Another pause. Then: ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’
He’d as good as told Thorne to sleep on it. That Skinner was tucked up, safe and sound, with officers outside his house. He’d said there was nothing they could usefully be doing that night anyway, and even if the accusations being thrown around by reliable chaps like Stuart Nicklin were true, it wouldn’t make much difference in terms of trying to stop him being murdered, if that was all the same to Thorne.
Thorne had let it go. He knew very well that Brigstocke had plenty on his mind; knew even better there would be no point asking if he wanted to share any of it.
He folded a low pair when Number1Razr went all-in and was called by The Big Slick, playing as the cool black guy in the snazzy waistcoat.
Thorne had lost count of the times he’d been swayed by Brigstocke’s opinion; when his judgement in doing so had proved to be spot on. But this time the DCI’s lack of enthusiasm had done nothing to lessen Thorne’s conviction that Nicklin, and by association Brooks himself, had been telling the truth…
At the table, Slick showed a pair of tens, and even though he’d hit a third, he was put out of the game by Razr’s low flush. Thorne watched as a message appeared on the site’s dialogue box: Bye Nigga!
Thorne didn’t know if he was outraged in spite of or because of the absurdity in racially abusing a cartoon. Either way, he made the decision that he was going to put Number1Razr out of the game if it took him all night.
They each folded their next three hands early. Then, with a decent-sized pot already built up and with two cards still to come, Thorne found himself sitting on 8-9, with 10-jack-queen on the board. He should probably have slow-played it, but couldn’t resist making a big bet and typing out a message to go with it: Come on then, you racist fuck…
Number1Razr took the bait and went all-in. Thorne called immediately. When the hole cards were revealed, Thorne saw the ace-king which gave his opponent the higher straight, and with the final two cards of no further help, he crashed out of the tournament in third place.
Later, getting ready for bed, he realised that he’d probably been stupid. He knew well enough that players deliberately wound each other up in the hope that someone at the table might start to bet rashly; might go ‘on tilt’, as poker parlance put it.
Fifty dollars down on the night, it had been an expensive lesson to learn, but Thorne didn’t much care. He’d loved every minute of it and was still buzzing an hour later, wide awake.
He enjoyed the game anyway, but having someone to go after had made it even better.
Baby,
I don’t know how far I walked tonight and I don’t suppose it matters. But I swear I don’t know how I kept putting one leg in front of the other, because it feels like my head’s full of dirty cotton wool. I know I said I was enjoying it, and it’s better than rotting in the flat, but all I could think about tonight was sleep. How much I want it, and how much I’m dreading it. Knowing that when I do get off, it won’t last long, that I’ll be up again feeling like shit in a couple of hours.
I think that, maybe, there’s dreams I don’t remember. Worse than the normal ones, I mean. So fucking terrible that something, some survival instinct or whatever, knocks me out of them and wakes me up before anything really bad happens. God knows what they’d be, though. The ones I can remember are shitty enough. Stuff about you and Robbie, about what happened. Or worse, when nothing’s happened at all and everything’s just fine, just the way it was. But then I remember, in the dream I remember, and when I wake up it’s like I’ve only just found out, you know? Like I’m back at Long Lartin, listening to those coppers all over again, every word kicking the shit out of me.
Talking of which…
One of them’s dead. One of the two from before, I mean, when I got sent down. But there’s other stuff going on now, other people involved. Things are happening that are bugger all to do with me, and I don’t really feel like I’m in control of this any more. Not to worry, the details don’t matter. You were never that big on the nuts and bolts of stuff anyway, not unless there was a handbag or shoes involved!
I’m not going to stop, though. I just wanted to tell you that. However fucked up or strange things get, I’m going to finish it. And yes, I do remember the shelves I never got round to putting up, and the bathroom that stayed half-tiled for over a year, so I know damn well you’ll be having a good laugh about me finishing anything.
That’s fine, I don’t care. As long as I can see you laughing…
Right, time to try and sleep again. I’ll go through the cupboard full of pills I’ve got and see if there are any I haven’t tried. Maybe I should mix up a sodding cocktail. Give the boy a squeeze for me. And all sorts for yourself, baby.
Marcus XX
TWELVE
Camden Market was one of the capital’s top tourist attractions; the fourth-biggest retailer in the country, according to some sources, with up to one hundred thousand people descending on the place every weekend. Making his way slowly up from Mornington Crescent station towards Camden Lock, Thorne had decided that he’d been held up or jostled by twice that many.
Well, there were only forty-two shopping days left until Christmas.
He had scowled, weaving through the mêlée, leading with his shoulder. ‘I told you this would be mad.’
‘Shut it, Grandad…’
Louise had suggested the trip a day or two before, saying it had been years since she’d been. Then Hendricks had got wind of the idea and it had rapidly turned into an outing. The three of them had met for breakfast at a café near the Tube station, and there was talk of walking up to Primrose Hill later on, or of splashing out at Marine Ices when they got shopped out.
At the very least, it should have been distracting.
Pushing his way through a sea of black leather and multicoloured hair extensions ought to have allowed Thorne some time away from thinking about Marcus Brooks. Wondering why there were so many people, relative to the huge amount of quirky pottery and faux-antique tat; moaning about the fact that cleaning up after the market each week was like painting the Forth Bridge; grumbling, sweating in spite of the drizzle, feeling too old to be anywhere near the place. All of that should have taken Thorne’s mind off dead bikers and bent coppers for at least an hour or two.
After the first half-hour, though, Thorne suggested they split up, so that he could browse through the second-hand CDs in the Stables, look for a couple of Cash albums he only possessed on vinyl. In reality, it was because, alone, he could focus more easily on the case: on Brooks and the drive for revenge that Nicklin had stoked up and described with such relish; on Skinner and his partner; on the slow and terrible chain of events that they had begun six years earlier.
He could think about a woman and her child being mown down on a zebra crossing. About men who lived by rules and believed in a reckoning.
About a whirlwind being reaped…
When he caught up with Louise and Hendricks, who were drinking coffee on a crowded pavement, it was only to let them know he’d decided to go into work, even though he was booked out for the day, with a DI from another team covering for him.
Louise wasn’t happy about it. She pointed out that the case would not fall apart without him. He said that she’d do the same thing if she had to.
‘Yeah, if I had to,’ she said.
Hendricks raised his hands. ‘Uh-oh! Domestic…’
Louise threw him a look, in no mood to let it drop.
‘You two can stay,’ Thorne said.
‘Can we? Thanks a lot.’
‘I haven’t got time for this.’
‘No, you’d better get a move on,’ Louise said. ‘They’ll all just be standing around, wondering what to do until you get there.’
Thorne looked to Hendricks for support, for a ‘bloody women’ raise of the eyebrows that might diffuse the situation, but his friend stared resolutely into his coffee cup. Thorne turned back to Louise. ‘We said we wouldn’t do this.’