They’d argued good-naturedly for a few minutes about what to see before deciding not to bother.