Free Death Message by Mark Billingham Page A

asked.
    Cowans flicked ash on to a scarred grey carpet. 'Ask any of them. They'll tell you we're no trouble.'
    'I bet they will,' Thorne said.
    They were gathered in the living room: Holland and Thorne on tatty, high-backed chairs that looked as though they'd come from a doctor's waiting room; Cowans and two of his friends sprawled across a selection of armchairs and settees in scorched corduroy, velour, or torn and dirty vinyl.
    The room stank of stale beer and motor oil.
    'Listen, I don't know if anyone's given any thought to Ray Tucker's tropical fish,' Holland said. 'What's going to happen to them, I mean. Obviously he might have left them to someone, and this is just a suggestion.' He pointed. 'But the tank would look lovely against that wall . . .'
    All three bikers were dressed as might have been expected. The uniform was compulsory on club premises. Thorne knew that the patches they wore on the backs of their leathers, or denim jackets - the club's colours - were hugely important to them. He understood that they were not to be abused, and that the wearing of patches to which a biker was not entitled would be dealt with severely. He'd read of gang members being dragged from their bikes, having their colours cut off with Stanley knives, without anyone first bothering to remove the jacket.
    Cowans, who only ever answered to his nickname, was pushing fifty. He was stick-thin, but with a gut on him; long hair was tied back and silvering, while his thick beard hadn't quite turned the same colour. His younger colleagues had introduced themselves quite politely as 'Gazza' and 'Ugly Bob'. Gazza was stocky, with a beard that tended towards bum-fluff, while Bob was shaven-headed and sported a thick moustache. Thorne knew that men looking not unlike Bob hung out in some of the clubs Phil Hendricks frequented, but he decided to keep that to himself.
    There was much that Thorne might have found almost comical, if he hadn't known exactly what these men were capable of. If he hadn't been wondering which of them had entwined daggers tattooed on some secret patch of pale flesh. He nodded towards Gazza and Ugly Bob. 'What are you two, then? Road captains? Sergeants-at-arms?'
    They said nothing.
    Thorne turned to Cowans. 'And Ray Tucker was vice-president, wasn't he?'
    'I'm not going to talk to you about individual members of this club,' Cowans said. 'But I'm pleased that you've done some homework.'
    'Oh yes.' Thorne took a piece of paper from his pocket, brandished it proudly. 'Printed out your rules and regulations as well. Nice website, by the way.'
    'Music's a bit shit,' Holland said.
    Thorne looked down at the list laid out in a dramatic, Gothic typeface: the club rules and the respective fines for any breach; the cost of patches; the guidelines for general behaviour. 'Five pounds a week subs,' he said. 'That's fairly steep.'
    'You get a lot for your money,' Cowans said.
    'How many of you are there? Twenty-five, thirty? Hundred and fifty quid a week doesn't pay for this lot.' Thorne looked around. 'I'm betting there's no mortgage on this place, right?'
    'You'd need to talk to the club's accountant.'
    Thorne nodded, like he was grateful for the suggestion. 'So what about Ricky Hodson, then? Was he high up on the club ladder?'
    'Hoddo was a member of this club for fifteen years. That's it.'
    'Tucker dead, now Hodson. You must be wondering what's going on.' Cowans and his mates didn't look like they were wondering about a great deal. 'He was murdered. That has sunk in, right? Whatever the hospital might have said first thing, I can promise you that. There were no marks on him - well, nothing he didn't get coming off his bike - so my guess is suffocation, but he's on his way across to the morgue as we speak, so we'll know soon enough.'
    Cowans shook his head, smiled as if he admired the effort Thorne was putting in. They were words he'd spoken many times before, but the voice didn't sound quite as casual as he wanted it to. 'I won't talk