Karim was laughing as he wandered away, but Thorne’s mind was already elsewhere: thinking of something Sharon Lilley had said that night in the pub, when she’d told him that her DCI had stepped back to let her run the Tipper inquiry.
Had she mentioned a name?
She’d said that the idea had been for her to ‘try the shoes on for size’, get used to heading up a major investigation. But Thorne was thinking of less altruistic reasons why an officer might not want to be involved.
If he knew the prime suspect personally, for example. If he’d been one of the two men responsible for making him the prime suspect.
Thorne walked along the corridor towards his office. Lilley had said she was unsure where her DCI had ended up; something about him being the sort to land on his feet. Thorne made a mental note to try and find out where he had landed.
As he turned into the office, he almost bumped into Kitson coming out.
‘We’ve found Kemal,’ she said. ‘He’s in Bristol, or at least he was two days ago.’
‘Aren’t you even a
‘Sorry?’
‘I know you were angling for a trip to that Turkish fishing village.’
‘I’ll settle for a day out in Bristol,’ Kitson said. ‘It’s got good shops.’
They stood in the narrow corridor. There were posters behind glass promoting new initiatives: a crackdown on bail absconders; a campaign to keep hate crime out of sport. A bar-chart proudly trumpeting an increase in the clear-up rate of murders Met-wide to 87 per cent.
If they didn’t catch Marcus Brooks, Thorne thought, they’d need to redraw the chart.
‘There was a parking ticket issued two days ago in Bristol city centre. A Renault registered to Hakan Kemal.’
‘Has he paid it yet?’
‘I think he’s got bigger things to worry about.’
‘So what’s in Bristol?’
‘I’ve no idea. Somewhere to hide, I suppose.’
‘Are you going to talk to the sister again?’
From the office, Thorne became aware of a muffled beeping – the tone from his prepay, sounding in the pocket of his jacket. The sound of a message arriving. He walked casually past Kitson and across to the chair, trying to keep at least one ear on what she was saying.
‘… called earlier, and got her answering machine…’
Nodding, saying, ‘Go on,’ Thorne took out the phone and automatically angled his body away from Kitson, who had followed him inside, still talking.
‘I was thinking about having a word with the parents.’
A small envelope was flashing on the screen. Another number Thorne didn’t recognise.
‘But I think we should give Harika a chance to get back to me first.’
He clicked SHOW then scrolled down; pressed PLAY to begin the video clip.
At that moment everything they’d been talking about, everything that Thorne had been thinking, went out of his head in an instant. Kemal, the follow-up on Sharon Lilley’s DCI… everything. Kitson’s words faded, as though huge hands had been clamped hard across Thorne’s ears.
Like she was talking to him underwater.
The fifteen-second clip ended. Froze. A silver estate car; a man walking away from it.
Thorne was looking at a picture of Phil Hendricks.
TWENTY-FIVE
Hendricks laughed when Thorne told him. Nervous laughter perhaps, but he certainly sounded unconcerned. ‘He’s trying to wind you up, mate.’
‘Well, he’s fucking succeeded.’
‘That’s been the point all along, hasn’t it? Trying to get a reaction.’
Thorne could not remember what he’d blurted out at Kitson as he’d rushed from their office, carrying the prepay phone down to the far end of the corridor. He’d stepped into the stairwell, taken a large, unwelcome breath of apprehension from that new carpet, and dialled Hendricks’ mobile.
‘What are you doing today?’ Thorne asked.
‘Getting smashed over the head with a hammer, apparently.’
‘Don’t joke about it.’
‘It
‘Listen, you should probably stay inside. And get somebody to stay with you-’
‘Just calm down…’
Thorne was trying his best, but it wasn’t easy. Hendricks’ refusal to be alarmed was only increasing his own agitation; his own panic. ‘For fuck’s sake, Phil. Have you not seen what’s been happening for the last couple of weeks? How many bodies have you worked on?’
‘Bikers and bent coppers, the lot of them. All people Brooks blamed for his girlfriend’s death. That’s the pattern, right?’
‘All people I got sent pictures of.’
‘It’s a wind-up, I’m telling you.’
‘Sorry, but you’re not the one who gets to make that decision.’
Hendricks laughed again, but to Thorne it felt like a finger jabbed into his chest. ‘Before you start playing the by-the-book copper, you should remember who you’re talking to, mate.’
‘Who gets to do
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
‘Seriously,’ Thorne said, ‘I’m interested.’
‘And I’m the one that’s supposed to be the drama queen. Christ…’
Thorne stared down over the narrow banister, listening to his friend breathe. This was how they argued. Politics or the Premiership, Thorne would be the one to lose it, to do most of the shouting, while Hendricks mocked him; blase or sarcastic, then often seething for hours, even days afterwards.
‘What have I got to do with any of this?’ Hendricks said, eventually. ‘Just think about it for one minute, and you’ll see how ridiculous it is.’
‘You’re connected to me. That might be enough.’
‘Come on, this bloke doesn’t kill for kicks, does he? He’s doing it to settle scores.’
Thorne’s initial panic began to subside a little as he saw the sense in what his friend was saying. There was no good reason for Brooks to want Hendricks dead; certainly not the Brooks Thorne thought he’d been starting to understand. ‘I know that, and you’re probably right, but I’m just asking you to be careful. Stay where you are and watch TV or something. Get a pizza delivered. It won’t kill you.’
‘Do you want to rephrase that?’
‘Not really,’ Thorne said. ‘Where are you? At home?’
‘No…’
‘That’s good, now stay put.’ Thorne had not only recognised Hendricks’ car in the video clip. He had watched it pull up outside Hendricks’ home address. ‘Is there anybody with you?’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Hendricks said. ‘I’ve got a nice, tough police officer to look after me. Well, she’s in the shower at the minute, but I don’t think she was planning on going anywhere.’
He was at Louise’s place.
‘She’s got strange taste in blokes, but I think she can take care of herself.’
Thorne couldn’t argue with that, and he was growing more certain by the second that Hendricks was right – that there was no real cause for concern – but he couldn’t help asking himself, bearing in mind where Brooks had probably got his information from, if he knew where Louise lived as well.
