Free Death Message by Mark Billingham Page B

about members of this club. I won't talk about any outstanding or open cases or comment on any suggestion of criminal activity. I will not make a statement . . .'
    Thorne squinted at his piece of paper in mock confusion. 'I didn't see anything in the rules about not talking to the police.'
    Now Cowans' smile was less forced. 'Right. Because we're not morons, and we don't want to get done for conspiracy.'
    Thorne looked across at Gazza and Ugly Bob. Neither of them seemed particularly sharp, but Thorne knew very well that in any organised crime gang, in any unit, having one person who wasn't stupid was usually enough.
    'So it's an unofficial rule, is it?' Holland asked.
    Cowans gave him a hard stare. Scratched at his crotch. 'It's more of a philosophy.'
    'Well, it seems a bit pointless,' Thorne said. 'Us coming all this way for a chat, I mean, if you aren't going to talk to us.'
    'Nobody invited you,' Gazza piped up.
    'Maybe you not talking is a good idea,' Holland said.
    Cowans seemed to find Holland's rebuke funny. 'Look, I'm perfectly happy to chat. I just won't say anything.' He turned to Ugly Bob. 'Go and chase up that fucking tea, will you?'
    Bob sloped out, ash dropping on to his chest from the roll-up that had been clamped beneath his moustache since they'd sat down.
    'Very nice memorial section on the website by the way,' Thorne said. 'Some touching tributes.'
    If Cowans was narked by the sarcasm, he didn't show it. 'This is a family, and members stay members, even if they're gone. The Dogs don't forget anyone.'
    'A lot of them have gone over the years,' Holland said. 'Surely they didn't all come off their bikes?'
    Cowans shook his head. 'Like I said. Happy to chat . . .'
    'Can you tell us about the history of the club, then?'
    'It's all on the website.'
    'How long have you been club president?'
    'Six years.'
    'Right.' Holland took the chance to show that he had done some homework as well. 'You took over from Simon Tipper.'
    '"Tips" . . .'
    'Whatever . . .'
    At that point Ugly Bob kicked the door open and came in with three mugs of tea. A woman walked in behind him with three more and a packet of biscuits. She was fortyish and pale, with bleached blond hair and a crop top that did her no favours. She handed mugs to Thorne and Holland and then took her own over to the sofa, settling on the arm next to Cowans. Thorne saw that she was wearing slightly different colours to the others: a 'property' patch given to those 'old ladies' of club members lucky enough to be afforded the honour.
    'This Mrs Bin-bag, is it?' Thorne asked.
    The woman tore at the packet of biscuits with her teeth. Gave Thorne the finger without looking up.
    'Nice picture of Tips on the memorial page,' Thorne said. 'What happened to him?'
    Cowans took a handful of biscuits from the woman. 'Well, that's a matter of public record, isn't it? Some burglar knifed him while he was turning Tips' place over. All done and dusted quick enough by your lot. Arsehole got banged up. That's it.'
    'What about the ones that weren't done and dusted? The ones that didn't die on their bikes and weren't tragically killed disturbing burglars. You sorted those out yourself, right?'
    Cowans dunked and drank.
    'Don't be like that,' Holland said. 'See how nice this is - a cup of tea and a natter?'
    'Come on, I presume you don't have an "armourer" for nothing,' Thorne said. 'I know that scores have to be settled.'
    Holland began to pick up on cues. 'Tucker and Hodson. There's two for a start.'
    'Mind you, it's a fair bet that whoever killed them was settling some scores of their own.'
    'And obviously you've got no idea at all who that might be.'
    'Can't be too many candidates though, surely?'
    'Another biker gang?' Holland addressed the questions to Thorne. 'Some local business that doesn't like the competition?'
    'Come on, Bin-bag,' Thorne said. 'Who's going to pay for Rat and Hoddo?'
    Thorne could only presume that Cowans was opening his mouth to refuse to answer their questions