Cowans, who only ever answered to his nickname, was pushing fifty. He was stick-thin, but with a gut on him; long hair was tied back and silvering, while his thick beard hadn’t quite turned the same colour. His younger col eagues had introduced themselves quite politely as ‘Gazza’ and ‘Ugly Bob’. Gazza was stocky, with a beard that tended towards bum-fluff, while Bob was shaven-headed and sported a thick moustache. Thorne knew that men looking not unlike Bob hung out in some of the clubs Phil Hendricks frequented, but he decided to keep that to himself.

  There was much that Thorne might have found almost comical, if he hadn’t known exactly what these men were capable of. If he hadn’t been wondering which of them had entwined daggers tattooed on some secret patch of pale flesh. He nodded towards Gazza and Ugly Bob. ‘What are you two, then? Road captains? Sergeants-at-arms?’

  They said nothing.

  Thorne turned to Cowans. ‘And Ray Tucker was vice-president, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I’m not going to talk to you about individual members of this club,’ Cowans said. ‘But I’m pleased that you’ve done some homework.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Thorne took a piece of paper from his pocket, brandished it proudly. ‘Printed out your rules and regulations as wel . Nice website, by the way.’

  ‘Music’s a bit shit,’ Hol and said.

  Thorne looked down at the list laid out in a dramatic, Gothic typeface: the club rules and the respective fines for any breach; the cost of patches; the guidelines for general behaviour. ‘Five pounds a week subs,’ he said. ‘That’s fairly steep.’

  ‘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 – wel , 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’l 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 wil 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 wel that in any organised crime gang, in any unit, having one person who wasn’t stupid was usual y enough.

  ‘So it’s an unofficial rule, is it?’ Hol and asked.

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

  ‘Wel , it seems a bit pointless,’ Thorne said. ‘Us coming al 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,’ Hol and said.

  Cowans seemed to find Hol and’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, wil you?’

  Bob sloped out, ash dropping on to his chest from the rol -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,’ Hol and said. ‘Surely they didn’t al come off their bikes?’

  Cowans shook his head. ‘Like I said. Happy to chat . . .’

  ‘Can you tel us about the history of the club, then?’

  ‘It’s al on the website.’

  ‘How long have you been club president?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Right.’ Hol and took the chance to show that he had done some homework as wel . ‘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 Hol and 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. ‘Wel , that’s a matter of public record, isn’t it? Some burglar knifed him while he was turning Tips’ place over. Al 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 tragical y kil ed disturbing burglars. You sorted those out yourself, right?’

  Cowans dunked and drank.

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Hol and 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.’

  Hol and began to pick up on cues. ‘Tucker and Hodson. There’s two for a start.’

  ‘Mind you, it’s a fair bet that whoever kil ed them was settling some scores of their own.’

  ‘And obviously you’ve got no idea at al who that might be.’

  ‘Can’t be too many candidates though, surely?’

  ‘Another biker gang?’ Hol and 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’l 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 wil be subject to the severest punishment, and may be expel ed 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 wel ? 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 pul ed a face at Hol and; long-suffering and scornful. ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Wel , 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 cal ing.’

  ‘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’ stil managed to sound faintly ominous. ‘But you’re stil 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: Wil 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 al ?’

  ‘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; intel igence that might point Thorne and his team towards whoever was cheerful y picking off senior members of the club.

  Thorne was suitably grateful, and equal y 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 al 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 Hol and 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’l dig out the name of the original SIO and get back to you,’ Bannard said. ‘If you real y think it’s worth it, you’re probably far better off talking to them.’

  The Airwave system, rol ed out across the Met over the previous two years, had become the bane of many coppers’ lives; more specifical y 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 cal ed back ten minutes later with a name, Thorne was able to make direct contact immediately.

  DCI Sharon Lil ey 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.

  SEVEN

  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 Lil ey, it was the smel 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 façade – there had been upwards of a hundred horses gathered on its forecourt: shire horses and Shetland ponies; nags and thoroughbreds pul ing carts, carriages and traps. Men, women and children in every conceivable type of outlandish equestrian outfit had paraded on horseback past a ful y 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 fel ow spectator and established that the event was cal ed Horsemen’s Sunday and that it took place every year. They’d enjoyed the bacon rol s and coffee that were laid on; listened as a smal 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 stil a pretty good place to be.

  The pub Sharon Lil ey had suggested was more run-ofthe-mil . A stone’s throw from St John’s church, on the north side of Hyde Park, the Duke of Kendal was a smal 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 Lil ey, 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 hol y.

  ‘This isn’t a coppers’ pub, then?’ Thorne said, handing Lil ey 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.’

  Lil ey 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 Lil ey 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 real y didn’t give a toss. Crucial y, 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 al , both.

  ‘I was stil 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 stil rare for an inspector to be SIO on a major murder case. ‘I had my eye on moving up to chief inspector.’ Lil ey 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 fal en away. But, of course, everything had changed on 11 September; had been ratcheted up stil further after the London bombings of July 2005.

  Thorne told her how relieved he was that she hadn’t said ‘9/11’ or ‘7/7’. How he hated the numerical shorthand that had crept in to so much conversation. Lil ey happily revealed herself to be a kindred spirit. She said that anyone who said ‘24/7’ was deserving of a slap. ‘Same as twats who talk about “windows” in their diaries or order drinks by asking if they can

  “get” a beer.’

  She went to the bar. Asked if she could have another glass of wine and a pint of Guinness . . .

  ‘Simon Tipper started up the Black Dogs in the early nineties,’ she said. ‘He was president until he got carved up by a bloke cal ed Marcus Brooks in his front room. July 2000.’ She sipped her drink, thinking back. ‘The place was a mess. Blood and papers and shit everywhere. Brooks was real y turning the place over when Tipper came home and caught him.’

  ‘That the story?’

  ‘Wel , it wasn’t Brooks’ story, but I reckon that was how it happened.’

  ‘How did you get him?’

  ‘He was too fucking cool for his own good. He tears the place apart, cuts Tipper up for good measure, then sits down and has a drink. We got a nice set of prints off a glass behind the settee, and we already had Brooks on record for al sorts of things.’

  Thorne froze, the glass halfway to his mouth. Lil ey’s description of events had rung a bel with him, and he was suddenly thinking about something Hendricks had said:

  ‘ He smashes Tucker’s head in; then, while he’s stood there covered in blood . . . he calmly takes out his mobile phone and starts snapping away. Cool as you like.’

  Thorne took a drink. ‘So, al nice and easy for you then?’

  ‘Wel , like I say, it wasn’t what Brooks said happened. He reckoned he was “told” to rob the place, and when he got there someone had done the job for him. Said Tipper was already dead when he walked in.’

  ‘Told to rob the place by who?’

  Lil ey grinned, like it was something that had kept her sporadical y entertained for a long time. ‘Brooks always claimed he’d been fitted up by two coppers. Told us they’d threatened to put him and his girlfriend away unless he did them a favour.’