Death Message (32 page)

'Only until he gets back. Shouldn't be more than a few hours.'

'Why me? It isn't usually me.'

'You're not usually around. Anyway, that's what he said, and personally I reckon you could do with more responsibility.'

Karim was laughing as he wandered away, but Thorne's mind was already elsewhere: thinking of something Sharon Lilley had said that night in the pub, when she'd told him that her DCI had stepped back to let her run the Tipper inquiry.

Had she mentioned a name?

She'd said that the idea had been for her to 'try the shoes on for size', get used to heading up a major investigation. But Thorne was thinking of less altruistic reasons why an officer might not want to be involved.

If he knew the prime suspect personally, for example. If he'd been one of the two men responsible for making him the prime suspect.

Thorne walked along the corridor towards his office. Lilley had said she was unsure where her DCI had ended up; something about him being the sort to land on his feet. Thorne made a mental note to try and find out where he had landed.

As he turned into the office, he almost bumped into Kitson coming out.

'We've found Kemal,' she said. 'He's in Bristol, or at least he was two days ago.'

'Aren't you even a
bit
disappointed?'

'Sorry?'

'I know you were angling for a trip to that Turkish fishing village.'

'I'll settle for a day out in Bristol,' Kitson said. 'It's got good shops.'

They stood in the narrow corridor. There were posters behind glass promoting new initiatives: a crackdown on bail absconders; a campaign to keep hate crime out of sport. A bar-chart proudly trumpeting an increase in the clear-up rate of murders Met-wide to 87 per cent.

If they didn't catch Marcus Brooks, Thorne thought, they'd need to redraw the chart.

'There was a parking ticket issued two days ago in Bristol city centre. A Renault registered to Hakan Kemal.'

'Has he paid it yet?'

'I think he's got bigger things to worry about.'

'So what's in Bristol?'

'I've no idea. Somewhere to hide, I suppose.'

'Are you going to talk to the sister again?'

From the office, Thorne became aware of a muffled beeping - the tone from his prepay, sounding in the pocket of his jacket. The sound of a message arriving. He walked casually past Kitson and across to the chair, trying to keep at least one ear on what she was saying.

'... called earlier, and got her answering machine...'

Nodding, saying, 'Go on,' Thorne took out the phone and automatically angled his body away from Kitson, who had followed him inside, still talking.

'I was thinking about having a word with the parents.'

A small envelope was flashing on the screen. Another number Thorne didn't recognise.

'But I think we should give Harika a chance to get back to me first.'

He clicked SHOW then scrolled down; pressed PLAY to begin the video clip.

At that moment everything they'd been talking about, everything that Thorne had been thinking, went out of his head in an instant. Kemal, the follow-up on Sharon Lilley's DCI... everything. Kitson's words faded, as though huge hands had been clamped hard across Thorne's ears.

Like she was talking to him underwater.

The fifteen-second clip ended. Froze. A silver estate car; a man walking away from it.

Thorne was looking at a picture of Phil Hendricks.

Hendricks laughed when Thorne told him. Nervous laughter perhaps, but he certainly sounded unconcerned. 'He's trying to wind you up, mate.'

'Well, he's fucking succeeded.'

'That's been the point all along, hasn't it? Trying to get a reaction.'

Thorne could not remember what he'd blurted out at Kitson as he'd rushed from their office, carrying the prepay phone down to the far end of the corridor. He'd stepped into the stairwell, taken a large, unwelcome breath of apprehension from that new carpet, and dialled Hendricks' mobile.

'What are you doing today?' Thorne asked.

'Getting smashed over the head with a hammer, apparently.'

'Don't joke about it.'

'It
is
a fucking joke.'

'Listen, you should probably stay inside. And get somebody to stay with you-'

'Just calm down...'

Thorne was trying his best, but it wasn't easy. Hendricks' refusal to be alarmed was only increasing his own agitation; his own panic. 'For fuck's sake, Phil. Have you not seen what's been happening for the last couple of weeks? How many bodies have you worked on?'

'Bikers and bent coppers, the lot of them. All people Brooks blamed for his girlfriend's death. That's the pattern, right?'

'All people I got sent pictures of.'

'It's a wind-up, I'm telling you.'

'Sorry, but you're not the one who gets to make that decision.'

Hendricks laughed again, but to Thorne it felt like a finger jabbed into his chest. 'Before you start playing the by-the-book copper, you should remember who you're talking to, mate.'

'Who gets to do
your
PM, Phil? Do you have to nominate someone?'

'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; blase 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.

It was warm in the car, and Nunn had been listening to the radio. He nudged down the volume. 'How was your chat with Richard Rawlings?'

Thorne saw that the radio was tuned into Magic FM; an old Petula Clark song. 'Was it me you were watching, or Rawlings?'

'Maybe we were watching the pub and got lucky,' Nunn said. 'What did Rawlings want?'

So, Nunn knew that Rawlings had requested the meeting. It was the most likely scenario, but Thorne still wondered if the DPS were privy to the intercept on his home phone. He was past being surprised by anything.

'He reckons you lot have got it in for him. Wanted me to use my "influence" to get you to ease off. Or something.'

'What did you tell him?'

'That I don't have any influence.'

'That took you an hour and a half, did it?'

'Mostly it was him, swearing.' Nunn smiled. 'I don't have any influence, do I?'

'It's not the word I would use, but we're working on cases that are hopefully going to cross over at some point. What you do will probably be influential.'