Death Message

‘Vorsprung, durch… utterly fucked,’ Holland said, getting into his stride.

Thorne steered the car slowly through the mess of traffic at the Brent Cross flyover, then turned north towards Hendon, waiting until Holland had hit him with his best shots.

‘Say what you like.’ Thorne stroked the steering wheel theatrically. ‘Still my baby.’

‘Listen to yourself,’ Holland said. ‘It’s a clapped-out piece of German scrap. It’s not Herbie…’

Thorne sighed and stared ahead, refusing to dignify the comment with a response. The blocks of single-storey warehouses and furniture superstores crawled by along the length of the A406: Carpet Express; Kingdom of Leather; Staples. His eye was caught by the Carphone Warehouse logo across a set of grey, metal shutters, and it suddenly struck Thorne that the reason for the killer’s delay in sending the photograph might have been altogether simpler yet more bizarre.

‘Fritz, maybe…’ Holland said.

Was it possible that, after committing the murder, the killer had kept a watch on Tucker’s flat? On seeing that the body was going undiscovered, had he simply decided to give the police a helping hand?

Ordered or disordered?

Perhaps he wanted someone to go to the trouble of finding out…

Next to him, Holland was saying something about a running joke that ran a damn sight better than the car did, but Thorne was already elsewhere. Thinking that the dead were never decorous. That death itself was rarely dignified, whether you were tottering towards collapse on a mixed ward or rotting into a carpet. But that for the most unfortunate, what was left could barely even be called ‘remains’.

Thinking that, when people talked about leaving something of themselves behind, they usually meant more than just a stain on a floorboard.

FIVE

Back at Becke House, the news was mixed. But then, life itself was perfectly capable of taking the piss…

From Kitson, the familiar two-steps-forward-threesteps-back routine. The blood on the knife retrieved from the litter bin had been identified as belonging to Deniz Sedat. They had also managed to pull a decent set of prints from the handle. Sadly, though, these failed to match with any held on record.

From Karim, a predictably frustrating technical update. With a cell-site search having been formally authorised by Brigstocke, T-Mobile had been in touch to acknowledge the request. And again later, to say that they would give it their highest priority, as soon as their virus-riddled computer system was up and running again.

Thorne retreated to his office, but five minutes later Andy Stone was babbling at him from the doorway.

‘There’s a DCI from S &O on the phone.’

‘And?’

‘And he’s been calling every fifteen minutes since lunchtime trying to get hold of the guvnor.’

Thorne hadn’t seen Brigstocke since his return from the mortuary. ‘Where is he?’

‘No idea, some meeting. Anyway, I think this bloke’s had enough, because now he’s just asking to speak to the appropriate DI.’

‘Kitson’s looking after the Sedat case,’ Thorne said.

‘I don’t think it’s the Sedat case he wants to talk about…’

Thorne was curious, but he was also exhausted, and with more than enough to occupy his mind at that moment. He shook his head. ‘He’ll call back.’

‘He’s waiting for me to put him through.’

‘Tell him you couldn’t find me.’

‘He won’t be happy…’

Thorne stared until Stone backed, muttering, into the corridor. He began to wonder if he’d inadvertently activated some kind of shit magnet, and when the phone on his desk began to ring a minute later, he just stared at it for a few seconds. Thought about sneaking down to the canteen for tea and a piece of cake, sorting out that weaselly little fucker Stone later on…

‘Your guvnor’s been ducking me all day. You’re not trying to piss me about as well, are you, Tom?’

There’d been laughter, of a sort, as he’d asked the question, but it was clear enough from DCI Keith Bannard’s tone that he wasn’t joking. Thorne presumed it was rhetorical anyway, being more of a threat than a genuine enquiry.

‘I think DCI Brigstocke’s been stuck in meetings most of the day, sir,’ he said. ‘Have you got his mobile number?’

‘I’ve rung three times. Twice he’s dropped the call and now he’s turned the phone off.’

Thorne guessed Brigstocke had got wind that S &O were on his case, presuming, as Thorne had done, that they were still trying to muscle in on the Sedat case. ‘Shall I take a message? I suppose you’ve already left one on his office voicemail?’

‘Tell me about your dead car salesman,’ Bannard said.

‘Tucker?’ Suddenly, Thorne had a lot more to occupy his mind.

‘Tucker. Raymond, Anthony.’ There was gravel in the voice, giving an edge to what would otherwise have been a gentle West Country burr. Get off my land, or I’ll rip your lungs out…

‘Tell you what?’ Thorne said.

There was a sigh and a sniff. ‘Right. Silly buggers, is it?’

‘I’m not trying to be difficult…’

‘No?’

‘I just don’t have much more than you could easily get off the bulletin, you know? So, I don’t think I can really be a lot of help.’ There was a soft knock, and Thorne looked up to see one of the civilian office assistants staring in through the window in the door. She formed her fingers into a ‘T’ and held them up to the glass. Thorne shook his head.

‘I know a lot about Ray Tucker and his mates,’ Bannard said. ‘Fuck of a lot, matter of fact. It’s just this very recent stuff I’m a bit woolly on… the getting his head caved in and what have you.’ He laughed again, and let out a short volley of coughs, which caused Thorne momentarily to pull the phone away from his ear. ‘The “dead in his front room” stuff, see? It’s just about getting up to speed really, keeping on top of things. So, anything you can tell me will almost certainly be useful. Fair enough, DI Thorne?’

Thorne duly told Bannard what had come to light that day. He told him about the state of the body when it was discovered, the likely murder weapon and the preliminary results of the PM, sensing, even as he did so, that he wasn’t telling the man anything he didn’t know already.

The only thing he neglected to mention – for no very good reason he could put his finger on – was that he’d been sent a picture of the dead man two days before.

‘“Ray Tucker and his mates”, you said?’ Thorne heard Bannard take a drink of something on the other end of the line.

‘For fifteen years, Tucker, better known to us and his close friends as “Rat”, was a leading member of the “Black Dogs”. They’re one of the bigger biker gangs, OK? Swallowed up two or three other mobs over the years and nobody’s quite sure how many members there are now, but thirty-five or forty, easy. They’re dotted around, but we’ve got most of them based up towards the edge of north London and Hertfordshire these days.’

Thorne had heard the name. ‘Hell’s Angels, right?’

‘Absolutely not. Business rivals, as a matter of fact, but they all work along the same lines: a strict hierarchy, members sworn to secrecy, the wearing of club colours and what have you.’

‘And I’m guessing most of the time, when they meet up, it’s got fuck all to do with motorbikes.’

‘Not a great deal, no.’

‘What is it, dope?’

‘Dope, cocaine, ecstasy, whatever. They work with affiliated gangs in Europe, bring the stuff in from Holland and Scandinavia. We think they’ve just started moving into the heroin business.’

‘Not beating up mods on Brighton seafront any more, then?’