The Dying Hours (18 page)

‘Thorne’s taking the piss,’ Holland said.

Kitson looked at him. ‘He’s a friend.’

‘Which is exactly why he’s taking advantage.’

They were sitting at a corner table in the Royal Oak, a watering hole midway between Becke House and Colindale station and hence a pub where lock-ins tended to get ignored, while any civilian unfamiliar with the venue’s clientele and foolish enough to cut up rough was likely to be confronted with several dozen unhappy coppers, each trying to avoid having to make the arrest.

It was a table they had shared many times with Tom Thorne, a spot where victories had been celebrated and sorrows drowned. They had bitched about the Brass here and gossiped into the early hours about the arse-lickers and the dead weight. Those on the fast track to promotion and the Woodentops-in-waiting; the ones who couldn’t cut it and would be lucky to end up waggling hand-held speed cameras on the A1.

The irony was not lost on either of them.

They had arranged to meet after work during a snatched and whispered conversation at lunchtime. Now they were here though, neither seemed to be finding it particularly easy to talk. There was a good deal that was going unsaid; a tension at the small table that was not lost on DS Samir Karim when he blithely wandered over – slurping at a pint – and attempted to join them. He got no further than ‘Mind if I…⁠?’ before clocking the looks on their faces and backing awkwardly away.

‘Have you done anything else?’ Kitson asked. ‘Since the last time you saw him.’

Four days before, in the Grafton. When Thorne, Hendricks and Holland had looked at the list Thorne had extracted from Frank Anderson. Holland had said he’d try and find out if any money from Mercer’s bank robberies was still unaccounted for and that he’d see about getting a look at CCTV footage from the areas in which the earlier victims had been killed.

He hadn’t tried particularly hard.

‘That was the same night Jacobson was killed,’ Holland said. He picked up his beer bottle, stared at it. ‘Remember? Looked like we might not need to do anything else.’

Kitson nodded. The two of them had found out about the ‘suicide’ in Blackheath the day after it had happened. Without saying as much to one another, it was clear they had both been counting on the Murder Squad team that was looking into it coming up with something that would save them both a lot of trouble.

What had Thorne said to Holland on the phone? They would all be ‘off the hook’.

That morning, though, word had filtered through that Richard Jacobson’s death was now being treated as a suicide; that the investigation was being wound down with immediate effect.

‘So now it’s just him again,’ Holland said. ‘Him and us. Soon as Thorne finds out, he’ll be back on the phone.’

‘So, say no,’ Kitson said. ‘We’ve been through this.’

‘What will
you
say?’

Kitson shook her head and reached for the small glass of wine in front of her that had so far gone untouched.

‘Why do I get the feeling this is all about me?’ Holland asked. ‘That I’m the one that’s being disloyal or ambitious or whatever. It’s like you’re trying to make out I’m the only one with any doubts about this.’

‘I’ve never said that.’

‘I saw your face when we heard about Jacobson.’

Kitson put her glass down, now virtually empty. ‘Do you know what you should be asking yourself? What would Thorne be doing if he was in your shoes and you were the one wanting the favour?’

‘It’s a bit more than a favour now, Yvonne.’

‘Would he do it for you?’

Holland shook his head, not needing to think very hard about it. ‘Yeah, but we’re not as stupid as he is, are we?’

They said nothing for a minute or so after that, their eyes anywhere but on each other. Studying their drinks or their mobile phones, looking round when a burst of laughter erupted from another table.

‘What are you thinking, Dave?’ Kitson asked, eventually.

Holland emptied his bottle and felt for his wallet, checking it was there before standing up to leave or else getting ready to buy another; to settle in and make a decent night of it.

‘Nothing you aren’t thinking,’ he said.

Helen was not stupid. She knew that in insisting what had happened three months before had left her undamaged, there was at least an element of denial. It was far easier, though, to see how it had affected those closest to her. In the three days she had spent being held hostage by a grief-stricken father, her own seemed to have aged ten years.

‘Could you…⁠?’ Robert Weeks held his grandson at arm’s length. ‘Could you take him, love?’

Helen stood and collected a wriggling Alfie from her father. Wrapped her arms around him. ‘Come here, you,’ she said.

‘He’s full of beans today.’

‘He’s excited to see you.’

And her father was equally excited, Helen had no doubt about that. He just seemed rather less able to cope with a boisterous eighteen-month-old tearing about his house than he had been before; when the noise and the mess had only broadened his smile and Helen would have had to insist on taking Alfie from her father’s arms. He had always been tidy – even more so since he’d been living on his own – but where he had once embraced the happy chaos Alfie wrought, he now seemed far too anxious to relax.

He never said as much, of course. Wouldn’t have dreamed. Even when Helen had gone back to work so soon after it had happened and, as per usual, Jenny had not fought shy of making her opinion known.

‘
You’re being ridiculous. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove. If you had any sense at all you’d find yourself another job
…’

Her father had not added to the concerns being voiced, but Helen knew that, for once, he had agreed with her sister.

‘We’ll get out of your way in a minute,’ Helen said.

‘Don’t be daft. I’m just a bit tired today, that’s all.’

He’d been living alone a long time; more than ten years since Helen’s mother had died and five since his second wife had walked out. Neither Helen nor Jenny quite understood what had happened there, and it was never talked about. He had taken up an assortment of hobbies and activities afterwards – baking, book clubs, neighbourhood watch – and there had even been a brief dalliance with a woman who lived nearby, but those things no longer seemed to interest him. Now, they were simply there to be grabbed at with an ever-waning enthusiasm. Clinging on to life instead of actually living it. Helen glanced down at the paperback books arranged neatly on her father’s coffee table. She was pretty sure they were the same ones that had been there last time she had been round.

He was only sixty-four. Helen thought about that stupid, jaunty song and it made her angry. Angrier.
Old
suddenly, and well before his time and it was her fault for making him worry.

I don’t know what you’re trying to prove
…

‘You should bring him round,’ her father said. ‘Might be nice to actually meet him.’

It took Helen a second or two. Tom. They had been talking about Tom when Alfie had started making a pest of himself.

‘You know what it’s like,’ Helen said.

‘Busy. Yes, I know.’

‘I will though, I promise.’

‘I’m not Marjorie Proops,’ he said. ‘But that might be one of the reasons things aren’t exactly hunky-dory.’

Helen had not said as much, but she had not needed to. Her father knew her well enough. He had seen her this way umpteen times since she was fourteen and her first boyfriend had got off with one of her friends at the school disco. This was the first time since Paul though.

She did not bother asking who Marjorie Proops was.

‘Then there’s the whole age difference thing.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Helen said.

‘What is he, ten years older than you?’

‘Yeah, near enough, but that’s nothing.’ She laughed, bounced Alfie on her knees. ‘Honestly, that’s ridiculous, Dad.’

He shrugged. ‘OK…’

‘Has Jenny said something?’ Her father shook his head. ‘She doesn’t seem to like him very much. Banging on about Paul all the time.’

‘How is he with Alfie?’ He gurned at his grandson; head bobbing as Alfie continued to bounce. ‘How is he with my best boy?’

‘He’s great,’ Helen said. ‘He’s really great with him.’

‘Well, that’s the main thing.’

Alfie whined to be let down and Helen did so. He tottered across to the collection of soft toys that Helen had brought with her and were now scattered on the rug in front of the fireplace. He picked up a rubber frog and threw it. Helen sucked in a fast breath and reached out to protect the two mugs on the coffee table.

‘No!’ she said.

Her father said, ‘It’s fine,’ and leaned down with a groan to retrieve the toy. He waved the frog and said, ‘Ribbit! Ribbit!’ but Alfie had already forgotten all about it.

‘Tom’s done something stupid at work,’ Helen said. ‘He’s
still
doing something stupid and he knows I don’t approve. So, things have been a bit tense, that’s all.’ She saw the concern on her father’s face. ‘What?’

‘Well, if it’s something
you
don’t approve of, it must be seriously stupid.’

Helen smiled, but it was not returned.

‘I mean you’ve done your fair share of stupid things.’

‘He’s not thinking straight,’ she said. ‘It’s not a great time for him.’

‘Are we talking stupid enough to get him into trouble?’ He looked at her; the same look he’d given her when she’d screwed up at school or when she’d come home later than promised and not been entirely truthful about where she’d been. ‘Or stupid enough to get you both into trouble?’

Helen said nothing and so they watched Alfie play for a while, then Helen’s father offered to make more tea and defrost a couple of muffins. Helen tried to argue, but she was never going to win.

A minute after leaving the room, her father reappeared in the doorway.

‘Look, I’ve never met the man,’ he said. ‘So what do I know? I’m a silly old sod, so you know, pinch of salt and all that. I’m just saying that my first loyalty is to you and to Alfie.’ He pointed at Alfie, still happily moving his toys around. ‘End of the day, that’s all I’m concerned about.’ He put his hands into his pockets, then took them out again and folded his arms. ‘And it’s what you should be concerned about too.’

Twelve thirty a.m. and Thorne was on the phone, arguing with Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond. He paced around his office, fighting the urge to interrupt, then struggling to keep his tone suitably respectful when he did. There had been the not-so-friendly warning about overstepping his boundaries in the wake of Thorne’s visit to the MIT almost a fortnight before but as far as operational matters on his side of the bridge went, this was the first ‘frank exchange of views’ with a superior that had taken place since Thorne’s career had gone south in more ways than one.

He’d missed this.

‘I think they’re playing us for mugs,’ Thorne said.

‘You may well be right, but can we really afford to take the risk?’

‘We can hedge our bets, surely.’

‘We need enough manpower down there so that if it does kick off, we won’t be caught with our pants down.’

‘With respect, sir—’

‘Don’t start that, Tom. I know you haven’t got any.’

There was no point pretending otherwise.

‘I’ll ship reinforcements in as and when,’ Jesmond said, ‘but for now, just get as many units down there as you can. We clear?’

What was abundantly clear was that Jesmond had been relishing the argument every bit as much as Thorne had. More so, as it was one he was always going to win.

Thorne dispatched three more patrol cars to Lewisham shopping centre, then called Christine Treasure. She was on a tea break at Deptford station having been in attendance at a burglary around the corner and sounded excited at the prospect of ‘dishing out some slaps’. He told her to calm down, then to come back and pick him up.

Waiting in the car park, Thorne exchanged a few words with one of the civilian staff smoking nearby. The woman said, ‘Looks like you lot might be in for a busy night.’ Thorne gratefully breathed in her smoke, said, ‘Maybe,’ then realised it had been an hour or so since he had last thought about the desperate message scrawled into a crossword puzzle. Slippers in the mud by a darkened reservoir or the taste on his tongue in that garage.

As far as the rest of his shift went, Thorne remained convinced that he and his team were wasting their time, but he was grateful that circumstances might – for a while at least – force Terry Mercer into the shadows at the back of his mind.

He walked towards Treasure’s car as she turned into the car park, then waited while the officer she was with transferred to another vehicle. When Thorne got in, Treasure was feeling for the can of pepper spray on her stab vest, her cuffs and baton. ‘Right,’ he said.

‘I’m calm, I swear,’ she said, grinning. ‘I’m calm…’

Though the source of the information remained worryingly vague, officers on the late shift had once again received word that the situation was hotting up between the TTFN crew and their Tamil rivals. As per the predictions, known gang members had begun gathering in the shopping centre since midnight. Thorne though was dubious and was not expecting any more serious trouble than there had been the night before.

‘It’s clever,’ he said. ‘No getting away from that.’

Treasure accelerated and took the car through a red light. ‘Not much else we can do though, is there?’

‘We could leave them to it,’ Thorne said. ‘They’ll get bored eventually and go home to their mums.’

Thorne was convinced that the rival gangs had actually started working together in the common interest. The word would go out that trouble was imminent and then a sufficient number of likely lads from either side would gather and look menacing. This was something they had become very good at, but it was no more than a smokescreen. While an arrest or two might end up being made for minor offences, the manpower required to maintain order would leave other members of both gangs free to go about rather more important business; moving their product around unmolested, while the police officers who should have been trying to stop them were otherwise occupied.

Simple enough, and brilliant. Because even if the plan was rumbled, the Met would still need to show up in numbers to reassure the local community that they would not tolerate public disturbance.

To be fair to Jesmond – galling as that was – there was not a lot else he could do.

‘You want to stop at a garage?’ Treasure asked.

Thorne turned to look at her.

‘Pick up a can of Red Bull?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You look like you might be asleep by the time we get there.’ Treasure spent the next few minutes describing her prodigious sexual adventures of the previous day. She clearly enjoyed doing so – including sufficient detail to keep any gynaecology enthusiast happy – but it also allowed her to turn round at the end of it and say, ‘And by the look of it, I still managed to get more shut-eye than you.’

Thorne smiled, said, ‘I had stuff to do.’ He was aware of Treasure glancing at him more than once; waiting for him to elaborate, before giving up and turning her eyes back to the road.

‘Yeah, I know exactly what you were doing,’ she said. ‘Eyes like piss-holes in the snow, that haunted expression. Too much wanking, mate, that’s what that is.’

All things considered, Thorne was pretty pleased that three months earlier he had decided to pair up with Christine Treasure. In spite of the occasional olfactory assault, there were laughs, which were important, but it was more than that. The choice to go with a more experienced, less impressionable officer had been carefully made. Initially, he had thought about teaming up with one of the newer lot, but he’d been down that road with Dave Holland.

A young officer who had once looked up to him, then lost respect.

It was better all round, he had decided, to work with someone who had no illusions to shatter; about the Job or about Thorne himself.

Holland…

He had definitely not been himself when Thorne had called him the previous morning.

‘Here we go,’ Treasure said. ‘Slapping time.’

They pulled up at the edge of the pedestrianised precinct, alongside four other patrol vehicles, the Area Car and a pair of Met Police vans. Blue lights had been left flashing. As soon as they were on foot, Treasure radioed their arrival to the other units, then she and Thorne took out their batons and walked towards the noise.

The TTFN boys had gathered once again outside the kebab and burger place. A few were inside but the majority had no interest in eating. There were twenty or twenty-five of them; young black males with a smattering of white and Asian kids. A similar number of young Tamils was crowded around the entrance to a club called Flash, fifty or so feet away.

There was a good deal of abuse flying around, plenty of hard looks.

Half a dozen officers stood within a few yards of each group with twice that many forming an impromptu cordon midway between them; over half Thorne’s team in one place. Manned police vehicles were barring entry at either end, but people were still spilling out of the nightclub and a few of the other bars in the precinct, which made controlling the situation even more difficult.

Thorne and Treasure walked past the entrance to the nightclub and were quickly briefed by one of the sergeants.

Three arrests so far, all for threatening behaviour. None of those arrested had been carrying a weapon.

Smokescreen or not, Thorne felt certain that a few of those currently eyeballing him would be carrying knives, or worse. He made sure everyone knew that the object was to disperse each group with a minimum of fuss, well aware that he was asking the impossible. He looked from one end of the precinct to the other, then across at the two officers – one standing nice and close to each of the groups – who were wielding the most effective weapon the police had in situations such as these. Thorne understood that these young men were not afraid of the police, but he knew that a snarling German shepherd could put the fear of God into the hardest of Top Boys.

‘Anything starts,’ Thorne said, ‘send the dogs in.’

Then, Thorne glimpsed the distinctive caps and blue and white waterproof jackets of the local Street Pastors; a pair of them talking to members of the TTFN crowd outside the kebab shop. These were inter-denominational volunteers, organised by local churches to patrol the streets in the early hours. To help, wherever they could. They made sure that people got into licensed taxis or found their way to the night bus and, with seemingly endless patience, they did their best to diffuse any threat of violence before the police needed to get involved.

Thorne had no idea why they would want to do what they did, but he was grateful for it.

He wandered across and gently drew one of the pastors aside; a man called Roger, whom he had spoken to several times before. He could not recall seeing Roger without a smile on his face. It tended to disarm most of those he was dealing with, though the fact that he was built like a brick shithouse didn’t hurt.

‘Anything you can do, Roger,’ Thorne said, ‘very much appreciated, as always.’

‘We’re doing our best,’ Roger said. As usual, he was carrying a small rucksack, which Thorne knew was stuffed with flip-flops. These would be handed out to young women stumbling out of places like Flash in the early hours. Those who had lost their shoes or were so drunk that tottering around in high heels would almost certainly result in them being picked up from the gutter with a broken ankle. ‘I doubt there will be any real violence. It’s just a show.’

‘I know, but we still need them to disperse.’ Then, over Roger’s shoulder, Thorne saw another face he recognised.

Next to him, Treasure said, ‘Isn’t that the kid who gave you a dig a couple of weeks back? When we were clearing that party?’

Thorne nodded. ‘Anthony Dennison.’ Nineteen years old, street name 2-Tone. Following his arrest for the assault on Thorne, he had been bailed to return to the station, pending further enquiries; checking witness statements and reviewing available CCTV footage.

‘Cheeky little bastard,’ Treasure said.

Dennison was standing on the edge of a group of four or five of the TTFN crew. When he saw Thorne looking, he returned the stare with interest, pushing his chest out and turning up his palms as if to ask what the hell Thorne was looking at. Thorne was about to turn back to the pastor, when he watched Dennison take a step or two away from the group and look back at him. The boy nodded, glancing towards an alleyway two doors along from the kebab shop. Then – after checking that none of his friends could see – he turned and hurried into it.

‘What’s all that about?’ Treasure asked.

Thorne was already on his way back to the car. ‘One way to find out.’

They drove out on to the main road and then cut right into the maze of side streets that snaked around the main shopping area. After three or four turnings they saw him, sitting on a low wall; headphones on, like he wasn’t really expecting to be found.

Treasure wound the window down and Thorne leaned across. ‘You got something to say to me, Anthony?’

Dennison stepped to the window and removed his headphones. He peered into the car as if he might be looking to buy it. Said, ‘Just you though, yeah?’

Treasure looked at Thorne and shook her head, but he told her it was fine. She sighed, then waited for Dennison to step back before getting slowly out of the car.

‘Pat him down, will you, Chris?’ Thorne said, leaning across again. ‘No point being silly about it.’

‘Don’t worry, I was going to.’

Dennison assumed a position he was well used to without being asked.

‘Anything I should know about?’ Treasure asked, as she began to run her hands across the boy’s body.

The boy grinned, hands behind his head. ‘One or two things you might like.’

‘You’re not my type, darling,’ Treasure said.

Two minutes later, having found nothing but two mobile phones, wallet and cigarettes, Treasure turned back to the car and gave Thorne the thumbs-up. He nodded, and after Treasure had held the look between them for a little longer than was necessary, she turned and walked away towards the end of the road.

Dennison climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Not sure this is the best idea you’ve ever had,’ Thorne said. ‘What with me being the reason you were nicked in the first place.’

‘Yeah, well that’s the thing. Maybe there’s things you could do to help me with that. Like for a kick-off, maybe you could say that you was looking to get punched.’ Dennison turned in his seat. ‘You
was
looking for it, right?’

Thorne said nothing, but the boy had made it very clear that he didn’t miss much.

‘And maybe there’s things I could tell you, so that you would say that.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Information.’

‘We get all sorts of information about what you lot are up to,’ Thorne said. ‘And I’m not sure I trust any of it. Like what’s going on between you and the Tamils.’

Dennison nodded, impressed, then leaned back and made himself comfortable. ‘I’m not talking about any of that nonsense. I’m talking about guns.’ He looked to see if the word had had any effect. ‘People buying guns.’

‘Again, Anthony, I’m not exactly getting a stiffy here. It’s not like you’re telling me anything I don’t know.’

‘Yeah, but you don’t know what it is yet, yeah?’

‘Go on then.’

The boy sniffed, took a few seconds. This was the chance to make his pitch. ‘It’s a seriously odd one, which is why I can remember it, you get me? I’m not talking about no black kid or Asian kid or Turkish kid or anything like that. This is a white man… a really
old
white man, buying guns.
Two
guns.’

Thorne sat up very straight. He knew that he should probably try and hide his excitement, but he didn’t bother. He said, ‘When?’

‘A few weeks back. A month, maybe.’

‘You sold him these guns? This old man?’

‘No way,’ Dennison said, quickly. ‘I don’t get into any of that stupidness… but I was there.’

‘What did he look like?’

Dennison raised his arms, like it was a stupid question. ‘I don’t know, man… like I told you, he was old. White hair and wrinkles and all that.’ He turned and looked at Thorne. ‘So, you going to help me out, or what?’