God wasn’t part of a team, after all.
Hendricks had been trying to score a point, but Thorne was starting to think his friend had hit the bull’s-eye. His was one of the few opinions that Thorne respected. Which was, he concluded miserably, precisely the problem.
Depressing as these moments of self-realisation were, he was at least feeling more confident that Hendricks was in no immediate danger. But there had still been that nauseating jolt of alarm, when he’d wondered if Louse’s flat was any safer than Hendrick’s own.
Bearing in mind where Brooks had probably got his information from…
Hendricks had been right; it was almost certainly a wind-up. But it hadn’t been Marcus Brooks ratcheting up the torment. Thorne decided that he’d be paying another visit to Long Lartin as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
Walking out of the pub, Kitson put a hand on his arm, clearly less convinced than others by his assurances that all was well.
‘You’re going to get a result,’ she said. ‘We both are.’
Thorne thought about that bar-chart outside their office and did his best to smile.
‘Come on, Guv, it’s your job to motivate the rest of us.’
‘Guv?’
‘Acting DCI.’
Thorne pulled on his jacket. I’ve been acting for days, he thought.
The day was cold; a wind roaring into their faces as they stepped out into the car park. A horn sounded behind them and Thorne turned to look at a black Volvo parked alongside a row of wheelie-bins. He recognised the back of the driver’s head and told Kitson and the others he’d catch up.
The Volvo’s driver leaned across to push open the passenger door and Thorne climbed gingerly in; backing on to the leather seat first, then swinging his legs around and into the footwell before pulling the door to.
‘You OK?’ Nunn asked.
Thorne nodded. He’d had back surgery a few months previously and though the pain had gone, he was still cautious. A small part of him still fantasised about stepping in next time Spurs were going through a goal drought, but the more practical side told him not to get out of bed too quickly.
‘Nice car,’ Thorne said. The Volvo’s interior was immaculate; smelled new.
‘Thought you were more of a vintage bloke.’
‘Have you got Dave Holland working undercover?’
Nunn stared, not getting it. Thorne told him it didn’t matter.
It was warm in the car, and Nunn had been listening to the radio. He nudged down the volume. ‘How was your chat with Richard Rawlings?’
Thorne saw that the radio was tuned into Magic FM; an old Petula Clark song. ‘Was it me you were watching, or Rawlings?’
‘Maybe we were watching the pub and got lucky,’ Nunn said. ‘What did Rawlings want?’
So, Nunn knew that Rawlings had requested the meeting. It was the most likely scenario, but Thorne still wondered if the DPS were privy to the intercept on his home phone. He was past being surprised by anything.
‘He reckons you lot have got it in for him. Wanted me to use my “influence” to get you to ease off. Or something.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That I don’t have any influence.’
‘That took you an hour and a half, did it?’
‘Mostly it was him, swearing.’ Nunn smiled. ‘I don’t have any influence, do I?’
‘It’s not the word I would use, but we’re working on cases that are hopefully going to cross over at some point. What you do will probably be influential.’
At some point. The moment when the identity of the man they were both after – although Thorne could still not be sure if they were chasing him for the same reason – was brought out into the open. Then it would be down to clout, pure and simple, and Thorne knew who was carrying the most.
‘Rawlings is an aggressive little bastard though, isn’t he?’ Nunn sucked his teeth. ‘I wouldn’t like to be around when he loses his temper.’
‘He’s scared.’
‘No point being scared if you haven’t done anything.’
‘That’s bollocks,’ Thorne said. ‘You know very well that you lot are there to scare people.’
‘To remind them, maybe.’
‘They give you special training, don’t they?’
‘You’re not scared, are you?’
‘Constantly.’
Nunn nodded. ‘Makes sense. We’ve got a good-sized file on you, so you’d be stupid not to worry a little.’
Thorne stared straight ahead. Petula had cross-faded into Glen Campbell singing ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’.
Three years before, Thorne had been indirectly responsible for the death of a prominent north London gangster. Few had mourned, but Thorne lived with the knowledge that the day might come when he would have to answer for it. He could not know if this event, or others that came close, was in a DPS file; but more worrying were the reasons why Nunn had chosen to tell him such a file existed at all. Thorne could sense that an offer of some kind was being made, but there had also been a threat thrown in for good measure.
He looked across, but Nunn had turned to peer out of his window at nothing in particular.
You’d be stupid not to worry a little…
Thorne didn’t like Richard Rawlings, and trusted him even less, but he’d been happy enough to remain noncommittal in an effort to get Nunn’s take on it. Suddenly, it seemed like there was no further point in going round the houses. Not when he was up against an expert. ‘When Skinner was killed, I asked if you felt disappointed, that you’d missed out on nicking him, remember?’
‘“Robbed” was the word you used,’ Nunn said. ‘And I told you that yes, I did.’
Thorne wondered if Nunn had a good memory or a tape recorder. Decided he was getting seriously paranoid. ‘“Robbed” because you’d lost the chance to put one bent copper away? Or two?’
‘Two’s always better than one. Always.’
‘Well, either you know who the other copper is and you were hoping Skinner would give you the evidence. Or you were banking on Skinner telling you who his partner was.’
‘Doesn’t really matter now he’s dead.’
‘Which is it?’
The advantage of playing virtual poker, especially when your face gave away as much as Thorne’s usually did, was that you could dance around with glee when your hole cards were revealed and only someone in the room with you would know you’d been dealt aces. Thorne looked at Nunn, hoping to see some sort of ‘tell’. Saw him nodding along with the song on the radio and decided that the DPS man was probably a far better poker player than he was.
‘Look, we both know what this man’s done,’ Thorne said. ‘“Squire”.’ That got a reaction. It was the first time the name had been mentioned between them. ‘We both want him put away, but it seems to me like one of us thinks it’s some sort of competition.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘Am I? Way it’s going, we’ll only find out who this fucker is when he turns up with his skull smashed in.’
Nunn looked frightened suddenly. ‘That’s not going to happen.’ It certainly sounded as though he knew something.
‘So, is it Rawlings?’ Nothing. ‘Does Rawlings know?’
Thorne let out a long sigh, sucked it back in hard when Nunn turned in his seat to stare at him.
‘So, one of us thinks it’s a competition,’ Nunn said. ‘And I suppose only one of us is being totally honest. Gobbing off like he’s the only one playing straight, not keeping anything to himself…’
Try as he might, Thorne knew he was reddening. If Nunn knew that he’d been communicating secretly with Marcus Brooks, then Thorne was fucked, file or no file. He felt as cornered as Rawlings had claimed to feel; as he knew Brigstocke felt, whatever he had been accused of doing. ‘It’s not hard to see why you fuckers are so unpopular.’
Nunn smiled, as though it was a predictable response from someone on the back foot. Like it was something he’d heard plenty of times before. ‘You don’t think it’s worth doing? Making sure the shit gets flushed away?’
‘It’s not just the shit though, is it?’