wonder if he'd inadvertently activated some kind of shit magnet, and when the phone on his desk began to ring a minute later, he just stared at it for a few seconds. Thought about sneaking down to the canteen for tea and a piece of cake, sorting out that weaselly little fucker Stone later on . . .
'Your guvnor's been ducking me all day. You're not trying to piss me about as well, are you, Tom?'
There'd been laughter, of a sort, as he'd asked the question, but it was clear enough from DCI Keith Bannard's tone that he wasn't joking. Thorne presumed it was rhetorical anyway, being more of a threat than a genuine enquiry.
'I think DCI Brigstocke's been stuck in meetings most of the day, sir,' he said. 'Have you got his mobile number?'
'I've rung three times. Twice he's dropped the call and now he's turned the phone off.'
Thorne guessed Brigstocke had got wind that S&O were on his case, presuming, as Thorne had done, that they were still trying to muscle in on the Sedat case. 'Shall I take a message? I suppose you've already left one on his office voicemail?'
'Tell me about your dead car salesman,' Bannard said.
' Tucker ?' Suddenly, Thorne had a lot more to occupy his mind.
'Tucker. Raymond, Anthony.' There was gravel in the voice, giving an edge to what would otherwise have been a gentle West Country burr. Get off my land, or I'll rip your lungs out . . .
'Tell you what ?' Thorne said.
There was a sigh and a sniff. 'Right. Silly buggers, is it?'
'I'm not trying to be difficult . . .'
'No?'
'I just don't have much more than you could easily get off the bulletin, you know? So, I don't think I can really be a lot of help.' There was a soft knock, and Thorne looked up to see one of the civilian office assistants staring in through the window in the door. She formed her fingers into a 'T' and held them up to the glass. Thorne shook his head.
'I know a lot about Ray Tucker and his mates,' Bannard said. 'Fuck of a lot, matter of fact. It's just this very recent stuff I'm a bit woolly on . . . the getting his head caved in and what have you.' He laughed again, and let out a short volley of coughs, which caused Thorne momentarily to pull the phone away from his ear. 'The "dead in his front room" stuff, see? It's just about getting up to speed really, keeping on top of things. So, anything you can tell me will almost certainly be useful. Fair enough, DI Thorne?'
Thorne duly told Bannard what had come to light that day. He told him about the state of the body when it was discovered, the likely murder weapon and the preliminary results of the PM, sensing, even as he did so, that he wasn't telling the man anything he didn't know already.
The only thing he neglected to mention - for no very good reason he could put his finger on - was that he'd been sent a picture of the dead man two days before.
'"Ray Tucker and his mates", you said?' Thorne heard Bannard take a drink of something on the other end of the line.
'For fifteen years, Tucker, better known to us and his close friends as "Rat", was a leading member of the "Black Dogs". They're one of the bigger biker gangs, OK? Swallowed up two or three other mobs over the years and nobody's quite sure how many members there are now, but thirty-five or forty, easy. They're dotted around, but we've got most of them based up towards the edge of north London and Hertfordshire these days.'
Thorne had heard the name. 'Hell's Angels, right?'
'Absolutely not. Business rivals, as a matter of fact, but they all work along the same lines: a strict hierarchy, members sworn to secrecy, the wearing of club colours and what have you.'
'And I'm guessing most of the time, when they meet up, it's got fuck all to do with motorbikes.'
'Not a great deal, no.'
'What is it, dope?'
'Dope, cocaine, ecstasy, whatever. They work with affiliated gangs in Europe, bring the stuff in from Holland and Scandinavia. We think they've just started moving into the heroin business.'
'Not beating up mods on
'Your guvnor's been ducking me all day. You're not trying to piss me about as well, are you, Tom?'
There'd been laughter, of a sort, as he'd asked the question, but it was clear enough from DCI Keith Bannard's tone that he wasn't joking. Thorne presumed it was rhetorical anyway, being more of a threat than a genuine enquiry.
'I think DCI Brigstocke's been stuck in meetings most of the day, sir,' he said. 'Have you got his mobile number?'
'I've rung three times. Twice he's dropped the call and now he's turned the phone off.'
Thorne guessed Brigstocke had got wind that S&O were on his case, presuming, as Thorne had done, that they were still trying to muscle in on the Sedat case. 'Shall I take a message? I suppose you've already left one on his office voicemail?'
'Tell me about your dead car salesman,' Bannard said.
' Tucker ?' Suddenly, Thorne had a lot more to occupy his mind.
'Tucker. Raymond, Anthony.' There was gravel in the voice, giving an edge to what would otherwise have been a gentle West Country burr. Get off my land, or I'll rip your lungs out . . .
'Tell you what ?' Thorne said.
There was a sigh and a sniff. 'Right. Silly buggers, is it?'
'I'm not trying to be difficult . . .'
'No?'
'I just don't have much more than you could easily get off the bulletin, you know? So, I don't think I can really be a lot of help.' There was a soft knock, and Thorne looked up to see one of the civilian office assistants staring in through the window in the door. She formed her fingers into a 'T' and held them up to the glass. Thorne shook his head.
'I know a lot about Ray Tucker and his mates,' Bannard said. 'Fuck of a lot, matter of fact. It's just this very recent stuff I'm a bit woolly on . . . the getting his head caved in and what have you.' He laughed again, and let out a short volley of coughs, which caused Thorne momentarily to pull the phone away from his ear. 'The "dead in his front room" stuff, see? It's just about getting up to speed really, keeping on top of things. So, anything you can tell me will almost certainly be useful. Fair enough, DI Thorne?'
Thorne duly told Bannard what had come to light that day. He told him about the state of the body when it was discovered, the likely murder weapon and the preliminary results of the PM, sensing, even as he did so, that he wasn't telling the man anything he didn't know already.
The only thing he neglected to mention - for no very good reason he could put his finger on - was that he'd been sent a picture of the dead man two days before.
'"Ray Tucker and his mates", you said?' Thorne heard Bannard take a drink of something on the other end of the line.
'For fifteen years, Tucker, better known to us and his close friends as "Rat", was a leading member of the "Black Dogs". They're one of the bigger biker gangs, OK? Swallowed up two or three other mobs over the years and nobody's quite sure how many members there are now, but thirty-five or forty, easy. They're dotted around, but we've got most of them based up towards the edge of north London and Hertfordshire these days.'
Thorne had heard the name. 'Hell's Angels, right?'
'Absolutely not. Business rivals, as a matter of fact, but they all work along the same lines: a strict hierarchy, members sworn to secrecy, the wearing of club colours and what have you.'
'And I'm guessing most of the time, when they meet up, it's got fuck all to do with motorbikes.'
'Not a great deal, no.'
'What is it, dope?'
'Dope, cocaine, ecstasy, whatever. They work with affiliated gangs in Europe, bring the stuff in from Holland and Scandinavia. We think they've just started moving into the heroin business.'
'Not beating up mods on
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