the conversation with Bannard had ended casually enough, he'd hung up feeling well and truly dismissed.
'He seemed OK,' Thorne said. 'Fancied himself a bit, but you know what they're like.'
Kitson was relieved the call had not turned out to concern the Sedat case. She wondered aloud if S&O would be backing off from her inquiry, now that the knife had turned up where it had.
'They will if they've got any bloody sense.' Thorne took the milk from the fridge. Gave it a sniff. 'I still don't see it as a gangland thing.'
'Shame about those prints,' Kitson said.
'Never mind. Maybe whoever knifed Sedat left his name and address in a different bin.'
They drank their teas. Nodded hellos to faces from one of the other teams settling in on a new shift. 'Well, at least you know a lot more about your body in Enfield now,' Kitson said.
Thorne nodded, reminding himself that he needed to call Hendricks; let him know he'd been right about the tattoos.
'Sounds like that might well be a gangland thing.'
Thorne groaned across his mug: 'I sincerely hope not.'
'Yeah, I know what you mean.' Kitson dug around in her handbag for a compact. 'It really helps if you give a toss, doesn't it?' She strolled away towards the toilets, leaving Thorne wondering whether Brigstocke or Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond would still talk about an 'innocent victim' if there was a press conference. Deciding that he'd give it another hour, two at the most, then head home.
He walked slowly back towards his office, thinking that he'd need to find out a little more about the Black Dogs and how they operated. He passed the board with Tucker's picture on it, and felt himself starting to smile. Even though the gloom was gathering strength outside the window, and the day behind him felt like something he'd hacked his way through, he was strangely cheered by the notion of a heavily tattooed, vicious member of an outlaw biker gang with a mum who still washed his underpants.
He'd never really worked out why there was any need for security at a hospital. Obviously, there were drugs knocking about, but they kept them locked up, didn't they? He knew there were nutters who tried to nick babies, so he could understand them being careful on maternity wards, and it made sense to keep an eye on anywhere they had infectious diseases, but apart from that he couldn't see what it was they were so worried about.
As it went, the place where they were looking after Ricky Hodson was hardly Fort Knox.
The Abbey was a large, private hospital in Bushey, and the Beaumont building sat between banks of trees on the edge of its fifteen well-tended acres. There were a dozen rooms on the first floor. There were commanding views across a car park from one side or rolling fields from the other, depending on how high a premium you'd paid on your health insurance.
He smiled as he walked into reception; said something funny about how cold it was. He received a smile in return and was buzzed through into the lobby. Waiting for the lift, he looked at himself in the highly polished doors. He lowered his hood and pushed a hand through his hair. Took a deep breath.
The place didn't even smell like a hospital.
When he walked into Hodson's room, it didn't surprise him that he wasn't looking out over the car park. Not that he could see a lot: the fields were grey under the charcoal sky, and he could just make out lights a long way in the distance. He thought it might be Watford or Rickmansworth.
There was a noise from the bed.
Hodson was watching MTV. On a television fixed high up in the corner of the room, some rap star or other was showing the cameras around his house. There was a pool table with gold-coloured baize and a plasma screen ten feet across.
He walked around the bed, took the remote from the small table and turned off the television.
It wasn't exactly recognition in Hodson's eyes, he could-n't say that, but there was curiosity, certainly. Drugged up to the eyeballs as he was, it
'He seemed OK,' Thorne said. 'Fancied himself a bit, but you know what they're like.'
Kitson was relieved the call had not turned out to concern the Sedat case. She wondered aloud if S&O would be backing off from her inquiry, now that the knife had turned up where it had.
'They will if they've got any bloody sense.' Thorne took the milk from the fridge. Gave it a sniff. 'I still don't see it as a gangland thing.'
'Shame about those prints,' Kitson said.
'Never mind. Maybe whoever knifed Sedat left his name and address in a different bin.'
They drank their teas. Nodded hellos to faces from one of the other teams settling in on a new shift. 'Well, at least you know a lot more about your body in Enfield now,' Kitson said.
Thorne nodded, reminding himself that he needed to call Hendricks; let him know he'd been right about the tattoos.
'Sounds like that might well be a gangland thing.'
Thorne groaned across his mug: 'I sincerely hope not.'
'Yeah, I know what you mean.' Kitson dug around in her handbag for a compact. 'It really helps if you give a toss, doesn't it?' She strolled away towards the toilets, leaving Thorne wondering whether Brigstocke or Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond would still talk about an 'innocent victim' if there was a press conference. Deciding that he'd give it another hour, two at the most, then head home.
He walked slowly back towards his office, thinking that he'd need to find out a little more about the Black Dogs and how they operated. He passed the board with Tucker's picture on it, and felt himself starting to smile. Even though the gloom was gathering strength outside the window, and the day behind him felt like something he'd hacked his way through, he was strangely cheered by the notion of a heavily tattooed, vicious member of an outlaw biker gang with a mum who still washed his underpants.
He'd never really worked out why there was any need for security at a hospital. Obviously, there were drugs knocking about, but they kept them locked up, didn't they? He knew there were nutters who tried to nick babies, so he could understand them being careful on maternity wards, and it made sense to keep an eye on anywhere they had infectious diseases, but apart from that he couldn't see what it was they were so worried about.
As it went, the place where they were looking after Ricky Hodson was hardly Fort Knox.
The Abbey was a large, private hospital in Bushey, and the Beaumont building sat between banks of trees on the edge of its fifteen well-tended acres. There were a dozen rooms on the first floor. There were commanding views across a car park from one side or rolling fields from the other, depending on how high a premium you'd paid on your health insurance.
He smiled as he walked into reception; said something funny about how cold it was. He received a smile in return and was buzzed through into the lobby. Waiting for the lift, he looked at himself in the highly polished doors. He lowered his hood and pushed a hand through his hair. Took a deep breath.
The place didn't even smell like a hospital.
When he walked into Hodson's room, it didn't surprise him that he wasn't looking out over the car park. Not that he could see a lot: the fields were grey under the charcoal sky, and he could just make out lights a long way in the distance. He thought it might be Watford or Rickmansworth.
There was a noise from the bed.
Hodson was watching MTV. On a television fixed high up in the corner of the room, some rap star or other was showing the cameras around his house. There was a pool table with gold-coloured baize and a plasma screen ten feet across.
He walked around the bed, took the remote from the small table and turned off the television.
It wasn't exactly recognition in Hodson's eyes, he could-n't say that, but there was curiosity, certainly. Drugged up to the eyeballs as he was, it
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