Mark Billingham - Death Message

‘I would have let him have some fun,’ Brooks said. ‘Before the kid delivered him.’

It took Thorne a few seconds to understand. Whoever Louise had found Hendricks with in the alley had been bait. Had been working with Brooks. A quick fumble to get Hendricks interested, then back to the kid’s place, where Brooks would have been waiting.

‘The poor little fucker came back with his tail between his legs. Some woman had beaten the shit out of him.’

Thorne fell back in his seat as the taxi accelerated away down Charing Cross Road. ‘Hendricks is off limits,’ he said.

‘Because he’s your friend?’

‘He had nothing to do with what happened to you.’ Thorne could feel his chest leaping against the seat belt. Water was running from his hair, dripping down between his ear and the handset.

‘Angie and Robbie weren’t off limits.’

Thorne quickly wiped the phone against his shirt. He thought about saying that he was sorry. Instead said: ‘I know about loss.’

There were brown smears across the window between Thorne and the cabbie, but he could still make out the spots on the back of the man’s neck.

Brooks grunted. ‘Nicklin said.’

Thorne’s hand tightened around the phone. He wondered if there was anything Nicklin didn’t know about him.

‘So?’

‘It’s not the same.’

There wasn’t time for Thorne to argue, though Christ knew he’d been over it in his head enough times. ‘Why put other people through it?’

‘It isn’t-’

‘Other families?’

The meter ticked over twice, and when Brooks finally came back there was still no answer. ‘Look, I’m sorry that he’s your friend, the bloke in the club. It’s weird how things turn out, isn’t it?’

Thorne knew there was nothing weird about it. He knew exactly how the connection had been made. Who had done the necessary research and then passed the information on to Marcus Brooks.

He’d sort that one out himself later on.

‘Listen to what I’m saying, OK? Things will go very badly for you unless you forget about Phil Hendricks. You need to know that.’

Ten seconds passed before Brooks spoke again. ‘There’s other people I’m more interested in,’ he said.

It sounded close enough to an understanding for Thorne. ‘So, where does it end, Marcus?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘You going after the judge next? The people on the jury?’ The taxi drove fast around the western edge of Trafalgar Square. Swung left through amber on to the Strand. ‘Don’t forget the shorthand typist and the bloke who drove the prison van.’

‘How long d’you need these days?’ Brooks asked. ‘To get a trace?’

‘Nobody’s tracing this call.’

‘It’s been five minutes already, hasn’t it?’

‘There’s no one listening in, I swear to God.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s why I gave you this number.’

Thorne could hear the fatigue in the pause, and in Brooks’ words when they came. In the short time they’d been talking, his voice had been getting slower, thicker; as though an anaesthetic were kicking in.

‘I think I actually believe you,’ he said.

‘That’s good.’

‘And… I don’t know.’

‘What?’

‘Where it’s going to end…’

‘Marcus?’

But Brooks had already gone.

The rain had eased off, and they were waiting at the front of the club when Thorne’s taxi pulled up. He had thrust a tenner into the driver’s hand when they were halfway across Waterloo Bridge, and was out of the vehicle the second it pulled up at the kerb.

Louise, Parsons and Hendricks moved away from the queue that was waiting to go inside, with Parsons hanging back from the other two a little as Thorne came towards them, his arms outstretched, questioning.

‘Why did you let the kid go?’

Louise shook her head, angry. ‘What?’

Thorne clocked the glare from Hendricks as he wheeled away in frustration.

‘Christ, I was lucky he didn’t want to do me for assault.’

‘He was put up to it.’ Thorne glanced across at Parsons and took a step closer to Louise.

‘Kenny’s OK,’ she snapped.

Thorne nodded, lowered his voice anyway. ‘It was all set up. He was going to hand Phil over to Brooks later on.’

Hendricks was studying the floor; scraping a training shoe back and forth across the wet pavement. He wore a thin black shirt over jeans, and Thorne supposed that he’d left his jacket in the club. That the fact he was soaked was probably not the only reason he was trembling.

‘Where did you get all this from?’ Louise asked.

Thorne could see from the cold smile that she already knew. His voice dropped lower still. ‘Brooks called when I was on the way over.’ He was about to say more but was silenced by the scream of a siren. They all turned to see an ambulance belting down from the bridge; watched it jump the lights and race south.

‘Does he know where I live?’ Hendricks asked.

Thorne hadn’t given Hendricks too many details when they’d spoken earlier, but there seemed little point now in keeping anything back. ‘The video on the message was taken outside your flat.’

‘Well, that’s fucking dandy.’

‘It’s all right, Phil…’

‘Am I coming to yours then tonight, or what?’

‘He certainly knows where I live,’ Thorne said. ‘I think we should all go back to Lou’s.’ He looked across. ‘If that’s OK?’

Louise was nodding to Parsons, who took off his jacket and passed it to her. When she turned back, the smile had got frostier still. ‘Fine with me.’ She moved across and wrapped the jacket around Hendricks’ shoulders. ‘I presume your mate didn’t happen to mention if I was in his address book, did he?’

Thorne felt sure that Brooks had been given all such information, but was almost as certain that he would not be using it. ‘I think it’ll be all right now.’ He looked at Hendricks. ‘I told him to back off.’ Hendricks returned the stare. ‘When he called, you know? I think he got the message.’

‘You think ?’ Louise said.

‘I think we understand each other.’

‘Have you any idea how fucking ridiculous that sounds?’

‘Louise-’

‘How ridiculous you sound?’

Thorne stood there, wishing he hadn’t left Holland back at the car. For all the self-righteous anger that had coursed through him earlier, he felt isolated suddenly, and apprehensive. Every bit as ridiculous as Louise said he was. When the dust had settled he knew there would be questions to answer and he didn’t know how he was going to face them.

The wet pavement smelled like new carpet.

‘Right, we should get back to Pimlico,’ he said. ‘Kenny, you can get yourself off home, and we’ll take a taxi.’

Parsons looked to Louise for approval.

‘I’ve got stuff inside,’ Hendricks said. ‘And anyway, I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had a seriously large drink.’ He began to head back towards the club and, after a few seconds, Louise turned to follow, taking Parsons with her.

Thorne watched them walk away, listening to the fading siren, a mile or more distant. Each hand clutched at the warm lining of a jacket pocket, and he realised that Hendricks wasn’t the only one who was shaking.

He’d enjoyed more relaxing Sunday mornings.

Up before anyone else, Thorne had watched TV for a while, then decided he might as well head over to Holland’s place to pick up his car. He took a paper with him for the Tube ride across to Elephant and Castle. Flicked through it, hoping that gossip or goals or suicide bombs might take his mind off the mess he was in.