Death Message

Thorne looked across at Gazza and Ugly Bob. Neither of them seemed particularly sharp, but Thorne knew very well that in any organised crime gang, in any unit, having one person who wasn’t stupid was usually enough.

‘So it’s an unofficial rule, is it?’ Holland asked.

Cowans gave him a hard stare. Scratched at his crotch. ‘It’s more of a philosophy.’

‘Well, it seems a bit pointless,’ Thorne said. ‘Us coming all this way for a chat, I mean, if you aren’t going to talk to us.’

‘Nobody invited you,’ Gazza piped up.

‘Maybe you not talking is a good idea,’ Holland said.

Cowans seemed to find Holland’s rebuke funny. ‘Look, I’m perfectly happy to chat. I just won’t say anything.’ He turned to Ugly Bob. ‘Go and chase up that fucking tea, will you?’

Bob sloped out, ash dropping on to his chest from the roll-up that had been clamped beneath his moustache since they’d sat down.

‘Very nice memorial section on the website by the way,’ Thorne said. ‘Some touching tributes.’

If Cowans was narked by the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. ‘This is a family, and members stay members, even if they’re gone. The Dogs don’t forget anyone.’

‘A lot of them have gone over the years,’ Holland said. ‘Surely they didn’t all come off their bikes?’

Cowans shook his head. ‘Like I said. Happy to chat…’

‘Can you tell us about the history of the club, then?’

‘It’s all on the website.’

‘How long have you been club president?’

‘Six years.’

‘Right.’ Holland took the chance to show that he had done some homework as well. ‘You took over from Simon Tipper.’

‘“Tips”…’

‘Whatever…’

At that point Ugly Bob kicked the door open and came in with three mugs of tea. A woman walked in behind him with three more and a packet of biscuits. She was fortyish and pale, with bleached blond hair and a crop top that did her no favours. She handed mugs to Thorne and Holland and then took her own over to the sofa, settling on the arm next to Cowans. Thorne saw that she was wearing slightly different colours to the others: a ‘property’ patch given to those ‘old ladies’ of club members lucky enough to be afforded the honour.

‘This Mrs Bin-bag, is it?’ Thorne asked.

The woman tore at the packet of biscuits with her teeth. Gave Thorne the finger without looking up.

‘Nice picture of Tips on the memorial page,’ Thorne said. ‘What happened to him?’

Cowans took a handful of biscuits from the woman. ‘Well, that’s a matter of public record, isn’t it? Some burglar knifed him while he was turning Tips’ place over. All done and dusted quick enough by your lot. Arsehole got banged up. That’s it.’

‘What about the ones that weren’t done and dusted? The ones that didn’t die on their bikes and weren’t tragically killed disturbing burglars. You sorted those out yourself, right?’

Cowans dunked and drank.

‘Don’t be like that,’ Holland said. ‘See how nice this is – a cup of tea and a natter?’

‘Come on, I presume you don’t have an “armourer” for nothing,’ Thorne said. ‘I know that scores have to be settled.’

Holland began to pick up on cues. ‘Tucker and Hodson. There’s two for a start.’

‘Mind you, it’s a fair bet that whoever killed them was settling some scores of their own.’

‘And obviously you’ve got no idea at all who that might be.’

‘Can’t be too many candidates though, surely?’

‘Another biker gang?’ Holland addressed the questions to Thorne. ‘Some local business that doesn’t like the competition?’

‘Come on, Bin-bag,’ Thorne said. ‘Who’s going to pay for Rat and Hoddo?’

Thorne could only presume that Cowans was opening his mouth to refuse to answer their questions when his old lady beat him to the punch.

‘Some cunt’ll pay for it, sooner or later.’ She looked like she was enjoying herself. ‘We’ve got long memories and-’

Cowans reached over, expressionless, and took hold of his girlfriend’s wrist. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and, as she stared right back at Thorne, he watched her struggling not to show any of the pain or anger.

There wasn’t too much more chat after that.

Thorne turned at the door as though he’d forgotten something, and stabbed a finger at the Black Dogs’ rules. ‘This is a strange one,’ he said. ‘“Members found to be injecting drugs will be subject to the severest punishment, and may be expelled from the club.”’ He looked at Cowans, thought about what Bannard had told him. ‘Now, bearing in mind that other gangs involved in heroin smuggling are the most likely people to be pissed off with you lot right now, I was wondering: is that a philosophy as well? Or are you just being ironic?’

He screwed up the piece of paper and tossed it towards the bikers. Gazza swore, and swatted it away, while Cowans just smiled and reached into his tea; fished out bits of biscuit with dirty fingers.

‘I didn’t think it would be too long before we were talking again,’ Bannard said.

Thorne turned from the phone and pulled a face at Holland; long-suffering and scornful. ‘Why’s that then?’

‘Well, now there’s two dead bikers. Changes things a bit.’

‘I need to pick your brains about the Black Dogs,’ Thorne said.

‘There’s no other reason why you’d be calling.’

‘You OK with that?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be? We’re not trying to step on anyone’s toes.’

‘Yeah, you said.’

‘We’re happy to let you run with this one.’

Despite the nonsensical corporate language and the West Country accent, the ‘we’ still managed to sound faintly ominous. ‘But you’re still keeping an eye on things?’

‘Oh shit, yes.’ Bannard coughed out a laugh. ‘There’s something major kicking off, obviously, and we’d be fucking idiots if we weren’t seriously interested.’

‘Course.’

‘But it would also be pretty stupid to come in over the top of you, when you’ve got such a… connection to the case, don’t you reckon?’

Thorne mumbled a ‘yes’, thinking: Will you let me know if you find out what it is?

‘So, I take it you’ve been to see Bin-bag and got fuck all?’

‘Tea and biscuits.’

‘He must have liked you.’

Bannard promised to send Thorne a file on the Black Dogs. Said it would give a much better picture of their recent history and set-up than could be found on any web-site; intelligence that might point Thorne and his team towards whoever was cheerfully picking off senior members of the club.

Thorne was suitably grateful, and equally pissed off at having to be. He asked how far back the file went. He’d started to wonder to what extent the club’s activities in the last few years were connected with a change of hierarchy, and what Bannard knew about the death of the Black Dogs’ former leader.

‘Probably no more than you,’ Bannard said. ‘The Tipper murder was before I came on board. We’ve got all the details on file.’

‘It might be interesting to have a look.’

‘Are you out and about?’

Thorne said that he was. He didn’t bother to mention that he and Holland were sitting in a car fifty yards from the Black Dogs’ clubhouse, but Bannard was the sort of copper who made him paranoid enough to think he didn’t have to.

‘I’ll dig out the name of the original SIO and get back to you,’ Bannard said. ‘If you really think it’s worth it,