From the Dead

TWENTY

'There's so much to do,' she said. 'To be organised and what have you. I haven't even had the chance to go to the shops yet or cook anything and the house is a pigsty. I wish you'd let me make some tea or something. I could easily nip down to the end of the road and pick up some cake…'

Pat Cook stopped, the thought trailing away as though she had just remembered something, and turned to look at the woman sitting next to her on the sofa. She seemed surprised to see the local WPC – sent to stay overnight and by her side ever since – and shook her head. For a moment or two, she appeared to be trying to work out what the woman, and two other police officers, were doing in her front room.

At least one of those officers was not entirely sure himself.

'Honestly,' Thorne said. 'We're fine.'

It was Monday lunchtime, but the curtains were drawn at the large windows and the only light struggled from behind the fringed, brown shade of a standard lamp. Pat Cook wore a padded blue housecoat and was clutching what looked like a man's pyjama jacket. She spoke slowly, each thought an effort, like someone who was not quite awake yet.

'Did you get any kind of a look at the car?' Andy Boyle asked. He was standing near the door, a similar position to the one he had taken when he and Thorne had interviewed Jeremy Grover. Thorne wondered if he did it deliberately, if it was some kind of status thing. 'The make or the colour?'

'It was dark,' Pat Cook said. 'And it was all so quick.'

'Not even when it was driving away? A glimpse of the number plate, maybe?'

'I wasn't watching the car, I was watching Howard. He seemed to roll over and over, for ages. Then, when he stopped, I could just see the door lying beyond him in the grass.' She turned to look at the WPC. 'It took the door clean off the car, did you know that?' The WPC nodded, confirmed gently that she did. 'I was looking at it, lying there all twisted, and I was thinking that they'd have one hell of a job to fix it back on the car. It's ridiculous, now I come to think about it. Don't you think that's ridiculous?'

'It's not ridiculous,' Thorne said.

He knew from experience that the strangest thoughts could fly into people's heads at the most extreme moments. He remembered a woman who had taken a carving knife to her husband and would not stop talking about how bad she felt for ruining his favourite shirt. A father whose young son had been the innocent victim of a drive-by shooting who became obsessed with finding the football his son had had with him at the time. 'It was his best ball,' the man kept saying. 'He would have been so upset if that had gone missing.'

'Could you even see if the car had one occupant or two?' Boyle asked.

As inconspicuously as possible, Thorne rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and loosened his collar. The room was far too hot, but none of the visitors had been brave enough to make any comment.

'I didn't see anything.'

Thorne found himself wondering if Howard Cook had been the one responsible for turning the radiators down; the one who complained about it being too stuffy and marched around the house adjusting the thermostat and throwing open windows. Thorne had yet to encounter a couple who agreed about such things.

Boyle asked a few more questions about the incident, but Thorne knew that it was all academic. The car would almost certainly have been stolen and, when it finally turned up, they would be very lucky if it yielded anything remotely useful. Based on the pattern of the inquiry thus far, even if they were to get super -lucky and pull in whoever was responsible, they would probably not be able to identify the third party who paid them to murder Howard Cook. Thorne knew who was ultimately responsible, of course, and he had it on very good authority that this was a man who considered all eventualities. These would surely include the arrest and questioning of the people he hired.

'It's to do with his job, isn't it?' Pat Cook asked suddenly. 'The money.'

Boyle took half a step away from the door. 'What about it?'

'When I asked him, and this is going back to last year now, he said he was doing a lot more overtime.' She shook her head at what she clearly believed was the littlest and whitest of lies. 'But I knew all his comings and goings, because I always cooked for him, always had a hot meal ready, you know? I knew his hours better than he did and it wasn't overtime.'

'What did you think it was, then?' Thorne asked.

'I knew it… wasn't overtime.'

Thorne nodded. 'So, how did you become aware of it?'

'A few little things, really. He bought me one of them TENS machines for the arthritis, and an orthopaedic bed, one of those as goes up and down. And they're not cheap. I checked. When the service was due on the car, there was none of the usual moaning, you know? Because they'll rob you blind, those garages, won't they? Crooked, the lot of them.'

Thorne and Boyle exchanged a look. The death of her husband had clearly not quite sunk in yet, so irony would almost certainly be lost on her.

'So you just accepted it? You didn't say anything?'

'I as good as forgot about it, tell you the truth. Howard always looked after things financially. He didn't like me to worry.'

I bet he didn't, Thorne thought.

'The bills were paid, we had our holidays. Everything went on as normal, you know?'

'Did you ever see him with anyone suspicious?' Boyle asked.

Pat Cook seemed to find that pretty funny. 'He was a prison officer, love,' she said. 'He spent eight hours a day with some of the most suspicious characters you'd ever come across.'

'Right…'

Once again, Thorne wondered what Andy Boyle was expecting: Oh, yes, come to think of it, there was this one man… very shifty-looking he was, making sure nobody was watching, then slipping Howard this big brown envelope bulging with cash. Funny, because I didn't really think anything of it at the time…

'So, what now?' she said.

'Well, we'll do everything we can to bring those responsible for your husband's death to justice…' It was the start of a small speech that Thorne had made many times before, one that he knew sounded convincing, but he stopped when he saw Pat Cook shaking her head.

'No, love, I mean about Howard.' She folded her hands together in her lap. ' Now, will you leave him be?'

Afterwards, Andy Boyle drove them into Wakefield, then on to where his team was based in a sprawl of interconnected units on an industrial estate to the south of the city. Police facilities were rarely beautiful, but this one was grimmer than most, making Becke House seem positively charming by comparison. Thorne wondered if each force had some kind of exclusive deal with the same people who designed slaughter-houses and multi-storey car parks. Did these places really need to be quite so dismal? He wasn't holding out for thatched roofs or artfully incorporated water features, but Jesus… wasn't the job bad enough already?

It could hardly help the cause if those doing it felt depressed just walking into the place.

Thorne said as much on their way in, but the Yorkshireman said he'd never really thought about it and didn't give a toss either way. Thorne asked if he'd heard of sick-building syndrome, but Boyle just shook his head and led him into the incident room, gesturing towards the dozen or so men and women who were busy at cluttered work-stations.

'Sick- bastard syndrome, more like,' he said, pleased with himself. 'You want to hear some of the stuff this lot come out with.'

As he was being introduced, Thorne could see that, for all the curmudgeonly posturing, Boyle was not only proud of his team but rather fond of most of them. Certainly more fond than Thorne was of some he had the misfortune to be working with.

He was also struck, as he had been in similar situations before, by how coppers brought together in teams always seemed to fall into distinct and recognisable categories. There were the can-do types and the moaners. There were arse-lickers, loners and thugs. Thorne recognised an Yvonne Kitson and a couple of Dave Hollands and after a few bad jokes and off-colour comments, was able to identify the team's Samir Karim. Having spoken to almost everyone, he was unsure which of those he had met was the closest approximation to himself. He wondered if it might be Andy Boyle, but even as he considered it his eyes drifted towards a surly DS who was sitting slightly away from the others. He had just grunted when Thorne was introduced and then turned back to his computer screen. He seemed vaguely disturbed.

Thorne spoke to the officers responsible for looking into the financial affairs of Howard Cook and Jeremy Grover and was told much the same story he had heard already from Andy Boyle. Almost certainly cash. No paper trail so far.

'Buggers aren't daft,' one of them said.

Thorne remembered what Pat Cook had said to him before they left – the plea on behalf of her husband. He had dodged the question, unwilling to tell the painful truth. The fact was, though, until they had something – anything – better to go on, they would not leave him be.

'Keep digging,' he told the officers.

He made a small speech, outlining how the inquiry was developing from the London end. As far as tracing Alan Langford went, they were following up promising leads, but they still needed all the help they could get. 'When it comes down to it,' he said, 'the work you are doing up here is likely to prove crucial in gaining a conviction.'

'Stirring stuff,' Boyle said, when Thorne had finished. 'You'll make brass one of these days.'

'Over my dead body,' Thorne said.

'Talking of which…' Boyle nodded towards a tall man in an expensive suit who was striding towards them. He muttered, 'Here we bloody go…' then smiled and introduced Detective Chief Inspector Roger Smiley.

The DCI failed miserably to live up to his name as he shook Thorne's hand and told him how pleased he was with the way their two forces were working together. Thorne did his best to look as though he were paying attention and formulated an instant opinion. Same rank as Brigstocke, but probably not a Brigstocke. Way too much formality and, thankfully, no card tricks.

'We like to think that we can stay as ahead of the curve as you boys down south,' Smiley said. 'That's right, isn't it, Andy?'

'Spot on,' Boyle said, looking as if he hadn't the faintest notion of what or where this curve might be.

'So, we're particularly proud that this inquiry is such a good example of the CRISP initiative in action.'

' Which initiative?' Thorne asked.

Smiley finally smiled. 'The Cross-Regional Information Sharing Project.'

'Yes, well, it's a shining example.' No, not a Brigstocke, Thorne decided. Definitely a complete and utter Jesmond.

'I'm sure you've got plenty to be getting on with,' Smiley said. 'Andy can sort you out with an office, if you need one.'

Thorne thanked him, said he wasn't planning to hang around too long, but an office for an hour or two would be nice. When Smiley had left, Thorne turned to Andy Boyle. ' CRISP? Is he having a laugh?'

'Does he look like the type?'

'Sometimes I think they come up with these half-arsed schemes just to fit the stupid bloody initials.'

'I suggested one of my own the other day,' Boyle said. 'The National Unified Tactical Service. Told him that way he could have CRISPS and NUTS.'

Thorne laughed.

'Didn't even crack his face,' Boyle said.

By the end of the day, Thorne had spent a couple of hours in a poky office, reading through everything that the West Yorkshire team had put together in the wake of the Paul Monahan murder and in the few hours since Howard Cook's. All information pertaining to the investigation would be accessible from London via a shared-database system, but it made sense for Thorne to review the material while those who had compiled it were on hand to answer any questions.

As it was, nothing worried or excited him.

Building a case, some called it, though the likes of Jesmond and Smiley probably had a far more convoluted description. To Thorne's mind, nobody was building much of anything, although that was understandable, given that they lacked most of the necessary materials and had no clear idea of what was being built.

Get Alan Langford. For Thorne, it had already become that simple.

And find his daughter.

He called and left a message for Louise, to let her know that he would be leaving soon and that, barring delays on the train, he should be back in time for a late dinner. He offered to pick up a curry on the way back from King's Cross.

He was ready to go and reaching for his jacket when he changed his mind and went back to the desk. He picked up the phone and called Donna Langford.

'What the hell do you want?'

'How's everything with you and Kate?' he asked.

'What do you care?'

'I care enough to ask, obviously.'

'We're beating seven bells out of each other. We're not talking. I'm moving out. Which of those would you like best? Which one would give you the biggest stiffy?'

'You're being stupid, Donna.'

'Look, it's not exactly love's young dream at the minute. Let's leave it there, shall we?'

'Kate had nothing to do with Ellie going missing,' Thorne said. 'You need to know that.'

There was a pause. 'So, why bring up all that ancient history the other day? Talking about what Kate did twenty years ago.'

'I was just trying to shake things up, all right?'

' Shake things up? '

'Pushing buttons, trying to find out what happened. It's what I laughably call "my job".' Thorne pulled across a piece of paper, grabbed a pen and began to doodle. 'I didn't mean to stir it up between the pair of you.'

'Now you're really taking the piss,' she said.

'OK, I knew it might, but that wasn't why I did it. That's what I'm trying to say.'

'This is all well and good, but I don't hear you saying sorry.'

Thorne had already got as close to an apology as he was planning. 'Look, you must have known when you started this that there might be some… pain down the line.'

'I didn't start anything.'

'Whatever, you know what I mean.' Thorne was actually dating things back to the receipt of the first photograph, and though it was a possibility he had briefly considered, he did not think Donna Langford had sent the photographs to herself. 'Since this thing started then…'

'I never thought it would be plain sailing,' she said. 'I'm not an idiot.'

'Two people dead is certainly not "plain sailing", Donna.'

Thorne got the silence he had expected. The incident in Kirkthorpe had yet to make the news. Donna knew about the murder of the hit man she had hired a decade ago, but she could not possibly know what had happened to the prison officer who had been an accessory to it. He heard a cigarette being lit.

'Who else?' she asked quietly.

'I can't go into the details, but I think it's safe to say that your ex-husband knows people are looking for him.'

'Jesus…'

'Which is why I want you to call Anna Carpenter and tell her you're not employing her any more.'

'It's a free country, isn't it? If I want to pay her and she wants the money-'

'Listen, we've both been around the block a few times, OK?' Thorne pressed the pen hard against the page, going over the same shape time and time again. 'We both know exactly what Alan Langford might do if he's threatened, what he's already done, and for various reasons neither of us has much say about whether we get involved or not. I want to put him away and you want your daughter back. But whatever Anna thinks she wants, she's not up to any of this. She's not much older than your daughter, for God's sake.'

The sigh was filled with smoke. 'Fine, I'll talk to her,' Donna said.

'Thank you.'

Ten seconds went by before Donna said, 'What are they like? The people who had Ellie.'

It took Thorne a moment to realise that she was asking about the Munros. 'They're nice,' he said.

'That's good.'

'And every bit as worried as you are.'

There was not too much else to say, and once Thorne had said he'd call again to see how the conversation with Anna went, Donna hung up. He sat back in his chair, thinking that a drink would be nice. That Kate and Donna seemed a solid enough couple to deal with the trouble he'd caused between them. That, despite Kate's past, she was by far the more straightforward of the pair.

He picked up the piece of paper and stared down at his scribbles: a house; a boat with an enormous sun overhead; a woman sitting in a car. Then he screwed up the page and dropped it in the bin on his way back to the incident room.

He found Andy Boyle at the photocopier, asked if there was anyone available to run him to the station. Boyle said he would do it himself. Then, 'Actually, I was wondering what you had on later.'

Thorne hesitated. He was about to trot out the paperwork excuse he'd used on Anna the day before, but Boyle did not give him the chance.

'I thought you might fancy a bite to eat.'

'Well… maybe we could grab something quick near the station,' Thorne said.

'I don't mean anything fancy. I've got a huge pot of stew in the fridge, that's all.'

'Oh.' Thorne realised he was being invited back to Boyle's house. 'Well, thanks, Andy, but I should probably be getting back. And anyway, I don't want to intrude.'

'No intrusion, pal.' Boyle leaned back against the photocopier. 'I could do with the company, to be honest, and the stew needs eating.'

Thorne glanced at Boyle's wedding ring. 'Right. I just presumed. ..'

Boyle looked at the ring himself, admiring it as though he had never seen it before. 'She passed away a couple of years ago.'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's a pretty decent stew, if I do say so myself.'

'I'm sure,' Thorne said.

'She taught me how to cook all sorts of things, those last few months.'