Death Message by Mark Billingham Read Free Book Online

this soon after a post-mortem. He'd settled for scrambled eggs on toast, while Hendricks tucked into a sausage sandwich.
    'What about cause of death?' Thorne asked.
    'Fuck all to disagree with. Blunt trauma to the brain, massive internal bleed . . . occipital artery just about shredded. He would have died pretty quickly: first couple of blows would have done it. Now, you can call me Sherlock Holmes, but I reckon that bloodstained lump-hammer they found in Tucker's flat might have had something to do with it.'
    'I'll bear that in mind,' Thorne said.
    A waitress stepped up to clear the plates. She'd clearly been earwigging as she'd worked at the next table and Hendricks had caught it. 'It's a new TV show we're writing,' he said. 'A maverick, gay pathologist. You know, usual stuff: fuzzy black-and-white bits, half a dozen serial killers every episode.'
    The waitress pulled a face, as though she'd caught a whiff of something and couldn't decide if she liked it or not. 'Well, don't have that bloke who used to be in EastEnders . I can't stand him.'
    They watched her leave, one of them enjoying the way her backside moved beneath a tight black skirt considerably more than the other.
    'It's an odd one this, though,' Hendricks said.
    'They're always odd.'
    Hendricks grunted his agreement. He stuffed what was left of his sandwich into his mouth and took a healthy slurp of tea. It always surprised Thorne that someone whose hands could move with such poise and dexterity ate like a half-starved docker.
    'Go on then,' Thorne said. 'Why is this one so strange?'
    'Killer can't make his mind up.'
    Thorne pushed a finger round the rim of his cup. Waited.
    'Five, six blows with that hammer. Decent ones, you know? Not that people are usually tentative when it comes to bludgeoning someone to death . . .'
    'Not as a rule.'
    'I'd probably call it "frenzied" if I was pushed in a witness box.'
    'But . . .?'
    'But then there's this whole picture business. He smashes Tucker's head in; then, while he's stood there covered in blood - and he would have been covered - he calmly takes out his mobile phone and starts snapping away. Cool as you like.'
    'Maybe he took his time,' Thorne said. 'Went and cleaned himself up a bit. Composed himself.'
    'Maybe. Where he definitely took his time was in sending the picture to you. I reckon Tucker was dead nine or ten days when his poor old mum walked in and got the shock of her life. So, whoever killed him waited over a week before sending you that message. That's pretty bloody relaxed, I'd say.'
    Thorne had already worked it out; had come to the same conclusion when Brigstocke had told him that Tucker's body had lain undiscovered for a while.
    'So, what the fuck is he?' Hendricks downed the last of his tea. 'Ordered or disordered.'
    Thorne had come across a few who were both. He knew that they were the worst kind. The hardest to catch. 'You can pay for the grub,' he said. 'Seeing as how you've cheered me up so much.'
    'I'll tell you something else for nothing.'
    'Do you have to?'
    'I think there's more to our victim than meets the eye.'
    'You're really on form today,' Thorne said.
    'I'm telling you.'
    'You should stop doing so much cutting and watch more of it. You don't miss a bloody trick.' But once Hendricks had told him what he meant, Thorne could not find much to argue with in his friend's assessment.
    They settled up and walked out into what remained of a grey afternoon. For a minute or two, heading towards the car, Thorne was back in the mortuary suite. Watching as the pathologist moved around the slab. The Home Counties monotone raised above the noise of the Tube trains, his commentary echoing off the tiled walls.
    Thorne stared at the body again, his eyes moving down from the sunken cheeks and the spots of dried blood caught on lashes and stubble. He saw the intricate designs in blue and green and red. The pictures inked across the chest that disappeared from view as the flaps of skin over the ribs were peeled