Death Message

It was a multimedia message, with a photograph attached. The picture was poorly defined, shot from close up and low down, and it wasn’t until Thorne had held the phone eighteen inches away for a few seconds and angled it correctly that he could see exactly what it was. That he finally realised what he was looking at.

The man’s face filled the small screen, pasty and distorted.

A clump of dark hair curled across the only visible cheek. The mouth hung open, its lips flecked with white and a sliver of tongue just visible inside. Chins bulged, one above the other; each black-and-silver stubbled, with a thin red line delineating the two. The single eye in shot was closed. Thorne could not be sure if the marks that ran across the brow and on to the forehead were from the camera lens or not.

He jabbed at the handset to retrieve the details of the message. Scrolled past the time and date, searching for the identity of the sender. There was no name listed, but he pressed the call button twice to dial the phone number that was shown.

Got a dead line.

He went back to the picture and stared, feeling the pulse quicken at the side of his neck. Feeling that familiar, dreadful tickle, the buzz, building further round, at the nape. When it came to a lot of things, there were times when Thorne couldn’t see what was staring him in the face; but this, for better or worse, was his area of expertise. Accountants were good with numbers, and Tom Thorne knew a dead man when he saw one.

He angled the screen again, moved the handset closer to the lamp on the desk, the poker game forgotten. He stared at the dark patch below the man’s ear that was certainly not hair. At the red line where it had run into the crack of his double chin.

Blood was not definitive, of course, but Thorne knew what the odds were. He knew that most people didn’t go around taking pictures of friends and relatives that had been struck by falling masonry or accidentally tumbled down the stairs.

He knew that he was looking at a murder victim.

TWO

‘Have you any idea how many forms would have to be filled in?’

‘OK, so just take something out of petty cash. I presume we have some petty cash?’

‘Yes, and that would be even more bloody forms.’ Russell Brigstocke took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Thorne held up his hands, conceding defeat, unwilling to heap any more misery on to his DCI’s shoulders. ‘Whatever. I’ll pay for it. Can’t hurt to have a spare anyway, right?’

His original enquiry had been innocent enough…

It was immediately obvious that Thorne would need to hand over his phone to see what information could be extracted from it, and like almost anyone else who had come to depend on the damn thing far too much, the thought of being without a mobile for any length of time had filled him with horror. He had stared down at the handset on Brigstocke’s desk as if he were saying goodbye to a cherished pet for the last time.

‘You could always hang on to the phone,’ Brigstocke had said. ‘Just let them have the SIM card.’

‘What’s the point? All my numbers are on the card anyway.’

‘You don’t know how to swap them over?’

‘What do you think?’

It was obvious to both of them that they didn’t have too much time to mess about. ‘Look, just get one of those prepay things,’ Brigstocke had said. ‘Set up a divert and you won’t miss any calls.’

‘How much are they?’

‘I don’t know, not a lot.’

‘So will the department pay for it?’

It had seemed like a fair question…

Brigstocke replaced his glasses and pushed fingers through his thick, black hair. He reached for Thorne’s handset. ‘Now, if we’ve finally sorted out your problematic phone situation…’

‘I’d like to see you cope without one,’ Thorne said.

Brigstocke ignored the jibe, stared down once again at the picture on the Nokia’s small screen.

Thorne eased off his heavy leather jacket, turned to drape it across the back of his chair. It had been freezing when he’d stepped out of his flat an hour and a half earlier, but he’d begun to sweat after ten minutes inside Becke House, where most of the windows were painted shut and all the thermostats seemed permanently set to ‘Saharan’. Outside, wind sang against the glass. November was just getting into its stride, brisk and short- tempered, and from Brigstocke’s office Thorne could see leaves swirling furiously on the flat roofs of the buildings opposite.

‘It’s probably just someone pissing about,’ Brigstocke said.

Thorne had tried to tell himself the same thing since the picture had first arrived. He was no more convinced hearing it from someone else. ‘It’s not a wax dummy,’ he said.

‘Maybe a picture from one of those freaky websites? There’s all manner of strange shit out there.’

‘Maybe. There’s got to be some point to it, though.’

‘Wrong number?’

‘Bit of a coincidence, if it is,’ Thorne said. ‘Like a plumber getting sent a picture of a broken stopcock by mistake.’

Brigstocke held the phone close to his face, tipping it just a fraction to catch the light and talking as much to himself as to Thorne. ‘The blood hasn’t dried,’ he said. ‘We have to presume he’s not been dead very long.’

Thorne was still thinking about coincidence. It had played its part in more than a few cases down the years and he never dismissed it easily. But already, he sensed that something organised was at work.

‘This isn’t random, Russell. It’s a message.’

Brigstocke laid the phone down gently, almost as though it would be disrespectful to the as-yet unidentified dead man to do otherwise. He knew that Thorne’s instincts were spectacularly wrong as often as they were right, but he also knew that arguing with them was a short cut to a stress headache, with a stomach ulcer waiting down the road. He certainly didn’t see what harm it would do to give Thorne his head on this one. ‘We’ll get this to the tech boys, see what they can do about isolating the picture. I’ll put someone on to the phone company.’

‘Can we get Dave Holland to do it?’

‘I’m sure he’ll happily tear himself away from the Imlach paperwork.’

Darren Anthony Imlach. The man about to stand trial, accused of killing his wife and mother-in-law with a vodka bottle. He had been christened ‘The Smirnoff Killer’ by those red-tops that still had a nipple count in double figures.

‘Dave’s good at getting stuff out of people in a hurry, you know? Might save on a few hours’ form-filling.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Brigstocke said. He tapped the phone with his index finger. ‘Why don’t you see if there’s any sign of a body we can put this face to?’

Thorne was already on his feet, reaching for his jacket. ‘I’m going to log on to the bulletin right now.’

‘Did Kitson talk to you about the Sedat case?’

Thorne turned at the door. ‘I haven’t seen her yet.’

‘Well, she’ll fill you in, but we found a knife. Dumped in a bin across the road from the Queen’s Arms.’

‘Prints?’

‘Haven’t heard, but I’m not holding my breath. It was covered in fag-ash and cider and shit. Bits of sodding kebab…’

‘Maybe now’s a good time to let the S &O boys come in.’

‘They can fuck off,’ Brigstocke said.

The Serious and Organised Crime Unit were convinced that the murder of Deniz Sedat three days earlier was in some way linked to the victim’s involvement with a Turkish crime gang. Sedat, found bleeding to death by his girlfriend outside a pub in Finsbury Park, was not a major player by any means. But his name had come up during