From The Dead (24 page)

‘Here or there?’

‘There.’

‘Good,’ Thorne said. ‘They provide a better class of biscuit.’

Brigstocke pointed at the sheet. ‘Actually, they seemed to think this was a bloody good start. Better than the information you got off your mate Brand, at any rate. None of those names led anywhere.’

‘This truly is some of the finest police work it’s ever been my privilege to witness, Russell,’ Thorne said, waving the piece of paper. ‘Seriously, I really don’t know how you’re ever going to top it.’

‘Yeah, all right.’

‘Maybe you can pull a few coins out of your backside or something . . .’

Brigstocke wandered over to his desk. ‘How come you’re so bloody chirpy all of a sudden? You looked like shit when you came in.’

‘Early start.’

‘Taking out your bad mood on that new girl.’

‘She’s
good
,’ Thorne said.

‘Glad you think so. Because, providing you haven’t scared her off already, we might get to keep her when this is all over.’

‘I’ll have a word,’ Thorne said. ‘Show her my charming, funny side. I think she’s a bit in love with me already, to be honest.’

‘You might want to calm down a bit first . . .’

In the quarter of an hour since the briefing had ended, Thorne had necked three cups of strong coffee and he was feeling good and buzzy. Just before going in to see Brigstocke he had found two minutes to text Andy Boyle. To thank him for his hospitality, to rave once again about the stew, and, most importantly, to suggest a new acronym to try out on his boss. A specialist unit for the investigation of contract murders.

Tactical Operations, Tasking And Logistics of Covert Organised Criminal Killings.

Or
TOTAL
COCK
.

‘Try and hold on to that good mood for a while longer, will you?’ Brigstocke said. ‘I had half an hour on the phone with our beloved chief superintendent this morning.’

The buzz began to wear off fast. ‘I’m all ears,’ Thorne said.

‘Jesmond is making this a high priority now, which is why getting more resources is not a problem. He’s fired up.’

‘Oh, God help us.’

‘With
certain
high-profile cases having gone against us recently, he wants to make sure this one turns out the right way.’ Brigstocke ploughed on, talking over Thorne’s attempts to interrupt, using his fingers to form quotation marks. ‘He told me he wants us to “bounce back”. That “not getting a result isn’t an option” any more. Something like that.’

‘What happened to keeping this “low key”?’ Thorne mimicked the use of air quotes.

‘All gone out of the window now a prison officer’s been killed. He reckons the media’s going to be all over it . . . and he’s probably right.’

‘Can’t we quietly let the media know that Cook was on the take?’

‘Do we have proof of that yet?’

‘Come on, Russell . . .’

‘Jesmond also seems to think putting that information in the press might tip Langford off that we’re on to him.’

Thorne didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or bang his head against the wall. So he settled for raising his voice. ‘I think the fact that Langford has had two men killed in the last week might indicate that he already knows, don’t you?’

Brigstocke raised a hand to make it clear that he agreed, but he did not appreciate being shouted at. Thorne mumbled an apology.

‘What’s happening with Anna Carpenter?’ Brigstocke asked.

‘What do you mean, “happening”?’

The hand was raised in warning again. ‘Since things have got a bit more . . . serious, Jesmond is even more keen that we try to keep a lid on the mistakes we made ten years ago.’

‘Which “mistakes”?’

‘We’ve been through this, Tom,’ Brigstocke said. ‘I’m just telling you that he wants us to cooperate fully with
anyone
who has access to that information. Donna Langford, Miss Carpenter . . .’

‘Still afraid they’ll go running to the papers?’

‘Nobody likes bad press, do they?’

However the case turned out, Thorne had no idea what Donna Langford might do down the line, and he found it hard to believe that Anna would ever sell the story. ‘I’ve already spoken to Donna,’ he said. ‘Told her to tell Anna she doesn’t want her involved any more.’

‘Because . . . ?’

‘Because
I
don’t want her involved any more. This has gone way beyond spying on unfaithful husbands.’

Brigstocke nodded. ‘No room for amateurs.’

‘Plenty of those around already.’

‘OK, well, I’m just passing on what Jesmond said. I’ll leave you to think about the best way to handle it.’

Thorne said he would, though in truth he had been thinking of little else all day

Back in his office, Thorne tried hard to clear his desk and caught up with Yvonne Kitson. She asked what he thought of the new girl and he told her about the evening he’d spent at Andy Boyle’s place. Just as he was thinking of heading out for his meeting at
SOCA
, a call from Julian Munro was put through.

For a moment or two, Thorne thought that Munro might have remembered something; that he was calling with some vital, new piece of information.

‘I just wanted to see how things were going,’ Munro said. ‘See if you’d made any progress, you know?’

Thorne raised his eyebrows at Kitson. ‘Obviously, we’ll let you know if there’s any news, sir, but you need to know we’re doing everything we can.’

‘OK,’ Munro said. ‘Thanks.’ Then he cleared his throat. ‘So, what would you say are the chances? I mean, do you think . . . ?’

‘I’m hopeful,’ Thorne said.

He would not normally have come out with something so optimistic. You always tried to keep things upbeat with the relatives, of course, but it made sense to keep your powder dry as much as possible. Generally, it was no more advisable to say, ‘Don’t worry, she is definitely alive,’ than it would be to draw a finger across your throat and mutter darkly, ‘Brown bread, mate, no question about it.’

I’m hopeful
. . .

And he was. It had already struck Thorne that he was not thinking as much about Ellie Langford as he might otherwise have expected. Not with an eighteen-year-old girl missing, her foster parents bereft, the birth mother distraught. In fact, he was still thinking far more about Andrea Keane, a girl he had long since given up for dead.

But he thought he knew why.

He had come to believe that Donna Langford was right and that her ex-husband had taken their daughter. It was the only logical explanation for her sudden disappearance, coming as it did within weeks of the first photograph arriving. And if it
were
the case, Langford had surely been trying to hurt Donna and not Ellie. He was a man who would do whatever was necessary to survive and prosper, who could order the execution of others and who could stand by, so Thorne was starting to think, and watch while someone burned alive. But Thorne was not convinced that he would deliberately harm his own daughter.

He could only hope that this atypical bout of optimism was not just Anna Carpenter’s naivete starting to rub off on him.

The London headquarters of the Serious Organised Crime Agency was on the south side of the river, near Vauxhall Bridge, a stone’s throw from MI6, in a cream brick and glass building that looked out across the water towards Millbank. The
IRA
had fired missiles at the complex in 2000, and rumours persisted of a secret network of tunnels that ran beneath the Thames to Whitehall.

Becke House was far less interesting, Thorne reckoned, but probably a whole lot safer.

Walking from the tube station at Vauxhall, he called Gary Brand.

‘You remember Trevor Jesmond?’

‘Bloody hell, don’t tell me you’re still stuck with that wanker.’

‘Afraid so.’

‘I’m amazed he hasn’t been beaten to death, or had a truncheon stuck where the sun don’t shine.’

‘I’ve thought about it,’ Thorne said, before running Brand through the latest piece of Jesmond double-think, giving vent to a good deal of bottled-up aggression as he did so. Though Brigstocke was usually on Thorne’s side where such things were concerned, it felt good to cut loose with someone who had no need to be diplomatic.

‘I heard about the prison officer,’ Brand said.

‘Cook. Right . . .’

‘Sounds like it’s all getting seriously nasty.’

‘Like you said, “can of worms”.’

‘Snakes, more like.’

‘It’s starting to look that way.’

The sky was a wash of grey, but the sun was struggling through in places and, walking north along the Albert Embankment, Thorne could see the top half of the London Eye beyond Lambeth Bridge, with the spires of Westminster just visible a mile or so away on the other side of the river. The spooks certainly had a decent view, he decided, when they weren’t busy keeping the free world safe. Or whatever.

‘Where are you?’ Brand asked. ‘Sounds like you’re out and about.’

Thorne told Brand about his appointment with
SOCA
. Brand said that he hoped Thorne was ready to be talked down to, and asked if he had struck lucky with any of the names he had given him. Thorne told Brand that none of them had connected with Alan Langford thus far.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Brand said. ‘It was the best I could come up with in a hurry. You want me to keep digging?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m hoping these high-fliers at
SOCA
will have found something.’

‘They’ll make you kiss their arses before they give it to you, though.’

‘I think my DCI’s already done that for me.’

‘So, you around for a pint later?’ Brand asked. ‘Sounds like you might need one.’

‘Sorry, I’m at my girlfriend’s place tonight.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

‘Russian mail-order kind of thing, was it?’

‘Actually, she’s Job.’

Brand laughed. Said, ‘Good luck with
that
.’

Five minutes later, Thorne had passed through a rigorous security check and was presenting his warrant card to the bored-looking woman at a large reception desk. Behind her on the wall was a huge picture of a big cat – a jaguar, maybe, or a puma – its claws and fangs bared as it leapt across a stylised silver globe. The
SOCA
logo was presumably meant to show that the agency was fierce and powerful, that it had teeth, but Thorne thought it looked like something from the kids’ TV show
Thundercats
which he remembered from the eighties.

‘Take a seat,’ the receptionist said.

The cushion of the black leather sofa settled beneath him with a soft hiss as Thorne sat back to wait in a lobby that would not have disgraced a five-star hotel. The effects of his morning coffee-fest had worn off hours ago and he was starting to feel sleepy again, and desperate for a hot shower. He made sure that the receptionist saw him looking at his watch, that she knew someone was late and that it wasn’t him. He turned to look at the pictures on the wall behind him – splashes of brown and cream in random patterns – and flicked aimlessly through one of the magazines spread out on the glass-topped coffee table.

But he was unable to stop thinking about something Gary Brand had said. The phrase bounced around inside Thorne’s head as he sat and waited and tried to stay awake.

Snakes, more like
.

She caught the train from Waterloo, walked from the station and stopped when she reached the water mill. She sat on one of several benches, each with a small plaque inscribed in memory of someone who had loved the river or the view of it, ate the sandwich she’d brought with her from home and watched the house.

It was as good a place as any to spend an afternoon.

Initially, Anna had been reluctant to let her have the address, but once Donna had pointed out that she was still the agency’s client and paying for the privilege, the girl had given her what she wanted. Then Donna had done what Thorne had asked her to do and dispensed with Anna’s services.

That had not been the easiest of conversations.

The house was not as old as she’d been expecting, having got it into her head that the Munros lived in some kind of listed country mansion or other. It was big, though, with a good-sized front garden and pillars on the porch. There was plenty of space around it and she imagined a large garden at the back, sweeping away in perfect stripes from a sunlit patio, with access to fields beyond or at least a view of them.

That was what she’d wished for, what she’d wished for Ellie, during all those years inside.

A car was parked on the drive, a Volvo, but Donna had no idea if there was anybody inside the house. She finished her sandwich and continued to watch, and just once or twice she thought she saw movement. A shadow, a shape moving past an upstairs window. She had some notion that husband and wife both worked. If that were the case, then one or other of them would be home soon enough, but she was not sure if she would wait that long, if she wanted to see them.

After all, how would seeing them help?

Everything about Maggie and Julian Munro provoked strong, conflicting emotions that defined her for long and painful days on end. They made her a nightmare to live with, she was certain of that, and she was constantly amazed that Kate had not given her up as a bad lot a long time ago.

She was grateful for the home these people had given Ellie and she hated them for it. She was happy that her little girl had made them the family they wanted to be and she bitterly resented every moment they had spent with her. She understood their misery and she revelled in it, for it was not and could never be as real, as
valid
, as her own.

Donna stared at the Munros’ house, as fine and cold in its way as the one in which she had once lived, and imagined a couple inside, awake in the early hours and driven apart by despair. One hunched over a polished kitchen table and the other alone upstairs, weeping into her pillow, while the space between them that was Ellie’s absence grew bigger and darker by the day.

Ellie
Langford
, not
Munro
. Her name.

As Donna watched, the pillars on either side of the porch began to blur and swim as her eyes filled with water.