‘Listen, mate, if I had anything on any of those bastards, I’d have used it by now.’
‘Just a thought.’
‘No harm in asking.’
‘Haven’t you got anybody on the inside with any of these firms?’
Bannard sucked in a breath; answered like a taxi-driver being asked to drive south of the river at 4 a.m. ‘Can’t really go there, mate.’ He said he’d ask around, see if anyone else on his team had any bright ideas. Everyone had different contacts.
Thorne said that he’d be grateful. ‘What we were talking about the other night,’ he added. ‘Under the bridge. I was wondering if the Black Dogs had got themselves a new leader yet.’ He was thinking about who else Marcus Brooks might be planning on getting rid of. The message he was expecting some time that day.
Bannard sniffed. ‘Well, if they have, I don’t know who it is. I’ll get word eventually. It’ll be some long-haired fucker with tattoos, though, I can promise you that.’
Thorne knew what Bannard meant. He’d already been getting the three dead bikers mixed up in his head: a mass of dead white flesh and coloured ink.
‘I reckon that’s why they’ve got the nicknames,’ Bannard said. ‘So they can tell each other apart.’
‘Makes sense,’ Thorne said. Bannard had been joking, but it was what his old man had done when everything had started to short-circuit. Names had been the first things to go, replaced by simple – and usually unflattering – physical descriptions. Everyone from the man who ran the newsagent’s to Tom Thorne himself.
‘So, is that your best bet?’ Bannard asked. ‘The names you got from Tindall.’
‘Best bet?’
‘Trying to trace Brooks, I mean.’
Well, apart from the cosy text messages we send each other in the early hours, thought Thorne.
‘We’re chasing up a few other things,’ he said.
Actually, there were more than a few.
The so-called golden twenty-four hours after Martin Cowans’ corpse was hauled out of the canal had yielded nothing remotely precious, but there were still plenty of active leads to follow up: the property taken from the address in Hammersmith; the latest description of Marcus Brooks; the information provided by Davey Tindall. Though officers had been dispatched to question those on Tindall’s list, most of the inquiry team – which had now swelled to fifty-plus police and civilian staff – were busy where most modern detective work was done: at a desk, with phone, fax and computer keyboard all within easy reach.
These days, the majority of medical claims filed by Met employees were for bad backs or repetitive strain injury. Not even patrol officers – teamed up as often as not with CSO part-timers – suffered with their feet any more. Although Thorne thought he probably wore out a little more shoe-leather than most; certainly for someone of his rank.
‘Yeah, but that’s not because you’re chasing stuff up, is it? It’s because you’re usually running away from something.’ Holland, or Hendricks… someone taking the piss, had said that.
Once Thorne had got off the phone, still with no real idea why Bannard had called, he caught up with Holland.
‘Still haven’t learned to keep my big mouth shut, have I?’ the DS said. At Thursday’s briefing, he’d suggested that they might be able to find out where Brooks had bought his car. Aside from his trip into Soho with Thorne, he’d spent most of the time since regretting it.
He pushed a stack of papers across his desk, towards Thorne. ‘Used-car dealers in Acton, Brentford, Chiswick and Shepherd’s Bush. Hundreds of the buggers, and that’s without the dodgy ones.’ He reached for a Post-It on which he’d scribbled some notes. ‘Found a couple of decent second-hand BMWs you might be interested in. You know, whenever you fancy trading in the puke-mobile.’
‘Not listening,’ Thorne said.
Holland rolled back his chair, pointed at a thick pile of old newspapers and car magazines. ‘That’s been a treat, too. Calling up every low-life who might’ve flogged a dark Mondeo for cash a few days ago. You should hear the intake of breath when I tell them where I’m calling from. Like someone’s been killed because they’ve sold some poor sod a death-trap…’
‘Sounds like you’ve had fun,’ Thorne said. Holland had been joking, but as far as the cases they normally picked up went, the car was the murder weapon more often than the gun or the knife. Thorne handed the sheaf of papers back across, suddenly reminded that paperwork of his own was tucked away in his desk drawer.
Letters from a man to his dead wife and child.
‘The DCI was looking for you,’ Karim said, behind him.
Thorne turned. ‘Well, he wasn’t looking very hard. I’ve only been here and in the office.’
Karim pulled a what do I know? face, and followed it with one that suggested they continue the conversation somewhere else.
They walked into the corridor.
‘Brigstocke’s got some appointment or other.’
Karim had emphasised the word enough for Thorne to know that the DCI had not gone to see his dentist. Thorne asked the question with a look.
‘Solicitor,’ Karim said. ‘Sounds like this DPS business, whatever it is, has moved up a gear.’
Same as everything else, Thorne thought.
‘So, you’re acting DCI.’
‘What?’
‘Only until he gets back. Shouldn’t be more than a few hours.’
‘Why me? It isn’t usually me.’
‘You’re not usually around. Anyway, that’s what he said, and personally I reckon you could do with more responsibility.’
Karim was laughing as he wandered away, but Thorne’s mind was already elsewhere: thinking of something Sharon Lilley had said that night in the pub, when she’d told him that her DCI had stepped back to let her run the Tipper inquiry.
Had she mentioned a name?
She’d said that the idea had been for her to ‘try the shoes on for size’, get used to heading up a major investigation. But Thorne was thinking of less altruistic reasons why an officer might not want to be involved.
If he knew the prime suspect personally, for example. If he’d been one of the two men responsible for making him the prime suspect.
Thorne walked along the corridor towards his office. Lilley had said she was unsure where her DCI had ended up; something about him being the sort to land on his feet. Thorne made a mental note to try and find out where he had landed.
As he turned into the office, he almost bumped into Kitson coming out.
‘We’ve found Kemal,’ she said. ‘He’s in Bristol, or at least he was two days ago.’
‘Aren’t you even a bit disappointed?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I know you were angling for a trip to that Turkish fishing village.’
‘I’ll settle for a day out in Bristol,’ Kitson said. ‘It’s got good shops.’
They stood in the narrow corridor. There were posters behind glass promoting new initiatives: a crackdown on bail absconders; a campaign to keep hate crime out of sport. A bar-chart proudly trumpeting an increase in the clear-up rate of murders Met-wide to 87 per cent.
If they didn’t catch Marcus Brooks, Thorne thought, they’d need to redraw the chart.
‘There was a parking ticket issued two days ago in Bristol city centre. A Renault registered to Hakan Kemal.’
‘Has he paid it yet?’
‘I think he’s got bigger things to worry about.’
‘So what’s in Bristol?’
‘I’ve no idea. Somewhere to hide, I suppose.’
‘Are you going to talk to the sister again?’
From the office, Thorne became aware of a muffled beeping – the tone from his prepay, sounding in the pocket of his jacket. The sound of a message arriving. He walked casually past Kitson and across to the chair, trying to keep at least one ear on what she was saying.
‘… called earlier, and got her answering machine…’
Nodding, saying, ‘Go on,’ Thorne took out the phone and automatically angled his body away from Kitson, who had followed him inside, still talking.