Death Message (45 page)

It was halfway through December. Three weeks since Thorne had made his arrest; since Marcus Brooks had been charged with the murder of Raymond Tucker.

Brooks had made a full confession.

He had detailed the killings of Ricky Hodson and Martin Cowans, and while denying any involvement in the murder of Paul Skinner, he
had
confessed to the attempted murder of another senior police officer. DCI Keith Bannard was on life support in St Thomas's Hospital. Had been since being struck by the car Marcus Brooks had been driving, shortly before Brooks had telephoned DI Tom Thorne, leaving a message to say where he was and expressing a desire to turn himself in.

No mention was made of an attack on the owner of a Turkish restaurant on the same evening as his arrest...

Louise carried through a handful of cutlery and dumped it on the small, pine table. Thorne got up from the sofa and began to lay out the place settings.

Through friends on Serious and Organised - all of whom had expressed amazement at the extent of Bannard's criminal activities - Thorne had learned that Arkan Zarif had been discovered in the early hours of the morning by one of his sons, who had quickly called an ambulance. The police had been summoned by hospital staff, but Zarif had insisted that it had all been his own fault. Both of his knees had been smashed in a nasty fall, he said, after having had a little too much to drink.

Hearing this, Thorne had remembered Louise's drug dealer, the one who had kidnapped himself and chopped off his own fingers; had thought about how much damage people seemed capable of doing to themselves in extreme circumstances. It was not an observation he had felt able to share with Louise, of course, however much she might have enjoyed it.

He thought it was for the best. He didn't want to get her involved. And it was not like he had actually lied...

The same old shit.

Laying out the knives and forks, Thorne thought about the prepay handset, locked away safely back at his flat; the confession preserved for posterity on its voice recorder. He knew that while it was in his possession, Zarif would not tell anyone what had happened in his restaurant that night, but he also knew it could be a very dangerous piece of insurance. He could never feel completely safe until Zarif was put away for good, and he would use what he'd been given to make sure that happened.

Without revealing his source, he had already begun feeding the information, little by little, through to those he could trust at S &O. Many of those subsequently questioned and arrested would refuse to cooperate, of course, but Thorne knew that eventually one of them would take the deal that was offered. That Arkan Zarif would pay for what he'd done in the proper way, without the evidence extracted by Marcus Brooks ever needing to see the light of day.

That Angela and Robbie Georgiou, and Jim Thorne, and God knows how many others, could rest a little more peacefully.

Thorne poured out wine for himself and Louise; took a decent-sized slurp and topped up his glass.

There had been no date set for Brooks' trial, nor for that of Hakan Kemal, but neither defence nor prosecution in either case seemed in much of a hurry. With both as close to foregone conclusions as you could get, it was unlikely that Sam Karim would be running a book on either.

Two defendants, each on trial for murder, but only one who seemed concerned about the outcome.

Thorne had spent many hours questioning his prime suspect after the arrest, and knew that Marcus Brooks was content to go back to prison. That it was perhaps the only future that made any sort of sense for him. Thorne could recall few cases that had absorbed and disorientated him as much; but equally, he could not think of too many that had been cleared up with so little fuss.

He had settled into the abnormally pleasurable rut of pre-trial preparation; had caught three more murder cases; had got back to work.

He had told Eileen that he and Louise would be coming to her on Boxing Day, if that was OK.

He had not returned the missing training shoe he had promised to Anthony Yashere.

Thorne picked up his glass and walked into the kitchen, while Emmylou's voice soared above a wash of guitar and Neil Young's keening harmonica, telling someone exactly what they'd lost when they left this sweet old world.

He watched Louise at the cooker for a minute, took a swig of wine and said, 'I don't think it's a
completely
stupid idea.'

'I know.'

'I just can't promise to be any good at it.'

She nodded without turning round, kept on stirring.

'Plus, there's the whole age thing,' he said. 'By the time any kid's a teenager, I'll be pushing sixty. I'll be fucked.' Another swig. 'I'm
already fucked.'

'Nobody's arguing.'

'So long as you know.'

She turned then and laid down the spoon; leaned against the edge of the worktop. 'Look, I know you think you'll be shit, and you don't think you've got any patience and whatever, but I'm really not bothered. And I'm not convinced you'll even
make
sixty, so I wouldn't worry too much about that.' She took a step towards him. 'The side of you that still cares about that old man, that got upset telling me about it, that's the side I'm interested in. That's why I know you'll be fine. Better than fine...'

Another step, and he opened his arms as she reached him. It was only for a few seconds, though, before she eased away again, and went back to check the sauce wasn't boiling.

Thorne watched her flick the kettle on. Saw her pour oil then salt into a pan to cook the pasta.

There are other sides, he thought.

The Vulnerable Prisoners Wing didn't house too many prisoners, with no more than sixty heading down to the servery come meal-time. It was certainly a more orderly process than that taking place elsewhere in the prison. But whatever the size of the queue at the hot-plate, Nicklin always wanted to be first.

He hated waiting, watching while others were served before him. He imagined that they were getting more than their fair share, that he would get second best when his turn came. He'd always been the same way when it came to food. With any of his appetites, come to that.

Dinner was dished out between six and seven, but Nicklin had been there since a quarter to. Clutching his tray and listening to the kitchen staff making banal conversation behind the metal shutter.

He banged on the shutter at one minute past. There were a dozen more in the queue behind him by now.

'Stop pissing in the soup and open up, will you?'

Laughter from the kitchen, and from behind him. 'It's the meatballs you should be worried about,' someone said.

The shutter was raised and Nicklin moved forward, taking his dinner in silence. Lasagne and chips. A pudding, as usual - apple crumble on a Tuesday - and two slices of bread. Orange juice and bottled water.

'Nice today,' said the fat rapist in chef's whites.

Nicklin moved away from the hot-plate while the ex-magistrate behind him said something sarcastic about Michelin stars, and the chef told him where he could stick them.

He carried the tray up the two flights of metal stairs to his cell, nudged open the door and sat down at his desk to eat. He opened the orange juice, took off the plastic lid that barely kept the food lukewarm.

Fucking lasagne...

He wasn't in the best of moods anyway; hadn't been since he'd heard that Marcus Brooks had been caught. Since he'd heard that Tom Thorne's queer friend had not been among those Brooks had been charged with killing.

It had taken the excitement, such as there was, out of his day. Left him with nothing to root for when the cell door clicked open first thing; to smile about come lights-out. There were only basic pleasures left now. Of the flesh and of the belly; limited as they both were.

He poked his fork through the crust of hardened pasta and fished around, then caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked up. A prisoner stood in the doorway, staring.

'What?'

The man shrugged. Askins: a druggie who'd touched up a fifteen-year-old girl. Not someone Nicklin made a habit of passing time with.

'Why don't you just fuck off?' Nicklin said. He took a mouthful of the mince. 'Freak somebody else out-' He stopped suddenly and cried out, spitting a string of blood down on to his plate and reaching into his mouth for the piece of glass.

'It's a message,' Askins said.

Nicklin swore and spat, lifting up the stiff sheet of pasta and pushing his fork through the watery mince. The tines clicked gently against each sauce-coated sliver. He looked up, pale and open-mouthed, at the man in the doorway.

Askins was smiling as he turned away. 'From someone with very long arms...'

Gangs and
Gangland Britain
by Tony Thompson have once again been an invaluable source of information, but on this occasion I am indebted to Tony personally, for his time, good advice and worryingly detailed insights into the workings of biker gangs.

From the Met, I must once again thank Detective Chief Inspector Neil Hibberd, and I am especially grateful to Sergeant Georgina Barnard for her endless patience and the information that got me over a great many brick walls.

Most of the best stories are hers.

I also have to thank Anne Collins from the Crown Prosecution Service, Victoria Jones from HMP Birmingham and, as always, any number of comedians for the liberties I have taken with their names.

If I was as lucky at poker as I have been in more important matters, I wouldn't have to write for a living; no author could wish for an editor or an agent any better than Hilary Hale or Sarah Lutyens. On the subject of poker, I must assure those closest to me that the hours spent playing online were purely in the course of research, and send out a greeting to my real-time friends: The Admiral, The Junkie, Bagels, El Guapo, The Painter and Special Boy. And yes lads, I know that poker is
very
important...

Thanks to Ursula Mackenzie, Alison Lindsay, Nathalie Morse, David Kent, Robert Manser, Tamsin Kitson, Andy Coles, Miles Poynton, Melanee Winder, Richard Kitson, Roger Cazelet, Thalia Proctor, Terry Jackson, Duncan Spilling, Melanie Rogers, Nicola Hill, David Shelley and everyone else at Little, Brown for their support, enthusiasm and hard work.

And to those that are always here: Paul, Alice, Wendy and Michael.

Mark Billingham was born and brought up in Birmingham. Having worked for some years as an actor and more recently as a TV writer and stand-up comedian his first crime novel was published in 2001.

Sleepyhead was an instant bestseller in the UK. It has been sold widely throughout the world and will be published in the USA in the Summer of 2002.

Though still occasionally working as a stand-up comic, Mark now concentrates on writing the series of crime novels featuring London-based detective Tom Thorne. The second novel, Scaredy Cat is published in July 2002 and will be followed in 2003 by Lazybones...

Mark lives in North London with his wife and two children.