Mark Billingham - Death Message

‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

‘Seriously,’ Thorne said, ‘I’m interested.’

‘And I’m the one that’s supposed to be the drama queen. Christ…’

Thorne stared down over the narrow banister, listening to his friend breathe. This was how they argued. Politics or the Premiership, Thorne would be the one to lose it, to do most of the shouting, while Hendricks mocked him; blasé or sarcastic, then often seething for hours, even days afterwards.

‘What have I got to do with any of this?’ Hendricks said, eventually. ‘Just think about it for one minute, and you’ll see how ridiculous it is.’

‘You’re connected to me. That might be enough.’

‘Come on, this bloke doesn’t kill for kicks, does he? He’s doing it to settle scores.’

Thorne’s initial panic began to subside a little as he saw the sense in what his friend was saying. There was no good reason for Brooks to want Hendricks dead; certainly not the Brooks Thorne thought he’d been starting to understand. ‘I know that, and you’re probably right, but I’m just asking you to be careful. Stay where you are and watch TV or something. Get a pizza delivered. It won’t kill you.’

‘Do you want to rephrase that?’

‘Not really,’ Thorne said. ‘Where are you? At home?’

‘No…’

‘That’s good, now stay put.’ Thorne had not only recognised Hendricks’ car in the video clip. He had watched it pull up outside Hendricks’ home address. ‘Is there anybody with you?’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Hendricks said. ‘I’ve got a nice, tough police officer to look after me. Well, she’s in the shower at the minute, but I don’t think she was planning on going anywhere.’

He was at Louise’s place.

‘She’s got strange taste in blokes, but I think she can take care of herself.’

Thorne couldn’t argue with that, and he was growing more certain by the second that Hendricks was right – that there was no real cause for concern – but he couldn’t help asking himself, bearing in mind where Brooks had probably got his information from, if he knew where Louise lived as well.

He tried to put the thought out of his mind.

‘What does Brigstocke say?’

Suddenly, Thorne had an even tougher question to answer. ‘He doesn’t know.’

‘Because…?’

Because I’m a fucking idiot, Thorne thought.

He told Hendricks about the night he’d received the first text from Brooks, in the garden of Paul Skinner’s house. The moment when he’d realised there was a police officer at the centre of the case who had probably killed twice already and was responsible for many more deaths. When Thorne had realised that was not information he wanted to share. He told him that he’d been in contact with Brooks several times since, on a line that was not being monitored; that he’d known Cowans was dead before his body was ever discovered.

That he knew Brooks was planning to kill again.

‘You’ve got a nerve,’ Hendricks said, when Thorne had finished. ‘Lecturing me.’

‘Warning you.’

‘Well, thanks very much, I’ll consider myself warned.’

‘This doesn’t change what I said, Phil.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Don’t be a twat.’ Thorne was shouting; losing it again. But deep down, he knew it was because he’d also lost any authority. ‘So, I’ve fucked up. It isn’t the first time.’

‘Might well be the last, though.’

‘It can’t hurt to be careful. All right?’

‘Why don’t you just ask your friend Brooks if he’s planning on doing me in? Might save us all a lot of trouble.’

‘It doesn’t work like that.’

Thorne could hear the anger in his friend’s silence. Imagined an expression he’d seen only once or twice and felt a flutter of relief that they were not talking face to face.

‘I’d better go and lock the doors,’ Hendricks said. ‘Like a good boy.’

‘Listen, Phil… don’t tell Louise.’

‘What? That someone might be trying to kill me? Or that you’ve been getting matey with him on the quiet?’

Thorne didn’t have a quick answer.

‘If you really wanted to play God, mate, you should have become a fucking doctor…’

Whatever his face was saying to the contrary, Thorne spent much of his lunch hour in the Royal Oak telling people that nothing was the matter. He found it hard to share Kitson’s excitement at the possibility of tracking down Hakan Kemal in Bristol. Or to react to news that, of those on Tindall’s list thus far interviewed, none had cooperated when questioned about helping Marcus Brooks find somewhere to stay.

‘Struck dumb as soon as they see a warrant card, those fuckers,’ Karim said.

Laughter and jeers when Stone added: ‘I wish it worked with some of the women I know.’

Thorne pushed lukewarm shepherd’s pie around his plate and thought about what Hendricks had said before hanging up on him.

Home truths and hard questions.

Had he chosen to go his own sweet and stupid way because it was his best chance of nailing Brooks and the corrupt officer who’d sparked off the killing spree? Because he’d begun to doubt which side anyone was on? Or was it really because he thought that his own judgement was sounder than anyone else’s? That a snap decision was smarter than the combined wisdom of a hard-working squad, every bit as experienced as he was?

God wasn’t part of a team, after all.

Hendricks had been trying to score a point, but Thorne was starting to think his friend had hit the bull’s-eye. His was one of the few opinions that Thorne respected. Which was, he concluded miserably, precisely the problem.

Depressing as these moments of self-realisation were, he was at least feeling more confident that Hendricks was in no immediate danger. But there had still been that nauseating jolt of alarm, when he’d wondered if Louse’s flat was any safer than Hendrick’s own.

Bearing in mind where Brooks had probably got his information from…

Hendricks had been right; it was almost certainly a wind-up. But it hadn’t been Marcus Brooks ratcheting up the torment. Thorne decided that he’d be paying another visit to Long Lartin as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Walking out of the pub, Kitson put a hand on his arm, clearly less convinced than others by his assurances that all was well.

‘You’re going to get a result,’ she said. ‘We both are.’

Thorne thought about that bar-chart outside their office and did his best to smile.

‘Come on, Guv, it’s your job to motivate the rest of us.’

‘ Guv?’

‘Acting DCI.’

Thorne pulled on his jacket. I’ve been acting for days, he thought.

The day was cold; a wind roaring into their faces as they stepped out into the car park. A horn sounded behind them and Thorne turned to look at a black Volvo parked alongside a row of wheelie-bins. He recognised the back of the driver’s head and told Kitson and the others he’d catch up.

The Volvo’s driver leaned across to push open the passenger door and Thorne climbed gingerly in; backing on to the leather seat first, then swinging his legs around and into the footwell before pulling the door to.

‘You OK?’ Nunn asked.

Thorne nodded. He’d had back surgery a few months previously and though the pain had gone, he was still cautious. A small part of him still fantasised about stepping in next time Spurs were going through a goal drought, but the more practical side told him not to get out of bed too quickly.

‘Nice car,’ Thorne said. The Volvo’s interior was immaculate; smelled new.

‘Thought you were more of a vintage bloke.’

‘Have you got Dave Holland working undercover?’

Nunn stared, not getting it. Thorne told him it didn’t matter.