‘There’s still plenty of violence,’ Bannard said. ‘Plenty. They move around, expand into new areas, whatever, and the turf wars can get seriously tasty. Mind you, they’ve gone beyond machetes and bike chains. We found rocket launchers and assault rifles in a Black Dogs lock-up last year.’ He paused, as though he were making sure that the seriousness, the scale, of what he was describing was sinking in.
‘That explains the tattoos,’ Thorne said.
‘Sorry?’
Thorne told him about the conversations he’d had with Hendricks and Holland. Bannard listened, then described one tattoo in particular, a pair of entwined daggers, but Thorne couldn’t recall seeing it.
‘It’s usually a small one, but it’ll be there somewhere,’ Bannard said. ‘Go back and have a look. That’s a “kill” symbol. Most gangs have got them, a special patch or a tattoo, and they have to be earned…’
Another seemingly significant pause. Thorne bit. ‘So, what…? You reckon that whoever smashed Tucker’s head in has just earned one of his own?’
‘It’s possible. Maybe Rat got on the wrong side of somebody.’
‘I’ve seen him,’ Thorne said, ‘and I think it’s safe to assume he pissed off
The S &O man’s laugh seemed genuine this time, but just when they seemed to be getting along, Thorne spoiled it by asking if there was a specific reason why Bannard had called in the first place.
The throat was cleared and the voice sharpened. ‘Obviously, Tucker was someone of interest to us, so his murder is hardly something we can ignore. Letting you know would seem to be a good idea, don’t you think? Would be a
It sounded very reasonable. ‘So you wouldn’t be trying to stake a claim or anything like that?’ Thorne asked. ‘Same as you’re doing with the Deniz Sedat murder.’
‘Nobody’s stepping on anyone else’s toes here.’
‘I understand that, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘But surely you can understand people thinking that you were letting someone else do the donkey work, you know? So you could come in at the last minute like the heavy mob.’
‘The case you mentioned isn’t one of mine. And you’re being seriously fucking cheeky, Inspector.’
It was Thorne’s turn to leave the significant pause. ‘Sir.’
‘Now, you’ve been helpful, so let’s not fall out, but there’s just one more thing. I wonder if you could tell me why the Tucker murder was taken away from the team at Homicide East that originally caught it, and allocated to you?’
Thorne heard nothing he liked in the seemingly innocent enquiry. He could make out Bannard’s enjoyment at having caught him out in the lie-by-omission. And there was no mistaking the relish with which his superior demonstrated just how well connected he was in every sense of the word. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so outmanoeuvred by another copper. So outclassed.
With no choice, Thorne finally told Bannard about the message from Raymond Tucker’s killer: the photo that had started everything. Gave another answer which he was sure Keith Bannard had already known when he was asking the question.
‘How did that go?’ Kitson asked.
‘Do you mean the phone conversation with Serious and Organised, or the bollocking I’ve just given Andy Stone for putting the fucker’s call through?’
‘Well, I’m guessing the second part was more enjoyable, but I meant the phone call.’
They were standing in the corner of the Incident Room, behind Karim’s desk, where a collection of mugs and a stone-age kettle sat on top of a small fridge. Thorne reached for the sugar. There were dried brown lumps in the bowl and caked on to the teaspoon. He turned around and let anyone within earshot know that the next person to stir their tea and then get sugar without wiping the spoon first would be rocketing straight to the top of his shit list.
‘That good, was it?’ Kitson said. ‘Your phone call?’
Thorne smiled and played it down. He didn’t let Kitson know the extent to which he’d been stitched up. Or how, despite the fact that the conversation with Bannard had ended casually enough, he’d hung up feeling well and truly dismissed.
‘He seemed OK,’ Thorne said. ‘Fancied himself a bit, but you know what they’re like.’
Kitson was relieved the call had not turned out to concern the Sedat case. She wondered aloud if S &O would be backing off from her inquiry, now that the knife had turned up where it had.
‘They will if they’ve got any bloody sense.’ Thorne took the milk from the fridge. Gave it a sniff. ‘I still don’t see it as a gangland thing.’
‘Shame about those prints,’ Kitson said.
‘Never mind. Maybe whoever knifed Sedat left his name and address in a different bin.’
They drank their teas. Nodded hellos to faces from one of the other teams settling in on a new shift. ‘Well, at least you know a lot more about your body in Enfield now,’ Kitson said.
Thorne nodded, reminding himself that he needed to call Hendricks; let him know he’d been right about the tattoos.
‘Sounds like
Thorne groaned across his mug: ‘I sincerely hope not.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ Kitson dug around in her handbag for a compact. ‘It really helps if you give a toss, doesn’t it?’ She strolled away towards the toilets, leaving Thorne wondering whether Brigstocke or Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond would still talk about an ‘innocent victim’ if there was a press conference. Deciding that he’d give it another hour, two at the most, then head home.
He walked slowly back towards his office, thinking that he’d need to find out a little more about the Black Dogs and how they operated. He passed the board with Tucker’s picture on it, and felt himself starting to smile. Even though the gloom was gathering strength outside the window, and the day behind him felt like something he’d hacked his way through, he was strangely cheered by the notion of a heavily tattooed, vicious member of an outlaw biker gang with a mum who still washed his underpants.
He’d never really worked out why there was any need for security at a hospital. Obviously, there were drugs knocking about, but they kept them locked up, didn’t they? He knew there were nutters who tried to nick babies, so he could understand them being careful on maternity wards, and it made sense to keep an eye on anywhere they had infectious diseases, but apart from that he couldn’t see what it was they were so worried about.
As it went, the place where they were looking after Ricky Hodson was hardly Fort Knox.
The Abbey was a large, private hospital in Bushey, and the Beaumont building sat between banks of trees on the edge of its fifteen well-tended acres. There were a dozen rooms on the first floor. There were commanding views across a car park from one side or rolling fields from the other, depending on how high a premium you’d paid on your health insurance.
He smiled as he walked into reception; said something funny about how cold it was. He received a smile in return and was buzzed through into the lobby. Waiting for the lift, he looked at himself in the highly polished doors. He lowered his hood and pushed a hand through his hair. Took a deep breath.
The place didn’t even
When he walked into Hodson’s room, it didn’t surprise him that he wasn’t looking out over the car park. Not that he could see a lot: the fields were grey under the charcoal sky, and he could just make out lights a long way in the distance. He thought it might be Watford or Rickmansworth.
There was a noise from the bed.
Hodson was watching MTV. On a television fixed high up in the corner of the room, some rap star or other was showing the cameras around his house. There was a pool table with gold-coloured baize and a plasma screen ten feet across.
He walked around the bed, took the remote from the small table and turned off the television.
It wasn’t exactly recognition in Hodson’s eyes, he could-n’t say that, but there was curiosity, certainly. Drugged up to the eyeballs as he was, it was hard to make out exactly what he said. ‘What?’Or
