And there was another possibility: a simple explanation for Rawlings knowing all about Marcus Brooks; for knowing more about the case than anybody else.
‘Is there anything you can tell us?’ Thorne said.
There was a pause. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as why Marcus Brooks, or anyone else, would want to smash your friend’s head in with a hammer.’
‘No fucking idea.’
‘That’s your first “fucking” of the conversation. I’m pleased you’re making an effort.’
Thorne was surprised to hear Rawlings laughing. ‘Well, I like to start off slowly, build up during the day, you know?’
Afterwards, Thorne failed to return several messages: one from Keith Bannard, the DCI from S &O: another from a CPS clerk, wanting to talk about a bloodstained training shoe that had ‘gone walkabout’ from an evidence locker; and a rambling message from his Auntie Eileen, who never got round to saying why she was calling. Thorne guessed she wanted to have the ‘What are you doing at Christmas?’ conversation.
He heard someone outside the door telling Kitson how good she’d been on TV the previous night. When she came in, Thorne added his own congratulations.
‘Anything?’
‘A few people ringing in to say they saw someone dropping something into the litter bin that could have been a knife, but I don’t think that gets us very far. The woman hasn’t called back.’
‘There’s time yet.’
Kitson was something of a closet football fan and they talked about the previous night’s European results. Arsenal were now at the bottom of their group having lost at home to Hamburg. Thorne hadn’t had a chance to talk to Hendricks yet, who he knew would be devastated.
‘Did you see the highlights?’ Kitson asked.
‘Better things to do,’ Thorne said.
He walked around to Colindale station; waited for Brigstocke to emerge from his meeting with the borough commander.
‘Sorry I called so early.’
‘Why the sudden urgency?’ Brigstocke asked.
‘No urgency. I just thought we should cover our arses.’
‘Like I said on the phone, I think they’re covered.’
‘It’s understandable that we’re focusing on the Skinner killing,’ Thorne said. ‘But there’s no reason to presume that Brooks has finished with the Black Dogs.’
‘We’re not presuming anything.’
‘That he shouldn’t want to hit them again.’
‘No, you’re right.’
‘You said there are people on the home address and the clubhouse?’
They walked into the station’s reception area, and out. Began to walk back across to Becke House. The sky was a grey wash, but here and there were glimpses of sun, like streaks of milky flesh seen through thin and frayed material.
Brigstocke smiled as he buttoned his overcoat. ‘It’s good to know you’re taking the welfare of the city’s biker gangs so seriously.’
‘I understand some of them do a lot of work for charity,’ Thorne said.
They crossed the road in front of a Met minivan which had just turned out of the main gates. The driver leaned on his horn and, recognising him as someone he knew, Thorne gave him a friendly finger.
Brigstocke was taller, with a longer stride, but had to jog a step or two to match Thorne’s pace. ‘Slow down, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I’m too bloody cold to dawdle,’ Thorne lied.
They showed their passes at the Driving School entrance as it was closer, and walked towards Becke House, which rose, less than majestically, brown and grey on the other side of the parade square. They passed the gym, and Brigstocke put a hand on Thorne’s arm. ‘Listen, I wanted to say sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘For being a twat.’
‘Which particular time?’
Brigstocke looked at the floor as they walked. ‘You know there’s been something going on.’
‘The Dark Side, you mean?’
‘Right. I don’t want to go into it, OK?’
Thorne had raised it three days before with Nunn. As they’d driven hell for leather towards Skinner’s house, Thorne had asked the DPS man what he knew about an investigation into his own team; about the Regulation Nines that appeared to be flying about in Russell Brigstocke’s Incident Room. Nunn had been as forthcoming as usual. He said that it was an Internal Investigation Command matter, that his was a separate department, that he couldn’t comment in any case. Seeing no point in another ‘couldn’t’ meaning ‘don’t want to’ conversation, Thorne had let it drop.
But he still wanted to know; now more than ever.
‘I told you before,’ Thorne said. ‘If you want to talk about it…’
‘Cheers.’
‘We can go and get hammered somewhere. Sit and slag the fuckers off.’
Brigstocke nodded. ‘It’s tempting, but I just wanted to explain why I’ve been walking around with a face like a smacked arse, that’s all.’
‘I couldn’t tell the difference,’ Thorne said.
They walked into Becke House and straight into a waiting lift. They rode up in silence, each staring ahead at his own reflection in the steel doors. Stepping out on the third floor, Thorne made straight for the Incident Room, watching Brigstocke head the other way along the corridor and close his office door.
He loitered for a minute, then went to find Holland. ‘How busy are you?’
‘Up to my tits in phone-company correspondence and CCTV requisition orders,’ Holland said. ‘Have you got a better offer?’
Ten minutes later they were arguing about which CD to listen to as Thorne drove towards Southall.
SEVENTEEN
A quick glance at the Police National Computer had revealed not only a couple of fines for shoplifting and a suspended sentence for possession of a Class A drug, but the rather more surprising fact that Martin Cowans’ ‘old lady’ was actually a nice posh girl called Philippa. That she’d been brought up in Guildford and privately educated.
‘How the fuck should I know where he is?’
Standing on the doorstep of Martin Cowans’ semi, Thorne couldn’t help but admire the degree to which the young woman doing the shouting had reinvented herself. There was no hint of anything remotely genteel; not the slightest trace of a ‘Pimm’s and ponies’ accent.
‘And why would I tell you? Even if I did fucking know?’
Thorne wondered if her parents had ever met their prospective son-in-law. He imagined two jaws dropping and the hasty redrafting of wills.
‘Have you called him on his mobile?’ Holland asked.
Bin-bag’s girlfriend almost smiled, but caught herself in time. She took the cigarette from her mouth and flicked it past Holland’s shoulder on to the path. ‘Call him your-fucking-selves,’ she said. She tightened the dressing-gown across her black T-shirt. ‘I’m going back to bed.’
‘Thanks for your help, Pippa,’ Thorne said.
Her eyes widened, furious for just a second before she slammed the door.
Holland left a beat, cleared his throat. ‘Have we got his mobile number?’
Thorne shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen it listed anywhere. He didn’t give us a business card, did he?’
‘Maybe your mate at S &O’s got it.’
Thorne owed Keith Bannard a call anyway. He fished out the number as they were walking back towards the patrol car parked opposite the house. He got Bannard’s voicemail and left a message.
Coming off the back of twelve hours in the front seat of a Ford Focus, the uniformed officer on surveillance had been a tad surly when Thorne and Holland had first arrived. He seemed cheerier now, having obviously enjoyed watching them get Cowans’ front door slammed in their faces.
‘Silly bitch,’ he said. ‘Probably just pissed off because he didn’t come home all night.’