Death Message (9 page)

'You get a lot for your money,' Cowans said.

'How many of you are there? Twenty-five, thirty? Hundred and fifty quid a week doesn't pay for this lot.' Thorne looked around. 'I'm betting there's no mortgage on this place, right?'

'You'd need to talk to the club's accountant.'

Thorne nodded, like he was grateful for the suggestion. 'So what about Ricky Hodson, then? Was he high up on the club ladder?'

'Hoddo was a member of this club for fifteen years. That's it.'

'Tucker dead, now Hodson. You must be wondering what's going on.' Cowans and his mates didn't look like they were wondering about a great deal. 'He was murdered. That
has
sunk in, right? Whatever the hospital might have said first thing, I can promise you that. There were no marks on him - well, nothing he didn't get coming off his bike - so my guess is suffocation, but he's on his way across to the morgue as we speak, so we'll know soon enough.'

Cowans shook his head, smiled as if he admired the effort Thorne was putting in. They were words he'd spoken many times before, but the voice didn't sound quite as casual as he wanted it to. 'I won't talk about members of this club. I won't talk about any outstanding or open cases or comment on any suggestion of criminal activity. I will not make a statement...'

Thorne squinted at his piece of paper in mock confusion. 'I didn't see anything in the rules about not talking to the police.'

Now Cowans' smile was less forced. 'Right. Because we're not morons, and we don't want to get done for conspiracy.'

Thorne looked across at Gazza and Ugly Bob. Neither of them seemed particularly sharp, but Thorne knew very well that in any organised crime gang, in any unit, having one person who wasn't stupid was usually enough.

'So it's an
unofficial
rule, is it?' Holland asked.

Cowans gave him a hard stare. Scratched at his crotch. 'It's more of a philosophy.'

'Well, it seems a bit pointless,' Thorne said. 'Us coming all this way for a chat, I mean, if you aren't going to talk to us.'

'Nobody invited you,' Gazza piped up.

'Maybe
you
not talking is a good idea,' Holland said.

Cowans seemed to find Holland's rebuke funny. 'Look, I'm perfectly happy to chat. I just won't
say
anything.' He turned to Ugly Bob. 'Go and chase up that fucking tea, will you?'

Bob sloped out, ash dropping on to his chest from the roll-up that had been clamped beneath his moustache since they'd sat down.

'Very nice memorial section on the website by the way,' Thorne said. 'Some touching tributes.'

If Cowans was narked by the sarcasm, he didn't show it. 'This is a family, and members stay members, even if they're gone. The Dogs don't forget anyone.'

'A lot of them have gone over the years,' Holland said. 'Surely they didn't all come off their bikes?'

Cowans shook his head. 'Like I said. Happy to chat...'

'Can you tell us about the history of the club, then?'

'It's all on the website.'

'How long have you been club president?'

'Six years.'

'Right.' Holland took the chance to show that he had done some homework as well. 'You took over from Simon Tipper.'

'"Tips"...'

'Whatever...'

At that point Ugly Bob kicked the door open and came in with three mugs of tea. A woman walked in behind him with three more and a packet of biscuits. She was fortyish and pale, with bleached blond hair and a crop top that did her no favours. She handed mugs to Thorne and Holland and then took her own over to the sofa, settling on the arm next to Cowans. Thorne saw that she was wearing slightly different colours to the others: a 'property' patch given to those 'old ladies' of club members lucky enough to be afforded the honour.

'This Mrs Bin-bag, is it?' Thorne asked.

The woman tore at the packet of biscuits with her teeth. Gave Thorne the finger without looking up.

'Nice picture of Tips on the memorial page,' Thorne said. 'What happened to him?'

Cowans took a handful of biscuits from the woman. 'Well, that's a matter of public record, isn't it? Some burglar knifed him while he was turning Tips' place over. All done and dusted quick enough by your lot. Arsehole got banged up. That's it.'

'What about the ones that weren't done and dusted? The ones that didn't die on their bikes and weren't tragically killed disturbing burglars. You sorted those out yourself, right?'

Cowans dunked and drank.

'Don't be like that,' Holland said. 'See how nice this is - a cup of tea and a natter?'

'Come on, I presume you don't have an "armourer" for nothing,' Thorne said. 'I know that scores have to be settled.'

Holland began to pick up on cues. 'Tucker and Hodson. There's two for a start.'

'Mind you, it's a fair bet that whoever killed them was settling some scores of their own.'

'And obviously you've got no idea at all who that might be.'

'Can't be too many candidates though, surely?'

'Another biker gang?' Holland addressed the questions to Thorne. 'Some local business that doesn't like the competition?'

'Come on, Bin-bag,' Thorne said. 'Who's going to pay for Rat and Hoddo?'

Thorne could only presume that Cowans was opening his mouth to refuse to answer their questions when his old lady beat him to the punch.

'Some cunt'll pay for it, sooner or later.' She looked like she was enjoying herself. 'We've got long memories and-'

Cowans reached over, expressionless, and took hold of his girlfriend's wrist. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and, as she stared right back at Thorne, he watched her struggling not to show any of the pain or anger.

There wasn't too much more chat after that.

Thorne turned at the door as though he'd forgotten something, and stabbed a finger at the Black Dogs' rules. 'This is a strange one,' he said. '"Members found to be injecting drugs will be subject to the severest punishment, and may be expelled from the club."' He looked at Cowans, thought about what Bannard had told him. 'Now, bearing in mind that other gangs involved in heroin smuggling are the most likely people to be pissed off with you lot right now, I was wondering: is
that
a philosophy as well? Or are you just being ironic?'

He screwed up the piece of paper and tossed it towards the bikers. Gazza swore, and swatted it away, while Cowans just smiled and reached into his tea; fished out bits of biscuit with dirty fingers.

'I didn't think it would be too long before we were talking again,' Bannard said.

Thorne turned from the phone and pulled a face at Holland; long-suffering and scornful. 'Why's that then?'

'Well, now there's
two
dead bikers. Changes things a bit.'

'I need to pick your brains about the Black Dogs,' Thorne said.

'There's no other reason why you'd be calling.'

'You OK with that?'

'Why wouldn't I be? We're not trying to step on anyone's toes.'

'Yeah, you said.'

'We're happy to let you run with this one.'

Despite the nonsensical corporate language and the West Country accent, the 'we' still managed to sound faintly ominous. 'But you're still keeping an eye on things?'

'Oh shit, yes.' Bannard coughed out a laugh. 'There's something major kicking off, obviously, and we'd be fucking idiots if we weren't seriously interested.'

'Course.'

'But it would also be pretty stupid to come in over the top of you, when you've got such a... connection to the case, don't you reckon?'

Thorne mumbled a 'yes', thinking: Will you let me know if you find out what it is?

'So, I take it you've been to see Bin-bag and got fuck all?'

'Tea and biscuits.'

'He must have liked you.'

Bannard promised to send Thorne a file on the Black Dogs. Said it would give a much better picture of their recent history and set-up than could be found on any web-site; intelligence that might point Thorne and his team towards whoever was cheerfully picking off senior members of the club.

Thorne was suitably grateful, and equally pissed off at having to be. He asked how far back the file went. He'd started to wonder to what extent the club's activities in the last few years were connected with a change of hierarchy, and what Bannard knew about the death of the Black Dogs' former leader.

'Probably no more than you,' Bannard said. 'The Tipper murder was before I came on board. We've got all the details on file.'

'It might be interesting to have a look.'

'Are you out and about?'

Thorne said that he was. He didn't bother to mention that he and Holland were sitting in a car fifty yards from the Black Dogs' clubhouse, but Bannard was the sort of copper who made him paranoid enough to think he didn't have to.

'I'll dig out the name of the original SIO and get back to you,' Bannard said. 'If you really think it's worth it, you're probably far better off talking to them.'

The Airwave system, rolled out across the Met over the previous two years, had become the bane of many coppers' lives; more specifically the built-in GPS, which enabled those in the control room to pinpoint the location of any officer, if they so chose. There were times, however, when the combined phone/radio/data transmitter came into its own. When Bannard proved as good as his word and called back ten minutes later with a name, Thorne was able to make direct contact immediately.

DCI Sharon Lilley worked on an anti-terrorism unit based at Paddington Green station. Pleasantly enough, she told Thorne that the rest of her day was a bastard. But, if he fancied it, he was welcome to sit in on an important debriefing session after work.

Thorne had cracked tougher codes. He asked her what she would be drinking.

He had seen his fair share of the capital's stranger sights, most of them predictably situated at the ghoulish end of the spectrum. But on a Sunday morning a couple of months before, Thorne had stumbled upon what had to be among the most bizarre spectacles the city had to offer.

Now, hurrying past St John's Church to meet Sharon Lilley, it was the smell of it he remembered more than anything else. If new carpets took him back to his childhood, perhaps he was destined for ever to associate churches with the stench of fresh horse-shit.

The last time he'd seen the place - the immense, ornate windows glittering from its Gothic facade - there had been upwards of a hundred horses gathered on its forecourt: shire horses and Shetland ponies; nags and thoroughbreds pulling carts, carriages and traps. Men, women and children in every conceivable type of outlandish equestrian outfit had paraded on horseback past a fully regaled minister. The priest - who, not to be outdone, was sitting happily astride a mount of his own - had proceeded to bless each and every animal, having first found out a little about them from their owners.

'What's his name? Squirrel? God be with you, Squirrel...'

Thorne and Louise had stood and watched in happy amazement. They'd asked a fellow spectator and established that the event was called Horsemen's Sunday and that it took place every year. They'd enjoyed the bacon rolls and coffee that were laid on; listened as a small jazz band had provided the soundtrack. Then they'd wandered away, agreeing that whatever darkness London hid, or had visited upon it, any city where you could walk round a corner and see a frocked-up vicar on horseback was still a pretty good place to be.

The pub Sharon Lilley had suggested was more run-ofthe-mill. A stone's throw from St John's church, on the north side of Hyde Park, the Duke of Kendal was a small place, busy enough at six-thirty on a Thursday for a dozen or so punters to be sitting at the wooden tables outside, hunched over their drinks in coats and scarves.

Inside it was noisy, the chat almost, but not quite, drowning out an old Meat Loaf single. As Thorne walked towards a woman he thought might be Sharon Lilley, he passed a blackboard with a decent-looking Thai menu and decided that he might order something later, if the conversation went on a while. The woman saw him coming. She held up an almost empty wine glass and nodded. When Thorne pushed his way through to the bar, he was horrified to see that it was already decked out with tinsel and plastic holly.

'This isn't a coppers' pub, then?' Thorne said, handing Lilley her drink.

'What gave it away?'

'Oh, I don't know. The fact that there's an atmosphere. People enjoying themselves. That kind of thing.'

Lilley smiled, touched her glass to Thorne's. 'Place is pretty perfect, as it goes,' she said. 'It's only five minutes from the station, but that's just far enough to put off the serious pissheads. The ones who can't be arsed to walk more than twenty-five yards to get a drink.'

The accent was pure Essex, but Lilley was a long way from the comic stereotype: she was sharp and funny, the cynicism just the right side of miserable. Her dark hair was scraped back, emphasising a face that was puffy, but if she was a little heavyset, her expression said that she really didn't give a toss. Crucially, she couldn't have been more than thirty-five, which told Thorne something more important. To have led a murder team in her late twenties meant that she was good at what she did, or good at playing the game. Or, best of all, both.

'I was still a DI at the time,' she said. 'But my DCI was happy to step back and let me run the Tipper enquiry.' Thorne raised his eyebrows. It wasn't unheard of, but it was still rare for an inspector to be SIO on a major murder case. 'I had my eye on moving up to chief inspector.' Lilley smiled, remembering. 'It's important to see how you handle yourself, isn't it? Try the shoes on for size.'

'Never fancied them myself,' Thorne said.

They talked for a while about her present job; about how Anti-terror had seemed a cushy enough unit when she'd first joined a few years before. There had been some scaling down as IRA activity on the mainland had fallen away. But, of course, everything had changed on 11 September; had been ratcheted up still further after the London bombings of July 2005.