Mark Billingham - Death Message

Tindall locked up the ticket booth and led Thorne and Holland to a small office that doubled as a storeroom. His skin looked as grey as it had on the tape Karim had shown to Thorne, although the eyes were blacker, darting around behind his glasses, as if desperately looking for a friend, or an exit. He had to be pushing sixty; short and whippet-thin, with hair that was silver, yellowing at the temples. He wore new-looking jeans with a sharp crease ironed down the legs, his top half lost inside a thin green cardigan.

‘No tea,’ he said.

‘It was just an expression,’ Thorne said. ‘We’re not stopping.’

There were newspapers and magazines scattered across what passed for a desk and piles of videotapes on the floor. A Jenna Jameson poster was stuck to the back of the door, and a calendar with a picture of a golden retriever was pinned to a cork board, surrounded by cards for cab firms and call girls. The place smelled of booze and bleach.

‘When did you talk to Brooks?’ Holland asked.

‘Who says I did?’

‘We got some of his stuff. We found your phone number.’

‘So? I’ve got lots of people’s numbers. Doesn’t mean I ring them all up every day.’

The Scottish accent was stronger than Thorne remembered from the tape. He wondered if Tindall thickened it when he didn’t feel like communicating; when it might be costly.

‘We can go through your phone records easily enough,’ Holland said. ‘We can go through all sorts of stuff; dredge up all manner of crap you’d rather we didn’t know about. That you’d rather the bloke you work for didn’t know about.’

Thorne flicked through the calendar. ‘He’s not talking about DCI Bannard, either.’ There was a different breed of dog for every month.

‘I hadn’t spoken to him when I came in on Sunday, I swear.’

‘So, when did you speak to him?’ Thorne said.

Tindall thought about it. ‘He called up the next day. I was here.’

‘And you never thought to tell us?’

‘Slipped my mind,’ Tindall said. He began digging around in drawers and cupboards. He asked Thorne and Holland if either of them had a cigarette. Holland had a packet of ten for emergencies, but kept his mouth shut.

‘Have you seen him?’ Holland asked.

Tindall shook his head. ‘I have not.’

‘You sure?’ Thorne shoved some papers aside and leaned back against the edge of the table. ‘Think really hard.’

‘He wanted a car, OK? Asked if I knew someone who could get him something quickly, for cash.’

Thorne and Holland exchanged a glance. Tindall was talking about the day before Cowans was killed. Thorne wondered if that was why Brooks had wanted the car. He would certainly have needed it to follow Cowans, if the biker had driven around in search of a hooker and headed down to the canal once he’d found one he liked the look of.

‘Did you help him?’

‘I had a few contacts in the motor trade years ago,’ Tindall said. ‘Back when I got to know the lad, when we were hanging about with some of the same people. But not any more. I told him he’d have to try someone else.’

‘And that was it?’

‘That was it, aye. Just a couple of minutes. A cough and a spit.’

‘You didn’t suggest anyone in particular?’ Holland said.

‘Told you, I’ve been out of that game a long time.’

‘No offence, Davey,’ Thorne said, ‘but you’re full of it.’

‘I swear-’

‘Swear all you like. I reckon you helped “the lad” out; for old time’s sake, because you feel sorry for him, who knows? Maybe you’ve been helping him ever since he came out of prison. Fixing him up with the right people…’

‘Have I fuck.’

‘None of your friends on the force can help you with this one. Not if you’ve been aiding and abetting a murderer, mate. Especially one who’s taken to killing coppers.’

‘Look, he called again yesterday, all right?’ Tindall looked quickly from one to the other; checking to see he’d provoked a reaction. ‘Late last night. Got me out of fucking bed, matter of fact.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He needs somewhere to stay,’ Tindall said. Thorne looked across at Holland again. Tindall had to be telling the truth. There was no way he could have known about the raid in Hammersmith. ‘Wanted to know if I could think of anywhere he could crash for a few days. Someone who’d put him up and leave him alone.’

‘And?’

‘We talked about one or two people he could try.’

‘Such as?’ Thorne asked.

Tindall looked pained. ‘Come on, you know the sort of people I’m talking about…’

Thorne grabbed a ballpoint from the table, tore a strip of newspaper off and passed them both across. ‘Write the names down.’

Tindall was starting to look like he needed that cigarette very badly. He cursed under his breath as he scribbled down a few names, pretending to dredge them up. From the cinema on the other side of the wall, the soundtrack of the main feature was all too audible.

‘Someone sounds out of breath,’ Holland said. He listened for a few more seconds. ‘That’s top-quality grunting.’

‘How many’s in there?’ Thorne asked.

Tindall sniffed. ‘Half a dozen…’

Thorne was amazed there were even that many enjoying Shy and Shaven at eleven o’clock in the morning. Why hadn’t they just stayed at home and watched something on DVD? With whatever kind of stuff you were into now available on disc or download, Thorne couldn’t understand why anyone went to porno cinemas any more, or picked magazines off the top shelf while pretending they were looking at What Hi-Fi? He could only presume they enjoyed the sleazy thrill of it; like movie stars getting caught with fifty-dollar whores when they could sleep with any woman they wanted.

Thorne took the piece of paper that Tindall thrust gracelessly at him. ‘Thanks, Davey,’ he said. ‘We’d best let you get back to work. Now, you will let us know if he calls again, won’t you?’

Tindall scoffed: ‘You think I need more of this shite?’

Thorne walked slowly past him towards the door. ‘Seriously,’ he said, ‘I hope nothing else slips your mind. You know what Bannard’s like when you try to take him for an idiot?’ Thorne guessed that the S &O man could get fairly heavy, and the look on Davey Tindall’s face confirmed it. ‘Well, I’m a lot worse.’

Tindall blocked their way as they tried to leave. ‘Am I not getting something for this?’

Thorne just stared at him, waited for him to move.

‘I’m serious.’ The voice was thin and desperate. ‘Fifty notes, say, just for my time.’

Thorne took one more second of Tindall’s time, to tell him to fuck off.

Over the years, there had been periodic attempts to gentrify the Holloway Road. Delicatessens had come and gone. Idiots had opened antiquarian bookshops and sold their stock on a year later. As a hugely busy main road – the major route north out of the city – it was never going to be Highgate Hill or Hampstead High Street. But Yvonne Kitson thought it was the better for it: brash and unpretentious, with lively bars and restaurants, a few decent places to dance and hear music if you could be bothered to look. Certainly a place she wouldn’t have minded going to college.

She watched Harika Kemal coming out through the doors of the student union with two friends and digging into her bag for a scarf. Kitson saw the girl’s face fall when she caught sight of her approaching.

‘Can I just have five minutes, Harika?’

She shook her head. ‘Please…’

The man and the woman who had come out with Kemal were clearly a couple. The man took a step towards Kitson. ‘Is there a problem?’ Kitson thought he might be Turkish. Greek, maybe. He wore a shiny anorak with a fur-trimmed hood and glasses with thin, rectangular lenses.