From the Dead (2010)

by Mark Billingham

  'Somewhere else you'd like to be?' Thorne asked. He took off his jacket, laid it across the back of a chair. Anna did the same.

  'Got a class.'

  Thorne nodded. It looked like he, rather than Gary Brand, had been closer to the mark when it came to guessing at Monahan's prison hobbies. That said, it might have been a class in cage fighting. Like most prisons, aside from a bewildering assortment of treatment programmes, Wakefield had an enormous range of activities and educational opportunities on offer. Thorne happened to know for example that those working in the engineering workshop spent their time making security gates, grilles and fencing. Even he had to admit that sounded like taking the piss. 'I thought you might have a hot date.'

  'You were funny as cancer ten years ago,' Monahan said. 'You've not got any funnier.'

  'Nice to see you again, too.'

  Monahan looked at Anna for the first time. 'Who's this?'

  'Detective Carpenter,' Thorne said. Not a lie. Not exactly. He saw Monahan's eyes wander across Anna's body, lingering where they shouldn't. 'Let's crack on, shall we? Seeing as you're so busy.'

  Monahan shrugged, leaned back.

  'You know your former employer's out and about, don't you?' Thorne let it hang for a few seconds. 'I'm talking about Donna Langford, obviously.'

  Another shrug. Monahan might have known, or known and not cared.

  'Sorry, when I said "employer", did you think I meant Alan Langford?'

  The hesitation was brief, but it was enough. 'Why would I think that?'

  'Well, you did some work for him too, once upon a time. Before Donna hired you, I mean.'

  'So?'

  'So, I'm just trying to avoid any confusion.'

  'You're the one who's confused, pal. How can he be out and about anywhere?'

  'Of course. He's dead meat, isn't he?' Thorne shook his head in mock-annoyance at his own mock-idiocy. 'Seriously overdone meat, now I think about it, but certainly dead. Stupid mistake on my part. Don't know what I was thinking.' He looked hard at Monahan, watched the eyes move back to Anna.

  Less about lust this time. More an attempt to change the way the conversation was heading.

  'Isn't it kind of annoying?' Thorne asked. 'Donna on the out while you're still stuck in here, doing your GCSEs or whatever.'

  'Not thought about it,' Monahan said.

  'I don't think I believe you.'

  'Believe what you like.'

  'Not that you've done yourself a lot of favours, mind you. All that extra time getting whacked on to your sentence. Assaulting prison guards, trashing your cell . . .'

  'Why should you care?'

  'I couldn't give a toss, but it's not clever, is it?'

  'I get wound up.'

  'You must love that Seg Unit.'

  Monahan's head dropped a little, one hand pulling at the fingers of the other. 'Can't do anything about it.'

  'What have you got, another seven or eight years, minimum?'

  A nod. His chin inching closer to his chest.

  Thorne was about to speak again when Anna cut in. 'Sounds like it could get a whole lot longer if you're not careful,' she said. If she was aware of the hard look Thorne gave her, she chose to ignore it. 'You need to sort yourself out.'

  Monahan raised his head, sniffed. After a few seconds he looked away from Anna, sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Cocksure again and waiting for them to get to whatever it was they had come such a long way to talk to him about.

  'There are ways to reduce your sentence,' Thorne said. 'Radical idea, I know.'

  Monahan smiled thinly, with just a hint of prison teeth. 'Getting to it now, are we? What you actually want.'

  'What? We can't just pop in to see how you are?'

  'Like I said, funny as cancer.'

  'It's really no big thing,' Thorne said. 'Just a little help with a murder we're trying to solve. Not even that, actually, because we know very well who the murderer is. It's more a question of trying to identify the victim.'

  'Why should I know anything?'

  'Well, because it was you that handcuffed the poor bastard to the wheel of that Jag and set fire to it.'

  Monahan stared for a few seconds, then began to shake his head and show a few more teeth. 'You're mental, you know that?'

  'Barking,' Thorne said. 'Completely off my trolley. But let's see just how mad I am, shall we? I mean, let's think for a minute about how this might have panned out. I'm guessing that Alan found out what his dearly beloved was up to. Overheard her on the phone or talking in her sleep, it doesn't really matter. Then he comes to you before you get a chance to do what she's paid you for and makes you a better offer.'

  Monahan looked at Anna, nodded towards Thorne. 'Who did you piss off to get stuck with him?'

  'So, you had to find someone to take his place,' Thorne said. 'Did you do that or did Alan find someone? Had to be someone roughly the same height and general appearance, I suppose. Not that it really mattered by the time you'd finished with him.'

  Monahan was still looking at Anna. 'Seriously, love, you want to put in for a transfer.'

  'Thanks, I'll bear it in mind,' she said. 'Now tell us who you got to replace Alan Langford in that car.'

  Thorne turned, ready with another hard stare of admonishment. Then he saw the look on Anna's face, and Monahan's reaction to her simple, straightforward question, and decided to save it for later.

  Monahan composed himself. Took a deep breath. 'Alan Langford is dead, OK? Jesus, why do you think I'm in here? His missus paid me to get rid of him and I did what I was good at back then. Fair enough?'

  'Well, it would be,' Thorne said. 'If I hadn't just seen a photo of Mr Langford looking ever so well.' Monahan swallowed and looked away. 'He's alive and kicking, Paul, and we all know it.'

  'So, no need for any more bullshit,' Anna said.

  Thorne nodded, sat back. 'Yep, that's another one on the out, getting himself a very nice suntan while you're rotting in here, the colour of a manky spud. I mean, we've got to presume he's been making it worth your while all these years, you saying nothing. Something nice to look forward to when you come out, I shouldn't wonder. And he's probably taking care of your nearest and dearest, right? Keeping up the mortgage payments, all that.'

  'This is stupid,' Monahan said quietly. 'You're the ones who are bullshitting.'

  'Has it really been worth it, though?' Thorne almost sounded as if he meant it. 'I mean, you've already been in here a good long while, no matter how much you might cop for when you get out.'

  Monahan stared above their heads, chewed at something.

  'You've got a son, haven't you?' Anna asked.

  Thorne took the cue without a beat. 'What is he now, mid-twenties?'

  'Be nice to get out that bit sooner and see him,' Anna said. 'Don't you reckon?'

  Monahan reddened, and as his hands tightened around the arm of his chair, in the few seconds before he dragged himself closer to the table, it was easy to see why he had spent so much time in segregation. He leaned towards Anna and whispered, 'I reckon that I'll be thinking about you a bit later.' His hand dropped to his groin and squeezed. 'When I'm lying on my bunk with my cock in my hand.'

  Anna moved closer to him. 'That's nice to know, because I'll be thinking about you too, Paul.'

  Thorne raised a hand. 'Anna . . .'

  If there were any nerves left, she showed no sign of them. 'And I'll be having a good laugh, because I'll just have been shagged stupid by a bloke who can do whatever he wants, whenever he fancies it, and doesn't have to shit in a bucket.' Her smile developed as quickly as Monahan's disappeared. 'But you go ahead and enjoy yourself too.'

  Monahan stood up quickly and Thorne moved with him, ready to step in if need be. For a moment, it looked as though Monahan might snap, but then he sucked his teeth and grinned, as though it had been no more than a cosy chinwag, before turning and walking to the door.

  A guard appeared and Monahan told him that he was done.

  'Have
fun in class,' Thorne said.

  EIGHT

  They caught the two-thirty train back to London. As soon as they were settled in a relatively quiet carriage, Thorne gave Anna a ten-pound note and sent her to the buffet car for hot drinks and sandwiches. Once she had gone, he phoned Brigstocke.

  'Well, I don't think we were telling Monahan anything he didn't know,' Thorne said.

  'Other than the fact that we know.'

  'Right.'

  'That shake him?'

  'I think so. We'll need to come back at some point, have another crack at him, but in the meantime we can gather a bit of ammunition. We need to look at his family. Get their bank statements, check out new cars they shouldn't be able to afford, where they've been going on their holidays, usual stuff.'

  'I don't think it'll be as simple as that,' Brigstocke said. 'Probably all done in cash, nothing that can be traced.'

  'You never know,' Thorne said. 'Give some people more than they're used to and there's always some idiot who can't resist flashing it around. The main thing is that word gets back to Monahan. As long as he knows we're looking, putting on the pressure, he won't be quite so cocky next time we come to visit.'

  'Course, he might not know much,' Brigstocke said. 'If Langford organised that side of it, he might have decided that the less people who knew the better.'

  'Monahan knows something that's worth paying for. He could have made some sort of deal ten years ago, told us the truth and got himself a shorter sentence, but he swallowed it. Langford obviously promised him a decent whack in exchange for keeping his mouth shut, and I don't think he would have done that unless Monahan knew something . . . dangerous.'

  'Like who was really in that Jag.'

  'I reckon.'

  Brigstocke told Thorne that he'd set up a meeting with somebody from the Serious and Organised Crime Agency, because trying to build a case against Alan Langford was likely to involve them at some point. They had departments that could uncover any financial irregularities or examine in forensic detail the business dealings that Langford - or whatever he was calling himself these days - had been engaged in since his 'death'. SOCA had money and manpower, but was not always easy to deal with and moved notoriously slowly.

  'Be a damn sight simpler for everyone if we could just nail him for murder,' Brigstocke said.

  'I'm doing my best,' Thorne said.

  'And there's the small matter of finding him . . .' Again, Brigstocke explained that SOCA would have far greater resources available than any homicide team when it came to tracing overseas felons, but that they did need to know which country they should start looking in.

  In the absence of the high-tech photographic facility Anna Carpenter had been talking about, Thorne had sent copies of the Langford photographs to a man he hoped would be able to help. Dennis Bethell was an informant of many years' standing. He was also something of a genius when it came to cameras and film development, albeit one who chose to use his talent in the production of hardcore pornography.

  'I've told Dennis we're in a hurry,' Thorne said.

  'How were things with your new partner?' Brigstocke asked.

  'We need to have words.'

  'That good, eh?'

  When Thorne spotted Anna on her way back from the buffet car, he told Brigstocke that they were about to go into a tunnel, that he'd give him the details next time he saw him. Brigstocke told him not to bother coming back to the office, so Thorne agreed to call him from home.

  'Have fun with young Miss Marple,' Brigstocke said.

  Thorne took his tea and sandwiches and swore loudly enough to provoke disgusted looks from the elderly couple across the aisle when Anna told him there was no change from his tenner. He sugared his tea and lowered his voice and said, 'So, what the hell was all that about back there?'

  'All what?'

  'I told you not to say anything.'

  'Come on, I couldn't just sit there like a plank,' Anna said. 'It would have looked really strange.'

  'I don't care how it would have looked. I was there to question a potentially crucial witness and you were there to observe, that's all. I did not want you chipping in.'

  'I thought we made a good team.'

  'We're not any sort of team,' Thorne said.

  'Whatever.'

  'And what was all that stuff about his son?'

  'That worked. You know it did. It got a reaction.'

  'It's about getting the right reaction.' Thorne's voice was loud enough to have attracted the attention of the elderly couple again, but he was past caring. 'You were there as a courtesy, and you abused that.'

  'Sorry--'

  'It won't be happening again.'

  'I said I'm sorry.'

  Thorne sat back and bit into his sandwich. He lifted the bread and peered down at the sliver of sweating ham. Rain was starting to streak the window, and the countryside moved past in blocks of brown and grey.

  'Maybe you've got a problem working with women,' Anna said.

  Thorne swallowed quickly. 'What?'

  'Some blokes do. The bloke I work for certainly does.'

  'We were not working together.'

  'You said that already.'

  Thorne glanced across at the elderly couple and smiled. They both looked away. He lowered his voice. 'Anyway, that's bollocks. I've worked with plenty of women. I still work with plenty of women.'

  'Are you married?'

  'What?'

  'I'm just making conversation. I mean, I presume that woman I met the other night . . .'

  'We just live together,' Thorne said. 'Off and on. I don't mean that the relationship is off and on. I mean . . . we have our own places.'

  'Sensible.'

  'I'm glad you approve.'

  'What does she do?'

  'She's a police officer.' Thorne shoved the remains of his sandwich back into its bag. 'Not that it's any of your business.'

  Anna held up her hands. 'Sorry.' She turned towards the window. 'Again.'

  Thorne wasn't sorry. It had needed saying, all of it. In spite of that, he started to feel a little guilty, watching her stare out at the damp and desolate Yorkshire landscape as the silence grew between them. She looked like a teenager who wanted to be older, trying hard not to show that she cared about being slapped down. She looked thwarted, and Thorne found himself thinking she was probably used to feeling like that. He also found himself wanting to know more about the 'bloke she worked for'. Wishing she would start jabbering again.

  'Look, it was out of order,' he said, 'But you were probably right. That stuff about Monahan's son.'

  She turned from the window.

  'I'm not saying that I'd want you to do it again, OK? But, yes, it seemed to do the trick. It got the right reaction.'

  She mumbled a 'thanks', doing her best not to look as delighted as she clearly was.

  'That little speech at the end was pretty good, too. Were you just winding him up, or . . . ?'

  'Meant every word,' Anna said.

  'Prisoners don't actually shit in buckets any more, but aside from that it was very moving.'

  Thorne had not seen her laugh before, not really. They were the best moments of an average day.

  He wandered into the huge prison kitchen and made straight for the storage room at the far end. A couple of inmates he did not know well clocked him and went back to what they were doing, the less seen or said the better. Eventually, he caught the eye of the trustee he was looking for. He pointed towards the storeroom and patted his pocket. The trustee nodded, silently agreeing to watch the door in return for some future favour.

  The deal was done with just a look, the smallest of gestures.

  He shut the heavy door of the storeroom behind him, sat down alongside a rack of metal shelves stacked with catering-sized cans of soup, tomatoes and kidney beans. He took out the phone. It was small, out of necessity, and a basic model, but he did not need bells and whistles.

  The call was answered quickly.

  'You took you
r time,' the man said.

  'It's the first chance I've had to call.'