Death Message (24 page)

Seriously, I do feel strange about last night, about what I felt, watching that twisted little fucker. What he was getting. It sounds like something you'd hear someone say in one of those soap operas you always had on, but afterwards, I felt dirty for what I'd been thinking. Really fucking hated myself...
still feel like I let you down.

Like it was disrespectful, I don't know, to your memory, or something.

I don't think you'd really believe that. I reckon you'd probably think there was something wrong with me if I hadn't been turned on watching that. That maybe I'd gone queer in prison or whatever.

Anyway, while it was happening, it was only ever you I was thinking about.

It's always you...

Walked a long way again tonight, seven or eight miles maybe, thinking all this crap through and trying to work out what to write. I suppose what's odd is that I can feel you and Robbie with me, which is fucking fantastic, but there's things I don't want you to see. Stuff that's... not fit, you know?

And I feel bad because you do see it, and there's that thing in your voice when you don't approve, like when I'd had a few too many. I can hear you trying to explain to Robbie about me, about some of the things I'm doing.

And then there's other times, the worst times, when what I've got of you is nowhere near enough. When all I can think of is how much better everything could be, if we could just have a few more minutes. Half a fucking hour.

Like knowing, if you were there to hold me, that I might be able to sleep.

I'll take what there is, don't get me wrong. Why wouldn't I? Having you there how you are, feeling you there, is the best thing I've got, and I know I'd be totally lost without it.

There'd be less of me left than you...

Gone round the houses same as usual, I know, but forgive me?

Marcus xxx

The area bordering the canal towards Greenford was somewhat different to the one Thorne and Holland had seen earlier. The towpath was cleaner and wider; designated, according to a sign, as part of something called the Hillingdon Trail. On one side, the bank sloped up to a row of sleek, modern houses. Thorne could see residents behind many of the full-length windows, standing in dressing-gowns and staring down on the action at the waterside below.

It was a complicated set-up: lights, noise, a tent around the body. With the added pleasures for those working of muck and drizzle.

From a manning point of view, the timing presented certain 'logistical dilemmas'. The Homicide Assessment Team had been and gone, having passed the job to the on-call Murder Team. As part of an ongoing investigation, however, it was now being handed back to Russell Brigstocke's MIT, several of whom had had to sober up very bloody quickly.

'Coffee's good,' Holland had said. 'But a body does it quicker every time...'

This particular body had been spotted a couple of hours earlier, but had only been out of the water fifteen minutes or so by the time Thorne arrived. It had been wedged in tight between the bank and a narrowboat which was moored in front of the houses. Nothing could be done until the owner had been traced and the boat moved so that the body could be extracted.

Now it was laid out on the towpath, brown water running off the plastic sheeting beneath it.

Hendricks was already busy, as were a team of frustrated SOCOs, doing their best to preserve a scene that was compromised at best; the slimy bank dotted with cigarette ends and dog-shit, and the towpath a muddy confusion of footprints.

DCI Keith Bannard stared down the length of the canal, then turned and looked in the other direction. 'Your man can't have killed him too far away,' he said, after he'd introduced himself.

Thorne had been right to think that the S &O man's accent belied something grittier. He was tall and shithousesolid. He had a shock of greying, curly hair, with more sprouting from the neck of his white shirt. His face was weathered and fleshy, with watery eyes that all but disappeared when he smiled.

'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 wall: 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?'

'Maybe they were being paid by another gang. Why bother paying someone to do it, when you've got a couple of tame coppers who can get it organised for you?'

Thorne nodded. 'What if it was the Black Dogs they were working for?'

Holland considered it. 'Someone in Tipper's own gang wanted shot of him?'

'Possibly,' Thorne said. 'Or these two coppers just wanted rid of him themselves. Maybe Tipper was getting greedy. Not paying them enough, threatening to expose them or whatever.'

The idea struck a chord with Holland, who turned to face Thorne. 'The crime report said the place was completely trashed, and Brooks always said that the two coppers had told him to take "paperwork". If they
were
on Tipper's payroll, maybe there were records of bribes, or photos or something. Stuff they needed back.' He nodded as though telling himself that he'd had worse ideas.

Thorne saw that it made good sense and said as much to Holland. He pushed the car on past Wormwood Scrubs, brooding on their left, then across the flyover at White City. He veered slightly, to avoid taking the wheels over something wet and flattened in the middle lane. A fox or a cat...

'What if Skinner was
still
working for the Black Dogs?' Holland said.

It was something Thorne had started to wonder himself. If Skinner and his partner
had
killed Tipper, they might have struck up a new and improved deal with his successor - Martin Cowans. If that was the case, had they known about the plan to exact a terrible revenge on Marcus Brooks? It had been hard to tell much from talking to Skinner because he'd been too busy lying about knowing Marcus Brooks at all.

All the same, Thorne had sensed when they had spoken that Skinner was scared. That Brooks' name was one he hadn't thought about in a long time.

When Thorne dropped Holland off, the DS mumbled something about what he'd said in the Burger King at lunchtime; about how he hadn't meant it to sound so aggressive. Thorne mumbled something back about how it didn't matter.