Death Message (7 page)

From Karim, a predictably frustrating technical update. With a cell-site search having been formally authorised by Brigstocke, T-Mobile had been in touch to acknowledge the request. And again later, to say that they would give it their highest priority, as soon as their virus-riddled computer system was up and running again.

Thorne retreated to his office, but five minutes later Andy Stone was babbling at him from the doorway.

'There's a DCI from S &O on the phone.'

'And?'

'And he's been calling every fifteen minutes since lunchtime trying to get hold of the guvnor.'

Thorne hadn't seen Brigstocke since his return from the mortuary. 'Where is he?'

'No idea, some meeting. Anyway, I think this bloke's had enough, because now he's just asking to speak to the appropriate DI.'

'Kitson's looking after the Sedat case,' Thorne said.

'I don't think it's the Sedat case he wants to talk about...'

Thorne was curious, but he was also exhausted, and with more than enough to occupy his mind at that moment. He shook his head. 'He'll call back.'

'He's waiting for me to put him through.'

'Tell him you couldn't find me.'

'He won't be happy...'

Thorne stared until Stone backed, muttering, into the corridor. He began to wonder if he'd inadvertently activated some kind of shit magnet, and when the phone on his desk began to ring a minute later, he just stared at it for a few seconds. Thought about sneaking down to the canteen for tea and a piece of cake, sorting out that weaselly little fucker Stone later on...

'Your guvnor's been ducking me all day. You're not trying to piss me about as well, are you, Tom?'

There'd been laughter, of a sort, as he'd asked the question, but it was clear enough from DCI Keith Bannard's tone that he wasn't joking. Thorne presumed it was rhetorical anyway, being more of a threat than a genuine enquiry.

'I think DCI Brigstocke's been stuck in meetings most of the day, sir,' he said. 'Have you got his mobile number?'

'I've rung three times. Twice he's dropped the call and now he's turned the phone off.'

Thorne guessed Brigstocke had got wind that S &O were on his case, presuming, as Thorne had done, that they were still trying to muscle in on the Sedat case. 'Shall I take a message? I suppose you've already left one on his office voicemail?'

'Tell me about your dead car salesman,' Bannard said.

'
Tucker
?' Suddenly, Thorne had a lot more to occupy his mind.

'Tucker. Raymond, Anthony.' There was gravel in the voice, giving an edge to what would otherwise have been a gentle West Country burr.
Get off my land, or I'll rip your lungs out
...

'Tell you
what
?' Thorne said.

There was a sigh and a sniff. 'Right. Silly buggers, is it?'

'I'm not trying to be difficult...'

'No?'

'I just don't have much more than you could easily get off the bulletin, you know? So, I don't think I can really be a lot of help.' There was a soft knock, and Thorne looked up to see one of the civilian office assistants staring in through the window in the door. She formed her fingers into a 'T' and held them up to the glass. Thorne shook his head.

'I know a lot about Ray Tucker and his mates,' Bannard said. 'Fuck of a lot, matter of fact. It's just this very recent stuff I'm a bit woolly on... the getting his head caved in and what have you.' He laughed again, and let out a short volley of coughs, which caused Thorne momentarily to pull the phone away from his ear. 'The "dead in his front room" stuff, see? It's just about getting up to speed really, keeping on top of things. So, anything you can tell me will almost certainly be useful. Fair enough, DI Thorne?'

Thorne duly told Bannard what had come to light that day. He told him about the state of the body when it was discovered, the likely murder weapon and the preliminary results of the PM, sensing, even as he did so, that he wasn't telling the man anything he didn't know already.

The only thing he neglected to mention - for no very good reason he could put his finger on - was that he'd been sent a picture of the dead man two days before.

'"Ray Tucker and his mates", you said?' Thorne heard Bannard take a drink of something on the other end of the line.

'For fifteen years, Tucker, better known to us and his
close
friends as "Rat", was a leading member of the "Black Dogs". They're one of the bigger biker gangs, OK? Swallowed up two or three other mobs over the years and nobody's quite sure how many members there are now, but thirty-five or forty, easy. They're dotted around, but we've got most of them based up towards the edge of north London and Hertfordshire these days.'

Thorne had heard the name. 'Hell's Angels, right?'

'Absolutely not. Business rivals, as a matter of fact, but they all work along the same lines: a strict hierarchy, members sworn to secrecy, the wearing of club colours and what have you.'

'And I'm guessing most of the time, when they meet up, it's got fuck all to do with motorbikes.'

'Not a great deal, no.'

'What is it, dope?'

'Dope, cocaine, ecstasy, whatever. They work with affiliated gangs in Europe, bring the stuff in from Holland and Scandinavia. We think they've just started moving into the heroin business.'

'Not beating up mods on Brighton seafront any more, then?'

'There's still plenty of violence,' Bannard said. 'Plenty. They move around, expand into new areas, whatever, and the turf wars can get seriously tasty. Mind you, they've gone beyond machetes and bike chains. We found rocket launchers and assault rifles in a Black Dogs lock-up last year.' He paused, as though he were making sure that the seriousness, the scale, of what he was describing was sinking in.

'That explains the tattoos,' Thorne said.

'Sorry?'

Thorne told him about the conversations he'd had with Hendricks and Holland. Bannard listened, then described one tattoo in particular, a pair of entwined daggers, but Thorne couldn't recall seeing it.

'It's usually a small one, but it'll be there somewhere,' Bannard said. 'Go back and have a look. That's a "kill" symbol. Most gangs have got them, a special patch or a tattoo, and they have to be earned...'

Another seemingly significant pause. Thorne bit. 'So, what...? You reckon that whoever smashed Tucker's head in has just earned one of his own?'

'It's possible. Maybe Rat got on the wrong side of somebody.'

'I've seen him,' Thorne said, 'and I think it's safe to assume he pissed off
someone.'

The S &O man's laugh seemed genuine this time, but just when they seemed to be getting along, Thorne spoiled it by asking if there was a specific reason why Bannard had called in the first place.

The throat was cleared and the voice sharpened. 'Obviously, Tucker was someone of interest to us, so his murder is hardly something we can ignore. Letting you know would seem to be a good idea, don't you think? Would be a
courtesy, that's all.'

It sounded very reasonable. 'So you wouldn't be trying to stake a claim or anything like that?' Thorne asked. 'Same as you're doing with the Deniz Sedat murder.'

'Nobody's stepping on anyone else's toes here.'

'I understand that, sir.'

'Good.'

'But surely you can understand people thinking that you were letting someone else do the donkey work, you know? So you could come in at the last minute like the heavy mob.'

'The case you mentioned isn't one of mine. And you're being seriously fucking cheeky, Inspector.'

It was Thorne's turn to leave the significant pause. 'Sir.'

'Now, you've been helpful, so let's not fall out, but there's just one more thing. I wonder if you could tell me why the Tucker murder was taken away from the team at Homicide East that originally caught it, and allocated to you?'

Thorne heard nothing he liked in the seemingly innocent enquiry. He could make out Bannard's enjoyment at having caught him out in the lie-by-omission. And there was no mistaking the relish with which his superior demonstrated just how well connected he was in every sense of the word. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt so outmanoeuvred by another copper. So outclassed.

With no choice, Thorne finally told Bannard about the message from Raymond Tucker's killer: the photo that had started everything. Gave another answer which he was sure Keith Bannard had already known when he was asking the question.

'How did that go?' Kitson asked.

'Do you mean the phone conversation with Serious and Organised, or the bollocking I've just given Andy Stone for putting the fucker's call through?'

'Well, I'm guessing the second part was more enjoyable, but I meant the phone call.'

They were standing in the corner of the Incident Room, behind Karim's desk, where a collection of mugs and a stone-age kettle sat on top of a small fridge. Thorne reached for the sugar. There were dried brown lumps in the bowl and caked on to the teaspoon. He turned around and let anyone within earshot know that the next person to stir their tea and then get sugar without wiping the spoon first would be rocketing straight to the top of his shit list.

'That good, was it?' Kitson said. 'Your phone call?'

Thorne smiled and played it down. He didn't let Kitson know the extent to which he'd been stitched up. Or how, despite the fact that the conversation with Bannard had ended casually enough, he'd hung up feeling well and truly dismissed.

'He seemed OK,' Thorne said. 'Fancied himself a bit, but you know what they're like.'

Kitson was relieved the call had not turned out to concern the Sedat case. She wondered aloud if S &O would be backing off from her inquiry, now that the knife had turned up where it had.

'They will if they've got any bloody sense.' Thorne took the milk from the fridge. Gave it a sniff. 'I still don't see it as a gangland thing.'

'Shame about those prints,' Kitson said.

'Never mind. Maybe whoever knifed Sedat left his name and address in a different bin.'

They drank their teas. Nodded hellos to faces from one of the other teams settling in on a new shift. 'Well, at least you know a lot more about your body in Enfield now,' Kitson said.

Thorne nodded, reminding himself that he needed to call Hendricks; let him know he'd been right about the tattoos.

'Sounds like
that
might well be a gangland thing.'

Thorne groaned across his mug: 'I sincerely hope not.'

'Yeah, I know what you mean.' Kitson dug around in her handbag for a compact. 'It really helps if you give a toss, doesn't it?' She strolled away towards the toilets, leaving Thorne wondering whether Brigstocke or Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond would still talk about an 'innocent victim' if there was a press conference. Deciding that he'd give it another hour, two at the most, then head home.

He walked slowly back towards his office, thinking that he'd need to find out a little more about the Black Dogs and how they operated. He passed the board with Tucker's picture on it, and felt himself starting to smile. Even though the gloom was gathering strength outside the window, and the day behind him felt like something he'd hacked his way through, he was strangely cheered by the notion of a heavily tattooed, vicious member of an outlaw biker gang with a mum who still washed his underpants.

He'd never really worked out why there was any need for security at a hospital. Obviously, there were drugs knocking about, but they kept them locked up, didn't they? He knew there were nutters who tried to nick babies, so he could understand them being careful on maternity wards, and it made sense to keep an eye on anywhere they had infectious diseases, but apart from that he couldn't see what it was they were so worried about.

As it went, the place where they were looking after Ricky Hodson was hardly Fort Knox.

The Abbey was a large, private hospital in Bushey, and the Beaumont building sat between banks of trees on the edge of its fifteen well-tended acres. There were a dozen rooms on the first floor. There were commanding views across a car park from one side or rolling fields from the other, depending on how high a premium you'd paid on your health insurance.

He smiled as he walked into reception; said something funny about how cold it was. He received a smile in return and was buzzed through into the lobby. Waiting for the lift, he looked at himself in the highly polished doors. He lowered his hood and pushed a hand through his hair. Took a deep breath.

The place didn't even
smell
like a hospital.

When he walked into Hodson's room, it didn't surprise him that he wasn't looking out over the car park. Not that he could see a lot: the fields were grey under the charcoal sky, and he could just make out lights a long way in the distance. He thought it might be Watford or Rickmansworth.

There was a noise from the bed.

Hodson was watching MTV. On a television fixed high up in the corner of the room, some rap star or other was showing the cameras around his house. There was a pool table with gold-coloured baize and a plasma screen ten feet across.

He walked around the bed, took the remote from the small table and turned off the television.

It wasn't exactly recognition in Hodson's eyes, he could-n't say that, but there was curiosity, certainly. Drugged up to the eyeballs as he was, it was hard to make out exactly what he said. 'What?'Or '
who
?' maybe. Definitely a question.

He held up the plastic bag he was carrying. Laid it down gently on the edge of the bed and began to delve inside.

'Here you go,' he said.

When he'd first seen what had happened, he'd been afraid that the accident was going to do the job for him. He'd written one of his letters, telling her just how furious and frustrated he was. But once it became clear that the situation was improving, that Hodson's condition wasn't life-threatening, he began to think that it might have done him an enormous favour. Now, looking at the state Ricky Hodson had been left in, he knew that he'd been spot on.