From the Dead (2010)

by Mark Billingham

  Thorne put the cards in his pocket, wondering if Yvonne Kitson might be in the market for a hunky plumber/horny housewife DVD. With added cuddling.

  'I'm very discreet.'

  'You couldn't be discreet if your life depended on it,' Thorne said.

  He moved away, stopping at the foot of the stairs and beckoning the seedy accountant across. The man looked nervous but could not resist the invitation. Thorne drew him close then glanced around to check that the coast was clear, before teasingly pulling out one of the photographs of the boat.

  'Look at the mast on that!' he said.

  Friday evening, and the main routes out of the West End were predictably snarled up. Sitting in traffic on Regent Street, Thorne called Brigstocke and told him about the meeting with Bethell. He gave him the registration number of the boat and Brigstocke said he'd get on to it straight away.

  'I wouldn't bank on getting hold of anybody before Monday, though, even if it was a British boat,' the DCI said. 'And we're dealing with the Spanish here, mate. Manana, manana, all that . . .'

  Thorne told him he was a racist and to let him know as soon as he heard anything.

  The BMW moved a few feet forwards, then stopped again. Thorne had tuned into talkSPORT, but was only half listening to a discussion about the following day's football fixtures. Mostly he was thinking about Ellie Langford.

  Had her father really spirited her away to Spain?

  Thorne realised he knew next to nothing about the missing girl. What had her life been like before she disappeared? What had her plans been? She was eighteen. Had she been planning to go to college or did she already have a job? Was there a boyfriend?

  Thorne needed to find out.

  He had managed to get across Oxford Street and was waiting at the traffic lights by Broadcasting House. Drizzle had just begun to fall and some pundit or other was talking about Arsenal's leaky defence when Thorne glanced to his left and saw the woman crying in the car. She had parked twenty yards past the Langham Hotel in a blue Peugeot 405, and at first, Thorne thought she was rocking with laughter at something on the radio or a hands-free call. Then he saw that she was racked with sobs.

  He stared . . .

  After fifteen seconds or so, he began to feel slightly uncomfortable just sitting there and watching her cry, but he could not look away. He felt the urge to pull over to the kerb, to knock on the window and ask if she was all right. But he sensed that she would not welcome the intrusion; that, although she was parked on a busy street, she would have been horrified at the idea that she had been observed.

  He saw her shake her head as though she were arguing with herself, or thought she were being silly.

  He watched her cry and cry and cry.

  As the lights up ahead changed to amber, Thorne saw a girl - fifteen, maybe less - come out of a house a few yards further up the street and run to the car. He guessed that she was the woman's daughter, and that the woman had been waiting for her.

  Was she collecting her from a friend's house? From a party?

  The woman leaned across the front seats to open the door, then turned away quickly as the girl jumped into the car. Rubbed at her face. Not wanting the girl to see her tears, or at least the extent of them.

  It was at that moment, just for a moment, that Thorne caught the woman's eye. Through the rain streaked on his window and on hers, before she turned back to her daughter and Thorne began to pull slowly away.

  For the rest of his journey home, past the Nash terraces on the perimeter of Regent's Park and down Parkway into Camden, he thought about her. Wondering how sudden her collapse had been and if it had happened before. What might make someone sit in a parked car and howl?

  Bad news of some sort. A loss, recent or imminent. A diagnosis . . .

  Or had it been something more general? Something she was stuck with or settling for? Something about which she could do nothing but sit alone and weep in rage and frustration.

  He was still thinking about the woman when he turned off the Kentish Town Road and pulled up outside his flat. He saw Louise's silver Megane parked a few spaces up on the other side of the street. He was about to get out of the car when the text alert sounded on his phone.

  It was a message from Anna Carpenter: Sorry about being upset outside Donna's place earlier. Feeling v. stupid! Please don't think I'm flaky or whatever. I want u to know that I'm up for all this. I'm stronger than I look :0)

  Thorne switched the engine back on. He turned the radio off and the heating up. Then he called her.

  SIXTEEN

  Friday was the biggest night of the week and, as usual, the club was packed. The dance floor was solid. Even though there was barely room to move, sweat glistened on tanned shoulder-blades and showed in dark patches against expensive white and cream linen. He chatted for a few minutes with the owner, a man he had known for almost as long as he had been in the country, necked a bottle of San Miguel at the bar, then took a complimentary bottle of champagne through to the VIP area.

  The gorillas flanking the velvet rope smiled as they let him through and tucked the cash he'd palmed them into their pockets.

  He knew most of those who were already there; exchanged smiles and a handshake or two on his way to one of the booths. There might occasionally be some lower-tier footballer knocking about with a glamour model in tow, or a mainstream comedian scrabbling for the tourist euro, but most of those deemed to be 'very important' in this neck of the woods had earned the label the same way he had.

  There were all sorts of ways to be well known.

  He had arranged to meet Candela here. She liked to dance and he liked to show her off. Theirs was an on/off arrangement, nothing too serious, but he enjoyed her company, loved what she got up to in bed and thought the feeling was mutual. Tonight, they would have dinner and a few drinks before heading back up to the house. They would sleep late, then, after breakfast, he would take her shopping for something nice.

  It was important that some things remained uncomplicated, that a sense of normality was maintained, in spite of what was happening back at home.

  One of the many gorgeous waitresses stopped at the booth to open the champagne and pour him a glass. They chatted for a minute or two. She had got down on her knees for him the previous week, earned a very good tip that night, but he could not remember her name.

  Back at home . . .

  It was funny that he still thought of the UK, of London, as home. Strange, because he wasn't one of those soppy buggers who were forever dreaming about HP Sauce and warm beer. He had happily settled down and got on with his new life, because he'd had no choice. Still, there was an attachment, of course there was, and he wouldn't be human if he didn't miss a few things.

  Strangest of all, though, in spite of everything that had happened - was still happening - he continued to think fondly of Donna.

  He could clearly remember the moment when everything had fallen apart. That helpful voice at the end of a phone: 'I think you should know what your old lady's up to, Alan. Who she's met up with.' At the time, fired up and raging, he had thought about dishing out the same kind of treatment to Donna that Monahan eventually received a couple of days ago, but that would only have aroused suspicion. It might have scuppered all his plans and caused some copper to start looking at things a bit harder.

  He remembered the coverage in the papers after they'd found the car in the woods. The copper in charge: Thorne. He'd looked the type that might have enjoyed a bit of digging.

  So, he'd let the anger go and, in the end, as far as Donna was concerned, he'd almost come to admire what the silly cow had done. To understand it, anyway. All that time dressing up and tagging along after him, playing the dutiful wife like a good girl, she had been learning . . .

  Candela finally appeared looking suitably stunning, and they sat pressed up against each other while she told him about her day. She worked for one of the smartest independent estate agents in the region and was very excited about a Russian businessman who s
eemed keen on one of her luxury villas in the next town.

  'Him and his friends have three viewings,' she said, holding up her fingers.

  Three guesses what kind of business he was in.

  When the champagne was finished, Candela went to dance and he moved to the edge of the floor to watch her. He enjoyed seeing the young men trying to get close and the older ones - all those saddos who thought they could still cut it - with their tongues hanging out. He would never dream of dancing himself, that had never been his game, but he wasn't worried about the competition. Even if some bloke didn't know who she was with and tried to make a move, she wouldn't give him the time of day.

  She knew where her bread was buttered. Besides which, he reckoned he still looked pretty good for his age. He'd had a little work done - some orthodontics and a dye job, just enough to help with the new ID - but it was mostly about keeping fit. Not eating like an animal, the way some of them did. Full English breakfast like it was going out of fashion and lager with everything.

  Candela closed her eyes, shook her hips and ran her hands through her long hair for him. She was gorgeous, no question, but at that age Donna had been every bit as spectacular, in her own way.

  And Ellie looked a lot like her mother. Same temper on her, too, which didn't make things as easy as they might be.

  Looking around, he saw a few faces he'd been wanting to get close to for a while and decided that he might do a little business before the evening was over. It was the ideal place. A few drinks, a handshake and the deal was done, which was how he preferred it. The money and the merchandise would be moved by others later, and there would be no need for him to get his hands dirty.

  That had been the secret these last ten years.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult, though, what with everything that needed doing back in the UK.

  Candela waved and he waved back, but his thoughts were far away. Suddenly darker and more troubling than he was comfortable with.

  If he wanted to stay free, it would get harder to stay clean.

  SEVENTEEN

  Traffic was moving on the M25, which was about the best you could expect even on a Saturday. Thorne's passenger was keen to chat - about her flatmate, her flatmate's thick boyfriend, people she'd known when she worked at the bank who had been high-fliers and lost everything when the economy had gone belly up - but he was happy to let her do most of the talking.

  To watch the road and think about other things.

  He had been unable to shake the image of the woman crying in the blue Peugeot; wondering who she was and what had happened to make her world so unbearable, for those few minutes at least. It had been on his mind since waking, and he and Louise had barely spoken during a snatched breakfast.

  'Will you be late?'

  'See how it pans out.'

  'Fine. I've got a lot on myself, so . . .'

  The truth was that aside from the lovemaking two nights before - slight and unexpected - there had not been a great deal of closeness between them in recent days. Weeks, even. There were fewer calls made or texts sent and seemingly no real desire to connect. There was less interest.

  As Louise had said, though, they were both busy . . .

  He had called Russell Brigstocke on his way to pick up Anna, to tell him he would not be coming into the office. To let him know about the visit he would be making instead.

  'Not much worth coming in for anyway,' Brigstocke had said. 'Like I thought, as far as this boat business goes, getting any joy out of Madrid on a Saturday morning is like pulling teeth. I mean, it might have helped if I'd been able to find a bloody translator.'

  Thorne had told him he would check in again later, and had listened to Brigstocke rant for another minute or two.

  'Do you know how many Albanian speakers there are on the Home Office books? Or Turkish? Or Urdu? Dozens, mate. But could I find one who spoke Spanish? I would've done it myself, but beyond knowing the names of a few Barcelona players and being able to ask for a beer, I'm a bit stuffed . . .'

  Seeing the exit they needed coming up, Thorne swiped at the indicator stalk and swung the BMW into the middle lane.

  'So, it looks like walking away from the bank might not have been such a stupid move after all,' Anna said. 'I mean, at least I've got a job.'

  'Right,' Thorne said.

  'Some of those flash bastards I used to work with are living on benefits now.' She grinned, looking out at the fields that stretched away from the motorway. 'Cheers me right up sometimes.'

  Thorne indicated again and drifted into the inside lane. Anna said something else, but he was still thinking about the woman in the blue Peugeot as he pulled on to the slip road and began to slow for the roundabout.

  Twenty miles south-west of central London, in the well-heeled heart of the Surrey countryside, Cobham is the archetypal commuter town. Its exclusive private estates are home to a number of Chelsea footballers whose training ground is nearby, but Maggie and Julian Munro were rather more typical inhabitants. He worked at an architectural practice in Clerkenwell and she taught at the local independent secondary school. They lived in a detached house opposite Cobham Mill and drove his and hers Volvos. They had a nine-year-old son who played rugby for the county, they kept a flat-coated retriever, and for ten years, until she had suddenly gone missing six months before, they had been foster parents to Ellie Langford.

  Maggie Munro showed Thorne and Anna into a large sitting room. She offered them tea, but Thorne said they did not want to take up too much of their time.

  The dog was barking in another part of the house.

  'I was probably somewhat . . . manic when you called,' Maggie said. The fixed smile and the way her hands moved in her lap told Thorne that she was still far from calm. 'Only, as soon as you said who you were, I thought maybe you'd found her.'

  'I'm sorry for the misunderstanding,' Thorne said.

  Julian Munro came in and Thorne and Anna stood to shake his hand before everyone sat down again. It was all rather formal, despite the invitation that Thorne and Anna should make themselves at home and the Munros' Saturday casuals: jeans and rugby shirt for him; powder-blue tracksuit for her.

  'I must admit, I thought you'd be older,' Thorne said. He had been genuinely shocked to find that the Munros were in their late thirties, having got it into his head that fostering was only ever done by fifty-something women whose own kids had flown the nest.

  'We'd been trying for a baby for a while,' Julian said, 'but for one reason or another it hadn't worked out. So then we thought of adoption, but the process was incredibly long and drawn out.'

  His wife had been nodding along and now she took up the story. 'We thought we'd try fostering just to see if bringing up someone else's child was something we were cut out to do. And we got Ellie.' She smiled. 'As it happened, a few months later, I fell pregnant.'

  It was Thorne's turn to smile. 'Falling' pregnant only ever seemed to be something the middle classes said. 'Fell' rather than 'got'. Despite this, he thought he had heard the trace of a northern accent from both of them and for no very good reason had quickly formed an impression of a couple who had not been given anything on a plate. Who had worked hard for everything they had.

  'Ellie was thrilled to be getting a little brother,' Maggie said. 'And when Samuel came along, we were a family.'

  'He's training,' Julian said, explaining their son's absence. 'Every Saturday morning.'

  Anna hunched her shoulders and shivered theatrically. They had been talking about snow on the radio as she and Thorne had driven up. 'Poor little lad'll be freezing,' she said.

  Julian shook his head. 'He's pretty tough.'

  The husband and wife were sitting a few feet apart on a large sofa, while Anna and Thorne sat in matching armchairs, facing them across a low table strewn with glossy magazines.

  Maggie leaned forward and cleared her throat, as if she were about to deliver a prepared speech. 'The fact is, we're very glad to see you,' she said. 'Nobody ever took Ell
ie's disappearance seriously, not really. She was eighteen, so legally she was responsible for herself, and they just kept telling us she must have run off with some boyfriend or other. Kept saying that she'd show up when she got bored or ran out of money. It was so frustrating.'

  'Was there one?' Anna asked. 'A boyfriend?'

  Maggie shook her head. 'Nobody we knew about. Nobody special, at any rate.'

  'The police did keep in touch fairly regularly,' Julian said. 'At the beginning anyway. But only to tell us there was nothing to tell us, if you see what I mean.' His jaw tightened and he breathed out noisily through his nose. 'Some family liaison officer or other would sit where you are now, scoffing our bloody biscuits and bleating on about counselling, but singularly failing to tell us what anybody was actually doing to find our daughter.' He looked at his feet, one of which was tapping angrily against the carpet. Maggie leaned across and took his hand.