Listening to him, Thorne imagined the man from S &O as a TV policeman: a no-nonsense country copper running amok in the big city; red face and big flapping hands, constantly outraged by the way people did things and by the price of everything. Sorting things out his way.
Thorne explained why he and Holland had made the trip to Soho. That though Mr Tindall was clearly a very sensitive individual, he was also a lying toerag.
‘Get anything?’ Bannard asked.
‘What, you mean apart from the grief and the offer of free tickets to a dirty film?’
‘Yeah, well, we all get those.’
‘I got a list of names.’ Thorne told Bannard about the conversation Tindall claimed to have had with Marcus Brooks; about the people he’d advised Brooks to go and speak to about accommodation. He read out the names.
‘You talked to any of them yet?’ Bannard asked.
‘Some are getting visits later today.’
‘Good luck.’
Thorne was hardly surprised that Bannard was pessimistic. ‘What the fuck is it with these people when it comes to talking to the police? I don’t mean incriminating themselves, or grassing someone up. I mean just saying
‘Maybe it’s just you,’ Bannard said. ‘They all talk to me.’
‘Only when you’ve got something on them.’
‘It helps.’
‘How did you get Tindall to start talking?’
‘Money, mate.’ Bannard was matter-of-fact. ‘Easiest way of all. His wife was ill, about to croak, I think. He needed money to help look after her.’
Thorne felt a twinge of guilt at his appraisal of Tindall. At the same time he thought that Bannard’s character would perhaps be too steely for even the most jaded of television viewers. ‘Anything you can put our way?’ he asked. ‘On any of these names?’
‘Not really.’
‘Thought you might have some… leverage.’
‘Listen, mate, if I had anything on any of those bastards, I’d have used it by now.’
‘Just a thought.’
‘No harm in asking.’
‘Haven’t you got anybody on the inside with any of these firms?’
Bannard sucked in a breath; answered like a taxi-driver being asked to drive south of the river at 4 a.m. ‘Can’t really go there, mate.’ He said he’d ask around, see if anyone else on his team had any bright ideas. Everyone had different contacts.
Thorne said that he’d be grateful. ‘What we were talking about the other night,’ he added. ‘Under the bridge. I was wondering if the Black Dogs had got themselves a new leader yet.’ He was thinking about who else Marcus Brooks might be planning on getting rid of. The message he was expecting some time that day.
Bannard sniffed. ‘Well, if they have, I don’t know who it is. I’ll get word eventually. It’ll be some long-haired fucker with tattoos, though, I can promise you that.’
Thorne knew what Bannard meant. He’d already been getting the three dead bikers mixed up in his head: a mass of dead white flesh and coloured ink.
‘I reckon that’s why they’ve got the nicknames,’ Bannard said. ‘So they can tell each other apart.’
‘Makes sense,’ Thorne said. Bannard had been joking, but it was what his old man had done when everything had started to short-circuit. Names had been the first things to go, replaced by simple – and usually unflattering – physical descriptions. Everyone from the man who ran the newsagent’s to Tom Thorne himself.
‘So, is that your best bet?’ Bannard asked. ‘The names you got from Tindall.’
‘Best bet?’
‘Trying to trace Brooks, I mean.’
Well, apart from the cosy text messages we send each other in the early hours, thought Thorne.
‘We’re chasing up a few other things,’ he said.
Actually, there were more than a few.
The so-called golden twenty-four hours after Martin Cowans’ corpse was hauled out of the canal had yielded nothing remotely precious, but there were still plenty of active leads to follow up: the property taken from the address in Hammersmith; the latest description of Marcus Brooks; the information provided by Davey Tindall. Though officers had been dispatched to question those on Tindall’s list, most of the inquiry team – which had now swelled to fifty-plus police and civilian staff – were busy where most modern detective work was done: at a desk, with phone, fax and computer keyboard all within easy reach.
These days, the majority of medical claims filed by Met employees were for bad backs or repetitive strain injury. Not even patrol officers – teamed up as often as not with CSO part-timers – suffered with their feet any more. Although Thorne thought he probably wore out a little more shoe-leather than most; certainly for someone of his rank.
‘Yeah, but that’s not because you’re chasing stuff up, is it? It’s because you’re usually running away from something.’ Holland, or Hendricks…
Once Thorne had got off the phone, still with no real idea why Bannard had called, he caught up with Holland.
‘Still haven’t learned to keep my big mouth shut, have I?’ the DS said. At Thursday’s briefing, he’d suggested that they might be able to find out where Brooks had bought his car. Aside from his trip into Soho with Thorne, he’d spent most of the time since regretting it.
He pushed a stack of papers across his desk, towards Thorne. ‘Used-car dealers in Acton, Brentford, Chiswick and Shepherd’s Bush. Hundreds of the buggers, and that’s without the dodgy ones.’ He reached for a Post-It on which he’d scribbled some notes. ‘Found a couple of decent second-hand BMWs you might be interested in. You know, whenever you fancy trading in the puke-mobile.’
‘Not listening,’ Thorne said.
Holland rolled back his chair, pointed at a thick pile of old newspapers and car magazines. ‘That’s been a treat, too. Calling up every low-life who might’ve flogged a dark Mondeo for cash a few days ago. You should hear the intake of breath when I tell them where I’m calling from. Like someone’s been killed because they’ve sold some poor sod a death-trap…’
‘Sounds like you’ve had fun,’ Thorne said. Holland had been joking, but as far as the cases they normally picked up went, the car was the murder weapon more often than the gun or the knife. Thorne handed the sheaf of papers back across, suddenly reminded that paperwork of his own was tucked away in his desk drawer.
Letters from a man to his dead wife and child.
‘The DCI was looking for you,’ Karim said, behind him.
Thorne turned. ‘Well, he wasn’t looking very hard. I’ve only been here and in the office.’
Karim pulled a what do I know? face, and followed it with one that suggested they continue the conversation somewhere else.
They walked into the corridor.
‘Brigstocke’s got some
Karim had emphasised the word enough for Thorne to know that the DCI had not gone to see his dentist. Thorne asked the question with a look.
‘Solicitor,’ Karim said. ‘Sounds like this DPS business, whatever it is, has moved up a gear.’
Same as everything else, Thorne thought.
‘So, you’re acting DCI.’
‘
‘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.’
