Death Message

had got frostier still. ‘Fine with me.’ She moved across and wrapped the jacket around Hendricks’ shoulders. ‘I presume your mate didn’t happen to mention if I was in his address book, did he?’

Thorne felt sure that Brooks had been given all such information, but was almost as certain that he would not be using it. ‘I think it’ll be all right now.’ He looked at Hendricks. ‘I told him to back off.’ Hendricks returned the stare. ‘When he called, you know? I think he got the message.’

‘You think?’ Louise said.

‘I think we understand each other.’

‘Have you any idea how fucking ridiculous that sounds?’

‘Louise-’

‘How ridiculous you sound?’

Thorne stood there, wishing he hadn’t left Holland back at the car. For all the self-righteous anger that had coursed through him earlier, he felt isolated suddenly, and apprehensive. Every bit as ridiculous as Louise said he was. When the dust had settled he knew there would be questions to answer and he didn’t know how he was going to face them.

The wet pavement smelled like new carpet.

‘Right, we should get back to Pimlico,’ he said. ‘Kenny, you can get yourself off home, and we’ll take a taxi.’

Parsons looked to Louise for approval.

‘I’ve got stuff inside,’ Hendricks said. ‘And anyway, I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had a seriously large drink.’ He began to head back towards the club and, after a few seconds, Louise turned to follow, taking Parsons with her.

Thorne watched them walk away, listening to the fading siren, a mile or more distant. Each hand clutched at the warm lining of a jacket pocket, and he realised that Hendricks wasn’t the only one who was shaking.

PART THREE. ‘FORWARD’

THIRTY

He’d enjoyed more relaxing Sunday mornings.

Up before anyone else, Thorne had watched TV for a while, then decided he might as well head over to Holland’s place to pick up his car. He took a paper with him for the Tube ride across to Elephant and Castle. Flicked through it, hoping that gossip or goals or suicide bombs might take his mind off the mess he was in.

The professional frying pan and the domestic fire.

While he had been charging around gay clubs, there had been a double shooting in Tottenham. The estate on which two young black men had died had long been considered a no-go area, and, reading the story, Thorne decided that these latest events were hardly likely to turn it into a tourist hot-spot.

The train from Pimlico had been almost empty, but he’d changed on to a packed Northern Line train at Stockwell, and he could barely read the paper without elbowing his neighbour in the ribs.

He looked at the front-page story again.

A brutal event, and simple; drugs-related almost certainly. Reading, he realised just how much he yearned for something bog-standard, where there were no difficult choices to make. He wanted this one done with. There were cases, just a few, that had marked him, inside and out, but he couldn’t remember one that had left him feeling so out of control.

He had no idea where it – where he – was heading.

Looking up from the paper, he caught the man opposite staring; watched his eyes flick quickly up to the adverts above his head, then drop to the paperback on his knees.

On Tube trains, everyone was looking at someone else. It didn’t matter where you were sitting, on which side. You would never be able to see what was coming.

Holland’s girlfriend, Sophie, didn’t quite throw Thorne’s car keys at him when she opened the door, but she looked as though she’d have liked to. Thorne said hello, then sorry, and stepped inside. It was the warmest greeting he was likely to receive that day.

‘I was just going to nip to the shops,’ Sophie said when she and Thorne walked into the living room. ‘Do you want anything?’

Holland glanced up from the sofa. He looked as though he’d had about as much sleep as Thorne had managed. He shook his head; he and Thorne both well aware that Sophie would just be killing time until she was sure that Thorne had left. A while back, Thorne had contemplated calling her, maybe coming round one day when Holland wasn’t there, to try to sort out whatever was between them. But he’d done nothing, and now things were pretty much set in stone.

‘You could pick up some kidney beans if you want. I might do us a chilli later on,’ Holland said.

When she’d gone, Holland made tea.

‘Thanks for last night,’ Thorne said.

‘I should think so, too. That car’s a nightmare to drive.’

‘I didn’t mean the car.’

Holland looked at him through the steam from his tea. ‘What happened?’

Thorne filled him in: everything from when he’d left him in the rain with the BMW, up to, but not including, the point when he had got back to Louise’s flat and faced the music. Holland smirked, reminded Thorne of the moment when he’d taken control of the microphone in Beware and started shouting. ‘I reckon you’re a natural,’ he said. ‘Just need to get you a baseball cap or something…’

Thorne laughed, feeling like he hadn’t done so for a while.

‘You could still go to Brigstocke,’ Holland said.

‘No…’

‘I’ve been thinking about it.’ Thorne was already shaking his head, but Holland ploughed on. ‘You could set up another divert, from the prepay phone you’re using to talk to Brooks, back to your original mobile. Dump the prepay, and nobody need ever know about the calls. Your word against Brooks’, if it ever comes to it.’

‘Not going to happen.’

‘So just come clean. The guvnor’s a mate of yours, isn’t he?’

‘He’s in enough shit of his own already. Whatever it is, if he comes out of it, he’ll be trying to keep his nose as clean as possible.’ Thorne could see that Holland was trying to think of another way out. ‘Don’t worry about it, Dave.’

Holland’s daughter Chloe wandered in from the next room with a fist full of coloured pens. She looked like a little version of Sophie. Thorne had bought birthday presents for the first couple of years, but had missed the last one, a few months before.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘This is Tom,’ Holland said. ‘He’s been here before.’

Chloe had already moved on. She sat down on the floor and pulled a colouring book from a low table. Thorne and Holland drank their tea and watched her work, her lips pursed in concentration. Thorne asked her what she was drawing.

‘Sky,’ she said.

Nice and simple.

‘Still thinking about leaving London?’ Thorne asked.

Holland raised his arms, inviting Thorne to look around. ‘We’ll have to go somewhere,’ he said.

The first-floor flat had always been cramped, but with toys scattered about the floor and a pushchair in the hall, Thorne could see how badly Holland and his family needed more space. Still, he wondered if the move might be a