‘Doesn’t seem bothered about hiding the bodies, does he?’ Bannard continued. ‘So we can assume he dumped Cowans more or less where he killed him.’
‘Sounds reasonable.’
‘So, what the fuck was Bin-bag doing by the canal? Night-fishing?’
Thorne said nothing.
Whistling something to himself, Bannard started to stroll away down the towpath. Thorne followed. They walked for fifty yards or so and stopped under a low bridge. The banks and the water were black where they weren’t lit by orange lights fixed to the walls on either side.
‘Very artistic,’ Bannard said. He nodded towards a bizarre, three-dimensional mural on the far walclass="underline" a heron, a line of ducks, starfish and leaping rabbits, all created from pieces of coloured glass and shards of pottery.
Thorne presumed it was there for the benefit of those whose narrowboats passed beneath the bridge. Guessed it had also given the kids something nice to look at while they’d been spraying their graffiti tags on every spare inch of wall around it.
‘Well, I’ve had a good chat with your guvnor.’
‘That’s nice,’ Thorne said.
Bannard looked happy. ‘I think we can safely say none of this is gang-related, so I can probably get out of your way now.’
‘Whatever you think.’
‘That’s right. Try not to let on how delighted you are.’
‘Doing you a favour this, I would have thought.’
‘A few less arseholes like Martin Cowans does everyone a favour, don’t you reckon? But I can’t see it doing a lot for my workload, if that’s what you mean.’
Their voices echoed under the bridge. As Bannard spoke, he illustrated his words with elaborate gestures, and Thorne had trouble keeping his eyes off the man’s hands. They were enormous. His own had been virtually lost inside one of Bannard’s when they’d met over the body.
‘Will that be it for the Black Dogs, then?’ Thorne asked.
Bannard shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t think so.’
‘Three of the longest-serving members gone. That must shake things up, surely?’
‘They’ll reorganise, bring other members through the ranks. There’ll be a new leadership sorted by tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Same as happened when Cowans took over from Simon Tipper.’
‘Right.’
They stopped, hearing movement on the far side of the water, stared into one of the pools of shadow opposite, but could see nothing. ‘Who might have wanted Simon Tipper out of the way six years ago?’
Bannard was about to light a cigarette. He stared across at Thorne for a few seconds; sounded almost amused when he finally replied. ‘Tipper was killed by Marcus Brooks, when he caught him turning his house over. That’s what the woman who nicked him told you, right? Lilley?’
‘That’s what she told me.’
Bannard lit his cigarette. ‘Which, as far as I’m aware, is why all this shit’s happening in the first place. Yes?’
‘Hypothetically, then,’ Thorne said. ‘Who would have been happy about it?’
‘Christ, hypothetically it could have been anyone. One of the other biker gangs, most likely. One of his own lot who didn’t think he was getting a fair shake. Someone whose bike he’d borrowed without asking. A bloke whose girlfriend he’d shafted…’
‘The Black Dogs? The other gangs? Many of them have coppers on the payroll?’
Bannard grinned, hissed smoke through his teeth. ‘You doing a spot of DPS work on the side, Inspector?’
Thorne dropped his voice, mock-conspiratorial. ‘Every little helps, doesn’t it?’
‘Listen, all these gangs try to buy themselves an edge,’ Bannard said. ‘Unless they’re stupid, they know it’s a good investment, long term.’ He started to whistle again; louder this time, enjoying the echo. He took two fast drags on his cigarette, then flicked it into the water.
Back at the crime scene, the body was being prepared for removal to the mortuary, and Brigstocke was already talking about how they’d be proceeding, and how quickly, the next morning. They would conduct a house-to-house, early, before any of the residents had left for work. All members of the Black Dogs who may have seen or spoken to the victim would also be interviewed, to piece together a picture of Martin Cowans’ movements. They’d request footage from the two CCTV cameras mounted on lampposts near by.
Thorne listened, and knew it was all a perfectly proper and well-thought-out waste of time.
With what he knew, he considered other things they might do if he had not painted himself, and the whole investigation, into a dark corner. They could try to trace the hooker. It couldn’t be that difficult. She might have spotted something, and was almost certainly the last person, bar Marcus Brooks, to have seen Martin Cowans alive.
But that wouldn’t happen – couldn’t – not while Thorne kept his information to himself.
He kept on telling himself it didn’t matter. They knew who the killer was, after all. The details might matter later, but right now, knowing exactly how Brooks had gone about this latest murder wasn’t likely to help catch him.
‘We’re concentrating on the Premiership this year anyway. Champions League doesn’t matter.’
Thorne turned round. ‘You’re gutted. Admit it.’
‘We’ll put all our effort into stuffing you lot when we come to your place in a fortnight,’ Hendricks said.
They watched as the body was carried past.
‘Time of death would be good,’ Thorne said.
‘I’d like to get naked with Justin Timberlake, but, you know…’
‘Approximately?’
Hendricks watched the stretcher-bearers trying to keep the body level as they struggled up the grass bank. ‘He’d been in the water a good while. Plenty of bloating. Twenty-four hours, I reckon; maybe a bit more.’
‘So, late last night?’
‘Probably some time yesterday evening.’
Thorne knew that the worry had been for himself, for his own career, rather than for the man who had authorised the murders of a young woman and her son. But all the same, he felt the anxiety lift in a rush: Cowans had been dead by the time he’d received the message. There was nothing Thorne could have done to save him.
‘That any use to you?’ Hendricks asked.
‘Yeah, thanks.’ But the relief was short-lived. There had been no pattern to the sending of the messages: Brooks had waited over a week before sending the image of Tucker; but he had sent the picture of Hodson from the hospital moments after he’d killed him; then the clip of Skinner had arrived the day before his murder. Brooks would probably do it differently next time, too, and Thorne knew that he might not be so lucky.
Andy Stone jogged across to join them, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. ‘Well, at least we know Cowans wasn’t killed by a woman,’ he said.
Thorne could see, by Stone’s expression, that it was a set-up. He raised his eyebrows at Hendricks. ‘Yeah, go on then…’
Stone threw it away nicely. ‘Well, when was the last time any woman you know took out a bin-bag?’
It was a good joke, and got an appropriate response. Thorne laughed harder than he might have done normally, seizing on the chance.
It was a straightforward journey back, west to Hanger Lane, straight into town along the A40. He would cut down through Knightsbridge and Belgravia to Louise’s place in Pimlico. With Holland needing to get home to Elephant and Castle, no more than ten minutes further on at this hour, Thorne offered to drop him off first.
The roads were almost deserted and the rain had stopped. Watching for the cameras, easing off when he needed to, Thorne drove quickly past Ealing golf course and the Hoover factory. He turned the radio down, spoke as if it were the middle of a conversation they’d been having. ‘Brooks was just unlucky. He was an ideal candidate when it came to setting someone up for Tipper’s murder. The fall-guy.’
‘For Skinner?’
‘For Skinner, almost certainly, and whoever his mate is: “Jennings” or “Squire”. Why did they want Tipper dead, though?’