‘Fuck . . .’

  Not only had Louise picked up the game ridiculously quickly, she was already a better player than Thorne. Her game was aggressive without being reckless. And she was better at sussing out the real characters of the players around the table, able to see past their cartoon images.

  She read them quicker than Thorne had read Marcus Brooks.

  Better than he had read the police officer who had once cal ed himself Squire.

  Most importantly of al , win or lose, Louise knew when to walk away from the table.

  ‘You going to play for a bit?’

  Thorne shook his head, so Louise logged off; wandered through to the kitchen to get the food started. Hendricks was bringing a new man for dinner, and Louise was cooking pasta.

  Thorne fol owed and leaned against the kitchen door. ‘What do we know about this bloke of Phil’s?’

  ‘He’s a “cardiologist with a nice arse”,’ Louise said. ‘That was Phil’s first description anyway.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘He seems nice.’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘Only the once. Listen, relax.’

  ‘I am relaxed.’

  ‘You’re friends,’ Louise said. ‘You’l sort it out. If it’s any consolation, Phil’s just as nervous about seeing you.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Shitting himself . . .

  Thorne wandered back into the living room and across to the shelves of CDs, Louise’s and his own. He was feeling uncomfortable in a brand-new shirt from M&S. He hadn’t been bothered to iron out the creases. ‘Shal I stick some music on?’ he shouted.

  There was a clatter of pans from the kitchen. ‘What?’

  Thorne took out a copy of Wrecking Ball by Emmylou Harris, put the disc into the player, and scanned through to the Lucinda Wil iams song that was his favourite track on the album.

  Louise appeared briefly in the doorway. ‘I should have started the sauce fifteen minutes ago,’ she said. She nodded towards the computer. ‘You lose al track of time once you’re into the game.’ She jabbed scissors into a pack of tortel ini and turned back into the kitchen.

  Humming along with the song . . .

  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 ful confession.

  He had detailed the kil ings 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 smal , pine table. Thorne got up from the sofa and began to lay out the place settings.

  Through friends on Serious and Organised – al 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 cal ed an ambulance. The police had been summoned by hospital staff, but Zarif had insisted that it had al been his own fault. Both of his knees had been smashed in a nasty fal , 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 actual y 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 tel 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 eventual y 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 peaceful y.

  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 recal few cases that had absorbed and disorientated him as much; but equal y, he could not think of too many that had been cleared up with so little fuss.

  He had settled into the abnormal y 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, tel ing 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’l be pushing sixty. I’l 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’l be shit, and you don’t think you’ve got any patience and whatever, but I’m real y not bothered. And I’m not convinced you’l even make sixty, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that.’ She took a step towards him. ‘The side of you that stil cares about that old man, that got upset tel ing me about it, that’s the side I’m interested in. That’s why I know you’l 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.

  EPILOGUE

  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, wil you?’

  Laughter from the kitchen, and from behind him. ‘It’s the meatbal s 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 cel , 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 kil ing.

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

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  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 personal y, 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 especial y grateful to Sergeant Georgina Barnard for her endless patience and the information that got me over a great many brick wal s.

  Most of the best stories are hers.

  I also have to thank Anne Col ins 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 Spil ing, Melanie Rogers, Nicola Hil , David Shel ey 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.

  Table of Contents

  Death Message

  Also by Mark Bil ingham

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: Send

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part Two: Show

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part Three: Forward

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Part Four: Delete

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

 

 

  Mark Billingham, [Tom Thorne 07] Death Message

 

 

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