I want to be proved wrong, he thought.
For the second time, Thorne listened as someone at the end of a phone tried to call up the information that would confirm or assuage his worst fears.
‘Got twelve years of review notes on here somewhere,’ Emery said.
Thorne tried to stay calm while the wind threw rain against the window like tin-tacks.
‘Regina versus Brooks, yes?’
‘September 2000. Middlesex Crown Court.’ Thorne waited, willing each tap of a computer key to be the last.
‘Good job I’m organised,’ Emery said. ‘“Anal”, according to my wife.’
For pity’s sake…
‘Here we go… right. “Sentencing remarks”, “witness statements”, “pathology reports”, “grounds for appeal”… These are just my notes, you understand?’
Thorne stopped him, asked him to go back. Emery read, gave him a name. Then another.
His worst fears.
He spluttered out a ‘thank you’, then jerked the phone back to his mouth as he was about to hang up. He needed to move fast, but there was one more question he needed to ask: ‘Can anybody get hold of this stuff? Is it online?’
‘Well, by and large, it’s just specialist rulings,’ Emery said. ‘Judgements that pass into case law, that kind of thing. Mind you, I suppose most things are on the bloody Internet somewhere, if you can be bothered to look hard enough.’
If you’ve got the time, Thorne thought…
The panic fizzed in him, and anger tightened every muscle, every thought. Anger at Brooks, at the man Thorne knew was putting him up to this, and above all at himself. The procedure in this kind of emergency, this kind of nightmare, should have been straightforward. But Thorne knew too bloody well that he’d left himself no easy options.
He punched in Brigstocke’s mobile number.
Russell, I’ve been fucking stupid and I don’t care what happens when this is finished, but we’ve got a serious situation…
He changed his mind and tried Louise one more time.
‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been calling.’
‘I nipped out to the supermarket.’
‘Is Phil with you?’
‘No, he left about an hour ago. You OK?’
‘I’ve tried calling him. Shit…’
‘Tom, what’s the matter?’
So, Thorne told her what he’d discovered: about the message that was far from being a wind-up. And in a rush, garbled and guilty, he told her everything else. The evidence he’d kept to himself; the conversations that had gone unreported; the cracked and rotten limb he’d gone out on.
There wasn’t even a pause. ‘You’re a fucking idiot.’
‘I know, and I don’t have time,’ Thorne shouted. ‘You can call me everything under the sun later on. Now, I need to get hold of people. To find Phil.’
‘You said you’d tried to call him…’
‘His phone just kept ringing. He hasn’t got it with him, or he can’t hear it.’
‘I know where he is,’ Louise said. ‘There’s three or four places in town, could be any one of them. He asked me to go with him.’
‘Three or four?’
‘Some nights he calls in on all of them. Depends who he meets.’
‘Christ…’
‘Listen, I’ve been to these places. I know where they are.’
Thorne was finding it hard to concentrate. He was dizzy with the panic; with the increasing odds against everything turning out the right way.
Who gets to do your PM, Phil?
‘Tom…?’
‘I should call Brigstocke. Tell him everything.’
‘Wait.’ Louise’s voice was quiet, steel in it, suddenly. ‘You don’t have to call anyone.’
‘We need to get officers out there.’
‘You willing to fuck your career up?’
‘It doesn’t seem very important now.’
‘We can do this.’
Thorne leaned against his desk, thinking for a moment that he might be sick. There were pinpricks of sweat across his shoulders, in the small of his back. He felt murderous. Helpless. ‘How?’
‘Who do you trust?’ Louise asked.
‘I don’t know. Holland… Kitson…’
‘Just get Holland.’
Thorne felt the urge to argue, but said nothing. Louise had given him orders before, when they’d worked together. She was better at it than he was. ‘Right.’
She told him to stay calm and listen; gave him the addresses of two gay clubs in the West End. ‘You and Holland get to those. I’ll round a couple of my boys up and we’ll take the other two. They’ll do it for me if I tell them it’s important. No questions asked.’
‘It’s Saturday night.’
‘There are plenty of people I can trust, OK?’
Thorne hung up and flew along the corridor. He found Holland at his desk, his nose in a copy of Auto Trader.
‘Remember what I said about leading you into trouble?’
Holland took one look at Thorne’s face and stood up. Thorne began to talk, explaining and apologising, as he all but dragged Holland towards the exit; filling him in as best he could as they took the stairs two at a time and crashed out through the doors, into the rain.
TWENTY-SEVEN
They hit the top end of Tottenham Court Road inside fifteen minutes.
Holland had helped himself to a magnetic blue strobe-lamp and Thorne had stuck it to the roof of the car, running the cable in through the window and plugging it into the cigarette lighter. Neither had said much on the drive, and it wasn’t just a matter of necessary concentration, or Thorne’s use of the horn, or alarm at their speed on the wet roads, that had kept the conversation to a minimum.
There wasn’t really too much to say.
Holland had plenty of questions for Thorne, but he knew they would have to wait. In silence, braced against the dashboard, he asked himself a few questions that he didn’t have any answers for. Some of the ones Sophie would ask, if she knew.
Thorne had to pull over hard as an ambulance screamed up the wrong side of the road. He waited, revving the BMW’s engine and smacking his hand against the wheel.
‘Think about it,’ Holland said. ‘Brooks isn’t going to do anything in the middle of a club, is he? He’s probably followed him, same as he did with Cowans.’
Thorne nodded, yanked the wheel across and accelerated out in front of a bus. The driver flashed his lights and leaned on the horn.
‘Presuming Hendricks is still…’ Another nod. Alive. Holland didn’t need to say it. ‘We’ve probably got until the end of the night.’
Thorne looked at his watch: it wasn’t even nine o’clock.
‘There’s time,’ Holland said.
What Holland was saying made sense, but Thorne took precious little comfort from it. Driving like a maniac, thinking like one, he struggled to focus, to order this thoughts.
He didn’t have a picture of Hendricks; nothing to show to bouncers or bar-staff. He’d just have to use his eyes. He thought about the few times he’d been to places like these in the past. There was little enough light to read the label on your beer bottle.
He wondered if he could use the video clip that Brooks had sent…
What have I got to do with any of this?
You’re connected to me. That might be enough.
Thorne knew now that it was more than that, but he was also certain that he was the primary reason why Hendricks had been targeted. Chosen ahead of another biker, a police officer, anyone.
They crossed Oxford Street on a red light; slowed to weave through the traffic in front of them.
‘These two clubs are a couple of minutes’ walk from each other,’ Thorne said. ‘Which one do you want?’
Holland shook his head. ‘We do both of them together.’
‘No.’
‘Come on, aren’t we being stupid enough? Whatever you might think about Brooks, about why he’s been doing this…’