Mark Billingham - Death Message

He was getting more than slightly annoyed at Hendricks’ attitude to what had happened. What right did he have to be so angry; so self-righteous? Thorne thought that it had more than a little to do with the fact that his friend – if he was still his friend? – had been caught with his pants down.

Stupid fucker.

It could have been an awful lot worse…

Outside Thorne’s office window, the sky was brooding as much as he was. It was dense and darkening; there was rain coming.

He thought about what Brigstocke had told him. It was ridiculous, no question, but it also made him angry that the DPS could go after someone for something like that while Skinner and his partner had got away with so much worse for so long. Not for the first time, he wondered just how many like ‘Jennings’ and ‘Squire’ there were out there.

When Yvonne Kitson came in carrying coffees for both of them, Thorne guessed that she probably wanted something.

‘How’s it going with Kemal?’ he asked.

‘I was going to talk to you about that.’

Thorne was relieved that his powers of detection hadn’t completely deserted him. ‘Not got a result then?’

She talked him through the session at Colindale. ‘It’s not like he’s denying anything, you know? I just don’t think he wants to talk to me.’

‘Have you tried bribing him with coffee?’

‘I think he has a problem with women.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘Shut up.’ She pressed her chin against the lip of her mug. ‘I don’t know if he’s that way all the time, or if he just doesn’t want to talk to a woman about this . Either way…’

‘You want me to have a go.’

‘We could have a crack together,’ Kitson said. ‘After lunch, if you’ve got half an hour.’

Thorne held up his coffee. ‘A biscuit would have done the trick.’

‘All gone, mate. Have you not seen how much weight Karim is putting on?’

Thorne was more than happy to get involved in something where he would be sure of his ground. Where there was a chance of making some progress. He told Kitson he’d think about it, and walked down to the toilets, where he found himself standing next to Andy Stone at the urinal.

‘This is where the big knobs hang out,’ Stone said.

Thorne said nothing. He’d heard it before anyway. When he’d finished, he zipped up and turned away towards the sinks. ‘Keeping out of trouble, Andy?’

‘Trying my best.’ A little of the confidence had given way to caution.

Thorne banged at the soap dispenser to no avail. Stuck his hands under the tap. ‘Good lad.’

‘What about you?’

‘Oh, you know what it’s like. Some of us need to watch what we’re doing a bit more than others.’

Stone laughed and nodded.

‘And some of us need to watch what we’re saying.’ Thorne let the water run until it was red hot. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

In the mirror, Thorne watched as Stone zipped himself up and walked out without a word. He wondered if he always left without bothering to wash his hands. Guessed he just wasn’t feeling quite as talkative as he did when beer and tasty barmaids were involved.

When he felt the phone buzz in his pocket, Thorne moved quickly across to the hand-dryer. There was precious little power and the air was cold. He wiped his hands on the back of his trousers and reached into his jacket.

The message from Marcus Brooks he’d known was coming.

Thorne leaned against the sink and played the video clip. He watched as a man walked a small, black dog along a dimly lit street; tossed a cigarette butt into the gutter; waited while the dog sniffed around the base of a tree.

Thorne recognised the man straight away. He’d had bigger shocks.

The police officer who had once called himself ‘Squire’ would not be getting away with anything for very much longer.

Thorne sat in a quiet corner of the canteen with a phone pressed to his ear. The meal in front of him was hardly making his mouth water, but the conversation was one he was certainly looking forward to. One he’d been anticipating since his conversation with Sharon Lilley a week and a half before. That was when things had begun to get difficult; when the case had started to smell as bad as his chicken curry.

It was time to wash the stink off.

‘I got sent another message,’ he said, when the call was answered. ‘What kind of dog is that you’ve got?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Marcus Brooks knows where you are.’

Thorne had expected a pause, but he’d hoped it might be longer.

‘That’s nice for him.’

‘Actually, I wasn’t sure you’d be around to answer the phone. I mean, he didn’t waste much time with Paul Skinner, did he? With “Jennings”.’

‘Who’s Jennings?’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t bother.’

There was silence for a few seconds. Thorne could hear a door being closed. ‘Well, it’s good of you to call, but some of us are working, so…’

‘Every time we talked, you were just trying to find out what I knew, where the case was going.’

‘Doing my job, that’s all.’

‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier.’

‘You were hardly being honest yourself though, were you, Tom? I knew you were up to something.’

A sergeant who Thorne had worked with for a few months walked past the table. They exchanged smiles. ‘Why “Squire”? Did you pick it at random? What’s the first name, just out of interest? Seeing as we’re mates and everything.’

‘Is there a point to any of this?’

‘I thought I should let you know, that’s all,’ Thorne said. ‘Forewarned is forearmed, right?’

‘I’ll consider myself warned, then.’

‘You should consider yourself in very deep shit, one way or the other.’

Now there was a longer pause. ‘So, why is it you calling me, then? Why don’t I see the heavy mob kicking my door in?’

‘You should hope that’s who it is when it happens.’

‘Not flying solo on this one, are you?’

‘I’m giving you a chance.’

A laugh. ‘Go on…’

‘Strikes me you might want to think about getting yourself some protection. Taking a walk – no, running – to the nearest station; and maybe, while you’re there, telling them exactly why you need protecting. What you’ve done to deserve the undivided attention of Marcus Brooks.’

‘Or…?’

‘Or somebody else is going to tell them.’

The man on the other end of the phone sucked in his breath fast. It was meant to sound sarcastic; an indication that he wasn’t remotely threatened. But Thorne could hear that he was rattled.

‘Why the fuck should I do anything at all?’

‘Well, why don’t we start with the fact that this conversation is being recorded?’

Thorne hung up, and laid his old mobile phone down on the table. He picked up a fork, then put it down again when it began to rattle against his plate. Pushed the tray away.

He’d pop into The Oak on his way to meet Kitson at Colindale; pick up a cheese and tomato roll.

Maybe get a stiff drink to go with it.

Kitson had explained to Hakan Kemal and Gina Bridges that another officer would be sitting in on the interview. She made the introductions informally, then again for the tape. She asked Kemal if he was feeling OK; if there was anything that he needed before they started. He just shrugged.

‘He’s fine,’ Bridges said. ‘But until such time as you have any hard evidence, we really are doing you a favour here.’

‘We appreciate that,’ Kitson said. ‘Mr Kemal wouldn’t be here at all had his name not been passed on to us by someone intimately acquainted with this offence.’