Mark Billingham - Death Message

She couldn’t say the same for the case Thorne was investigating. For Thorne himself, come to that.

There were some inquiries that drew you in further than others. They’d been working on one together when they’d first met and Porter knew the signs. The series of killings, the messages that had been sent directly to him; this was never going to be the kind of job that Thorne could do on autopilot, even if he had one.

She poured herself a glass of wine and looked at the TV for a while. It was almost eight-thirty and Thorne had called three hours before to say he was on his way.

He was a moody sod at the best of times, but then again so was she; so were most of the coppers she knew, even those who drifted through the day with smiles on their faces, then went home and whacked their kids or got shitfaced. She’d thought about it, and put his reaction to the baby discussion down to the case; to an involvement in it that, even by his standards, had become a little extreme. She hoped that was the reason, anyway. Decided that if she were the one being sent pictures of the dead and the soon-to-be-dead, she’d probably be behaving in exactly the same way.

When Hendricks called, she topped up her glass and carried the phone across to the sofa; glad of the chance to talk to someone who knew Tom Thorne even better than she did.

‘He’s probably off with some slapper,’ Hendricks said.

‘That’s OK, then.’

‘Can’t blame him though, can you? Poor old bugger just wants to shag someone who isn’t desperate to be heavy with his child.’

Porter almost spat her wine out. She’d spoken to Hendricks earlier and they’d laughed about the conversation she’d had with Thorne. She hadn’t told him about the incident that had sparked it off; those few seconds she couldn’t really explain. When she’d wanted so badly to hold on to him, to feel him come inside her, knowing full well what it could mean.

‘Honestly though, Phil. You should have seen his face.’

‘He always looks like that.’

‘I’ve got a good mind to buy a pregnancy testing kit,’ she said. ‘Hide it in the bathroom. Just to see the look on his face when he opens the cabinet looking for his Rennies.’

Hendricks spluttered out a laugh. Porter could hear that he was smoking; knew that a spliff was his particular way of winding down at the end of the day. Knew too that Thorne didn’t approve.

‘Do you fancy coming out clubbing tomorrow night?’ Hendricks asked.

‘God, I don’t know…’

She’d enjoyed the nights out she’d had with Hendricks; dancing and drinking in a variety of gay clubs and bars, watching Hendricks make his moves, or more often, get hit on. She was starting to worry, though, that she didn’t have more female friends. Any real ones, if she thought about it. There was the odd drink after work with a couple of the women in her squad, but it never went beyond that, and she’d lost touch with all the girls she’d known when she joined the force.

‘Come on,’ Hendricks said. ‘Saturday night, we’ll have a laugh. If you’re cramping my style, I’ll put you in a taxi, OK?’

Not that she had that many close friends who were men, either. Hendricks was about the closest, which was perhaps what was bothering her most. There was Jason, who she’d gone through Hendon with, but she hadn’t seen much of him since he’d been posted south. She was still matey with Jon, her ex-boyfriend, but hadn’t spoken to him lately; Thorne getting decidedly frosty whenever his name had come up in conversation.

‘Let me talk to Tom first,’ Porter said.

‘Well, he won’t mind, will he? It’s not as if you’re going to pull.’

She giggled. ‘I just want to find out if he’s likely to be working.’

‘You’ll have more fun with me.’

‘Definitely. But, you know, it might be a good idea for the two of us to spend some time together, if we can. We were talking about going to see a film or something.’ She reached across for Time Out, began flicking through the film section.

‘Just don’t go freaking him out again,’ Hendricks said. ‘Daft old bastard’s probably got a weak heart.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

‘ I’m the one who’s supposed to be broody.’

Porter said nothing. Listened to Hendricks taking another drag, moaning with pleasure as he let it out.

‘Give me a shout if you’re up for it,’ he said. ‘OK, Lou…?’

Porter heard the outer door slam shut as she was saying her goodbyes. She waited, recognising the sounds of him – the shuffles and the sighs – as he rooted around for his key.

‘Sorry,’ he said, before he was halfway through the door. He stepped inside and watched her carrying the phone back to its cradle on top of a low pine chest. ‘Been talking to your boyfriend?’

‘No, yours,’ she said.

He was grinning as he took off his jacket. It was good to see; even if she knew, before she was close enough to smell it, that a couple of pints had helped.

There may have been more direct routes from Deptford back to his new place, but Marcus Brooks had fancied following the line of the river. It wouldn’t take him much more than an hour, hour and a half, and although it was cold, the sky looked clear enough. He’d walked up around the U-shape, the one off the EastEnders credits, with Docklands opposite; trying to stay as close as he could to the water, weaving his way around the dark, oily docks and wharves towards Wapping. The tower at Canary Wharf filled the sky ahead of him. The beacon on its roof was blinking away to his right, then eventually behind him as he moved on, where the river straightened at the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

He put one foot in front of the other time and again. Watching the river creep and sloosh alongside, and wanting nothing more than to drop where he was and curl up. Desperate for just a few hours’ sleep, but knowing it would be a waste of time to try.

Instead, he looked down and watched his shoes eat up the pavement. Hands in his pockets, humming any song that went with the rhythm of his footsteps. And he saw Angie’s face, and Robbie’s, as they must have been at the last minute; just before the car hit. Then he saw other faces, how they had been when they’d clapped eyes on the hammer. The plastic bag.

Tucker. Hodson. Cowans.

Their faces were as clear as anything now: frozen with their mouths open and eyes wide. But he hadn’t known all of them by sight; not at first, anyway.

Skinner, who’d called himself Jennings the last time they’d met, had been all-too familiar, of course; just older from a distance, and dead by the time Marcus had got close. Killed by somebody else before he’d had the chance.

And some of the bikers had been there at his trial; screaming and swearing at him from the balcony, until the judge had had them chucked out. They’d looked near enough the same when he’d come out of prison and tracked them down.

Ray Tucker had definitely been in court six years before, and Ricky Hodson. Although he hadn’t known their names back then. He wasn’t certain about Martin Cowans – they’d all had long hair and leathers and shit… but it didn’t matter either way. He’d been one of the gang – the leader, as far as he could work out – when Angie had been killed, and that was all that counted.

He had decided back in Long Lartin, when he and Nicklin were going over it, that everyone had to be treated the same. That they all had to share the responsibility equally. It would have been stupid to do it any other way; to say that the one who’d been driving the car had to die, or suffer before he died, while some of the others should just be crippled or whatever.

It was cleaner to blame them all.