From what Nicklin told me inside, I reckon this bloke Thorne is pretty much the same. The sort who follows things through, you know? He’ll feel as if he owes something to these fuckers, to their nearest and dearest at any rate. That’s exactly what Nicklin wants, if you ask me. Thorne won’t leave it alone, he’ll get right deep into it. Once he’s made a promise he’ll keep it, or at least he’ll try to keep it, and I’ve always respected that.
I’ve not learned much. I know, fuck all probably.
Except how important it is to know you’re doing the right thing, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.
Funny fucking pair, the two of us. Me and this copper. Sitting here, filling up these pages, trying to work things out in this poky shithole, I can’t help wondering what he thinks about what I’m doing. I don’t really care, but all the same, it’s on my mind.
Which one of us is going to end up looking like a mug.
Maybe both of us…
SIXTEEN
The sun was just coming up, and Thorne scraped a thin crust of frost from his windscreen with the edge of a CD case. The trees on his road – he had no idea what sort they were – were completely bare, and all had been severely cut back for the winter. Looking along the pavement, there was an almost perfect line of them. Bleached and stumpy in the half-light.
The message had woken him half an hour before. The tone he’d set up on the prepay handset.
He’d stood there in his dressing-gown, the cat pushing at his shins, and watched the clip. If he hadn’t recognised the man, he might have thought he’d been sent some random snippet of amateur porno. But dark and fuzzy as the image was, there was no mistaking the face; the punter being serviced by a woman who was almost certainly a hooker and was definitely not the man’s wife.
Not Mrs Bin-bag.
Thorne had stared at his other phone, at the mobile that was being monitored, and waited anxiously to see if the message would be sent to that handset too. He had given it a couple of minutes: felt colder and more uncertain with every few seconds that passed.
Louise had staggered through, pulling on a robe and asking who his message had been from.
‘Some fucking upgrade offer…’
‘What?’
‘Do I want an upgrade?’
She mumbled something, still half asleep, then turned and walked back into the bedroom.
Brigstocke had sounded only barely more awake when he’d answered the phone. ‘Fucking hell, Tom…’
‘How much surveillance have we got on Martin Cowans?’
‘What? Er… there’s an officer at his home address.’
‘What about the clubhouse?’
‘Can’t we do this later?’
Thorne had heard a woman’s voice; a muffled question as a hand was placed over the mouthpiece; children shouting somewhere. The Brigstockes had three kids to get ready for school every morning. ‘Russell?’
‘Yeah, there’s someone at the clubhouse. And I think S &O have got people on the place as well.’
‘How many?’
‘Fucked if I know. Nobody’s breaking into there though, are they? You said it was like Fort Knox.’
‘We thought we’d got Skinner’s place covered, remember?’
Brigstocke was wide awake now, and irritated. ‘We’ll talk about this at work, OK? I’ve got a meeting at nine…’
Thorne tossed the CD case back into the boot and climbed into the car. He had already started the engine, giving the BMW’s ancient heating system a chance to take the chill off, but the steering wheel was still freezing to the touch and he couldn’t be arsed to go back inside for his gloves. He looked at his watch; it was a good time to be driving. All being well he’d get in before seven-thirty.
Pulling the car round into a three-point turn, his eye was caught by movement above him, and he glanced at the tree opposite; at a fat, wet pigeon, perched awkwardly, halfway up. Its movements – the umbrella-shakes of its feathers – made it seem as if it were shivering.
Cold and pissed off; naked as the tree.
He didn’t quite have the place to himself, but for half an hour or so he was able to sit in relative peace and quiet. To eat toast and drink tea, and worry about the health and safety of a drug dealing, heavily tattooed gangster. To reflect on a course of action that meant he was the only one who knew Martin Cowans was in immediate danger.
To wonder if it was the stupidest thing he’d ever done.
It was a tough chart to top…
From his window, he watched officer after officer coming through the Peel Centre gates. Some he knew well; some he didn’t know from Adam; others he’d no more than smiled at when they’d passed on the stairs or in the canteen. Somewhere, there was a police officer who, in league with a friend or colleague, had killed a gang leader and sent an innocent man to prison for it. And who, six years later, according to Marcus Brooks, had battered his partner in crime to death rather than risk seeing their criminal history exposed.
Thorne wanted to find that man. Wanted him every bit as much as he wanted Marcus Brooks.
‘Bright and early, Tom,’ Karim said, marching straight across to the kettle. He held up the teabags, asking if Thorne was ready for another.
Thorne nodded. ‘Plenty of fucking worms to catch.’
He wasn’t the only one making an early start. Richard Rawlings was on the phone before Thorne had finished his second mug of tea.
‘Any news?’
‘The PM confirms that the cause of death was blunt trauma to the head, and puts the time of death somewhere between three and five on Saturday afternoon.’
‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
‘I’m not sure what else I can tell you,’ Thorne said.
‘Any news about Brooks? Any progress…?’
Nobody had spoken officially to Rawlings about Marcus Brooks, but Thorne was not surprised that he knew the name of their prime suspect. He could have found out through any number of sources: jungle drums; friends or friends of friends on the squad. Or even Skinner himself, who had probably told him all about the video clip he’d been shown, and what it meant.
And there was another possibility: a simple explanation for Rawlings knowing all about Marcus Brooks; for knowing more about the case than anybody else.
‘Is there anything you can tell us?’ Thorne said.
There was a pause. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as why Marcus Brooks, or anyone else, would want to smash your friend’s head in with a hammer.’
‘No fucking idea.’
‘That’s your first “fucking” of the conversation. I’m pleased you’re making an effort.’
Thorne was surprised to hear Rawlings laughing. ‘Well, I like to start off slowly, build up during the day, you know?’
Afterwards, Thorne failed to return several messages: one from Keith Bannard, the DCI from S &O: another from a CPS clerk, wanting to talk about a bloodstained training shoe that had ‘gone walkabout’ from an evidence locker; and a rambling message from his Auntie Eileen, who never got round to saying why she was calling. Thorne guessed she wanted to have the ‘What are you doing at Christmas?’ conversation.
He heard someone outside the door telling Kitson how good she’d been on TV the previous night. When she came in, Thorne added his own congratulations.
‘Anything?’
‘A few people ringing in to say they saw someone dropping something into the litter bin that could have been a knife, but I don’t think that gets us very far. The woman hasn’t called back.’
‘There’s time yet.’
Kitson was something of a closet football fan and they talked about the previous night’s European results. Arsenal were now at the bottom of their group having lost at home to Hamburg. Thorne hadn’t had a chance to talk to Hendricks yet, who he knew would be devastated.
‘Did you see the highlights?’ Kitson asked.