it than others. The likes of Andy Stone had a drawer stuffed with photocopies of colleagues' warrant cards, so that when and if the time came, they could place embarrassing personal ads on their behalf in the back pages of The Job and Metropolitan Life . Bogus lonely-hearts stuff and requests for mail-order brides. When Samir Karim had split up with his wife a few years before, an ad had appeared the following week with his contact details offering: 'Double bed for sale. Hardly used.'
Karim had laughed along with the rest of them, obviously.
' Vorsprung, durch . . . utterly fucked,' Holland said, getting into his stride.
Thorne steered the car slowly through the mess of traffic at the Brent Cross flyover, then turned north towards Hendon, waiting until Holland had hit him with his best shots.
'Say what you like.' Thorne stroked the steering wheel theatrically. 'Still my baby.'
'Listen to yourself,' Holland said. 'It's a clapped-out piece of German scrap. It's not Herbie . . .'
Thorne sighed and stared ahead, refusing to dignify the comment with a response. The blocks of single-storey warehouses and furniture superstores crawled by along the length of the A406: Carpet Express; Kingdom of Leather; Staples. His eye was caught by the Carphone Warehouse logo across a set of grey, metal shutters, and it suddenly struck Thorne that the reason for the killer's delay in sending the photograph might have been altogether simpler yet more bizarre.
'Fritz, maybe . . .' Holland said.
Was it possible that, after committing the murder, the killer had kept a watch on Tucker's flat? On seeing that the body was going undiscovered, had he simply decided to give the police a helping hand?
Ordered or disordered?
Perhaps he wanted someone to go to the trouble of finding out . . .
Next to him, Holland was saying something about a running joke that ran a damn sight better than the car did, but Thorne was already elsewhere. Thinking that the dead were never decorous. That death itself was rarely dignified, whether you were tottering towards collapse on a mixed ward or rotting into a carpet. But that for the most unfortunate, what was left could barely even be called 'remains'.
Thinking that, when people talked about leaving something of themselves behind, they usually meant more than just a stain on a floorboard.
FIVE
Back at Becke House, the news was mixed. But then, life itself was perfectly capable of taking the piss . . .
From Kitson, the familiar two-steps-forward-threesteps-back routine. The blood on the knife retrieved from the litter bin had been identified as belonging to Deniz Sedat. They had also managed to pull a decent set of prints from the handle. Sadly, though, these failed to match with any held on record.
From Karim, a predictably frustrating technical update. With a cell-site search having been formally authorised by Brigstocke, T-Mobile had been in touch to acknowledge the request. And again later, to say that they would give it their highest priority, as soon as their virus-riddled computer system was up and running again.
Thorne retreated to his office, but five minutes later Andy Stone was babbling at him from the doorway.
'There's a DCI from S&O on the phone.'
'And?'
'And he's been calling every fifteen minutes since lunchtime trying to get hold of the guvnor.'
Thorne hadn't seen Brigstocke since his return from the mortuary. 'Where is he?'
'No idea, some meeting. Anyway, I think this bloke's had enough, because now he's just asking to speak to the appropriate DI.'
'Kitson's looking after the Sedat case,' Thorne said.
'I don't think it's the Sedat case he wants to talk about . . .'
Thorne was curious, but he was also exhausted, and with more than enough to occupy his mind at that moment. He shook his head. 'He'll call back.'
'He's waiting for me to put him through.'
'Tell him you couldn't find me.'
'He won't be happy . . .'
Thorne stared until Stone backed, muttering, into the corridor. He began to
Karim had laughed along with the rest of them, obviously.
' Vorsprung, durch . . . utterly fucked,' Holland said, getting into his stride.
Thorne steered the car slowly through the mess of traffic at the Brent Cross flyover, then turned north towards Hendon, waiting until Holland had hit him with his best shots.
'Say what you like.' Thorne stroked the steering wheel theatrically. 'Still my baby.'
'Listen to yourself,' Holland said. 'It's a clapped-out piece of German scrap. It's not Herbie . . .'
Thorne sighed and stared ahead, refusing to dignify the comment with a response. The blocks of single-storey warehouses and furniture superstores crawled by along the length of the A406: Carpet Express; Kingdom of Leather; Staples. His eye was caught by the Carphone Warehouse logo across a set of grey, metal shutters, and it suddenly struck Thorne that the reason for the killer's delay in sending the photograph might have been altogether simpler yet more bizarre.
'Fritz, maybe . . .' Holland said.
Was it possible that, after committing the murder, the killer had kept a watch on Tucker's flat? On seeing that the body was going undiscovered, had he simply decided to give the police a helping hand?
Ordered or disordered?
Perhaps he wanted someone to go to the trouble of finding out . . .
Next to him, Holland was saying something about a running joke that ran a damn sight better than the car did, but Thorne was already elsewhere. Thinking that the dead were never decorous. That death itself was rarely dignified, whether you were tottering towards collapse on a mixed ward or rotting into a carpet. But that for the most unfortunate, what was left could barely even be called 'remains'.
Thinking that, when people talked about leaving something of themselves behind, they usually meant more than just a stain on a floorboard.
FIVE
Back at Becke House, the news was mixed. But then, life itself was perfectly capable of taking the piss . . .
From Kitson, the familiar two-steps-forward-threesteps-back routine. The blood on the knife retrieved from the litter bin had been identified as belonging to Deniz Sedat. They had also managed to pull a decent set of prints from the handle. Sadly, though, these failed to match with any held on record.
From Karim, a predictably frustrating technical update. With a cell-site search having been formally authorised by Brigstocke, T-Mobile had been in touch to acknowledge the request. And again later, to say that they would give it their highest priority, as soon as their virus-riddled computer system was up and running again.
Thorne retreated to his office, but five minutes later Andy Stone was babbling at him from the doorway.
'There's a DCI from S&O on the phone.'
'And?'
'And he's been calling every fifteen minutes since lunchtime trying to get hold of the guvnor.'
Thorne hadn't seen Brigstocke since his return from the mortuary. 'Where is he?'
'No idea, some meeting. Anyway, I think this bloke's had enough, because now he's just asking to speak to the appropriate DI.'
'Kitson's looking after the Sedat case,' Thorne said.
'I don't think it's the Sedat case he wants to talk about . . .'
Thorne was curious, but he was also exhausted, and with more than enough to occupy his mind at that moment. He shook his head. 'He'll call back.'
'He's waiting for me to put him through.'
'Tell him you couldn't find me.'
'He won't be happy . . .'
Thorne stared until Stone backed, muttering, into the corridor. He began to
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