From the Dead (2010)

by Mark Billingham

  '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.

  Silly cow. Stop it!

  The photographs had helped, just a little. At least she knew what Ellie looked like, could see the ways in which her little girl's face had changed and how it had stayed the same. But so many other things left her distraught.

  She could no longer remember what her daughter smelled like.

  Thorne asked himself, as he had done many times before, if there ever came a time when men stopped sizing one another up like dogs fighting over a bitch. It was usually for no more than a moment, but it almost always happened when men first met. As well as taking in the superficial stuff - the clothes, the haircut, the approximate values of the watch and shoes - it often came down to the handshake, firm or otherwise, and those few awkward seconds of eye contact, and the simple, stupid, childish question of whether you could take them if it ever came down to a good, old-fashioned punch-up.

  He had decided that the urge to compete in that way probably stopped at the same time a man stopped sizing up the women he met and wondering altogether different but equally stupid things.

  It was ridiculous, Thorne accepted that, but it was also as natural as breathing and harmless enough for the most part. For those who knew where to draw the line, anyway. At that morning's briefing, he had looked at the new woman on the team for a little longer than was strictly necessary. Now he sized up the two SOCA agents who greeted him when he stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor, and as they led him along a corridor to a meeting room that smelled of new carpets and wax polish.

  'There's coffee on the way,' one of them said.

  'Biscuits?'

  'I'll see what we can do . . .'

  The three of them sat around a large blond-wood conference table. There was a jug of water and half a dozen glasses, notebooks in front of every chair. The taller of the two SOCA men, who had introduced himself as Nick Mullenger, began to spread an assortment of photographs, charts and blown-up map fragments across the table. He was in his early thirties, with thick, dark hair and acne scars, and a voice that sounded perfect for cheaply made radio adverts. His colleague had not bothered with the pleasantry of a Christian name, so Thorne could only guess that he was either short of time or simply trying to appear more enigmatic than he seemed. Silcox was shorter than Thorne but in the same ballpark, age-wise. He wore a suit and tie, as did Mullenger, but filled his out a
little better than his colleague. He had less hair than Mullenger and rather less to say for himself and when he did speak, it was barely above a whisper, as though there were something badly wrong with his throat. It might have been a heavy cold or it might have been cancer, so Thorne did not bother asking.

  'Right, Spain,' Mullenger said. He spoke cheerfully, as though they were a family who had finally settled on a holiday destination after a long discussion.

  'It was always our best guess,' Thorne said. 'Even if it seemed a bit obvious.'

  'There's a good reason for that.'

  'Drugs?'

  'Definitely,' Silcox said.

  Mullenger pointed to a spot on one of the maps. 'The south coast of Spain.' He moved his finger slightly. 'The north coast of Africa . . .'

  Thorne nodded and remembered what Gary Brand had said about being talked down to. But Mullenger seemed pleasant enough, so Thorne bit his tongue and wondered what else the SOCA man might deem it necessary to point out.

  Notebook. Pencil. Water jug.

  'Morocco's only forty miles away,' Mullenger said. He turned his palms up as though no further explanation were necessary, then proceeded to give one anyway. 'Started out with a few hippies bringing hash across on fishing boats and now it's a multi-million-dollar industry.'

  'Billion,' Silcox said.

  'Once upon a time, old-fashioned villains like your Mr Langford fought shy of the drugs trade, but that was before they saw how much money could be made. Now, almost every ounce of cannabis and cocaine that arrives in the UK has to come through Spain, so it's the perfect place to base a drugs empire. They use the marinas as cover and the authorities haven't got the manpower or the inclination to search all the yachts.' He sat back in his chair. 'It's a drug-smuggler's paradise.'

  'It's not just about the beaches and the sangria,' Silcox said.

  Thorne pulled one of the pictures of Langford towards him. 'Don't suppose that hurts, though.'

  Mullenger laughed, said, 'No, indeed.'

  'So, Langford's got a decent business going out there, you reckon?'

  'Almost certainly,' Mullenger said. 'And it's not really a surprise that he's been reacting the way he has, now he knows these enquiries are being made. So violently, I mean.'

  'It's how he does things,' Thorne said.

  'How they all do things.'

  Silcox tapped a pencil on the table. 'Wild West over there,' he said.

  Mullenger nodded, reaching for a list of facts and figures. 'You've got the Brits, the Irish, the Russians, the Albanians, whatever, all fighting for a bigger slice of the action, so it's pretty much become a war zone. They set up a special unit in the late nineties to try to get to grips with it, and for a while things calmed down a bit.'

  '"Marbella Vice",' Thorne said. 'I remember. I knew a few people who tried to swing a transfer over there.'

  'Right, and for a year or two there was an unwritten agreement among the residents to tone things down, so as not to attract any more attention. They spent their time settling scores elsewhere. But once the Colombians started laundering drug money there, it all kicked off again, big time, and now there are shoot-outs on the streets every other week.'

  'Costa del Plomo,' Silcox said.

  Thorne looked to Mullenger for an explanation.

  'That's the new nickname for the place,' Mullenger said. 'Spanish for "lead".' He made a gun with his fingers. 'Because of--'

  'I get it,' Thorne said.

  Mullenger had the good grace to look embarrassed, but Thorne caught the trace of a smirk from Silcox. Thorne stared across the table and Silcox stared back, his doughy features a picture of innocence.

  'We've been working with the local police in southern Spain for the last few years,' Mullenger said. 'Trying to disrupt a few of the criminal networks and round up as many fugitives as we can. It's tricky, though, because some of the people who are supposed to be on our side aren't really on our side, if you know what I mean.'

  'Corruption in high places?'

  Silcox was still staring. 'High places, low places.'

  'Last year, three local mayors and a couple of high-ranking officers in the Guardia Civil were prosecuted for laundering drug money.' Mullenger shrugged and picked up another piece of paper. 'We're making some progress, but just to give you an idea of the scale of what's going on over there . . .' He glanced down and read from the sheet. 'Last year, Operacion Captura led to the arrest of forty-one people and the seizure of four hundred million euros' worth of funds, as well as over twenty yachts and private planes, forty-two cars and two hundred and fifty houses.'

  'Pretty impressive,' Thorne said.

  Silcox smiled. 'Us or them?'

  'And that's in Marbella alone.' Mullenger laid down his list. 'So . . .'

  There was a knock on the door and a man brought in the coffee: a Thermos jug and three cups on a tray. Mullenger did the honours while Thorne stood and walked to the window. He was still feeling fractious and fidgety, and decided that both he and the double-act assigned to brief him would be a lot happier were he to be nodding off aboard one of the pleasure boats he could see moving up and down the river two storeys below.

  'We managed to get you your biscuits,' Mullenger said.

  Thorne went back to the table and took his coffee. 'I was expecting chocolate ones at least,' he said. He bit into a digestive and pointed to one of the headed notepads. 'Obviously spent too much on your fancy logo.'

  Mullenger forced a nasal laugh and said something about cost-cutting that was less funny than he thought it was. Thorne ate his biscuit and pretended to listen.

  Thinking: Thunder-Thunder-Thunder-Thundercats Ho!

  Mullenger pointed to a spot on a larger-scale map. 'I don't think the location where these photographs were taken is likely to be where Langford actually operates. It's a smallish town, not too many visitors.' He nodded to himself. 'But I shouldn't think he's too far away.'

  'His business is likely to be based around a marina somewhere,' Silcox said. 'But a lot of the big players tend to live up in the hills or on one of the golf resorts. There's still plenty of building work going on all along that coast.'

  'He's probably into some of that as well,' Thorne said. 'It's how he made his money over here.'

  'Always pays to diversify,' Silcox said.

  Mullenger refilled Thorne's cup and talked about the best way to proceed, if and when Thorne made the journey to Spain himself. He seemed confident that the man who used to be called Alan Langford would be known to Spanish-based SOCA operatives and local drugenforcement officers. Thorne's job, working with them, would simply be to establish that the criminal in question was indeed Langford, and then to find something for which he could be arrested and brought back to the UK for trial.

  'Piece of piss, then,' Thorne said.

  'We'll hook you up with one of our agents in Malaga or Marbella,' Mullenger said. 'Probably easier for him to brief you when you get there.'

  Thorne agreed, knowing that his contact might turn out to be a copper, a customs officer or even, God forbid, a taxman. In an attempt to create a British FBI, SOCA had been formed as an amalgamation of the National Criminal Intelligence Service and the National Crime Squad, but had also taken staff from HM Revenue and Customs and UK Immigration. Thorne knew that the agency had officers embedded within many police forces and that the arrangement was reciprocal. He also knew that their powers were wider-ranging than those of their counterparts; and that, unlike regular coppers such as himself, they were exempt from the Freedom of Information Act.

  They didn't have to tell anybody anything.

  'We've got some shit-hot agents over there,' Mullenger said. 'You'll be working with good people.'

  Thorne smiled. To be fair, this was an agency, so those who worked for it were, strictly speaking, agents. But Thorne saw how much Mullenger relished saying the word; imagined that it made him feel like a proper G-Man. Thorne worked regularly with people who had the same affectations. One DS on a parallel team
to his own had once visited Quantico and had somehow managed to acquire an official FBI lanyard from which he proudly suspended his Met Police swipe card and ID. On the lanyard it said: Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity.

  It should simply have said: Knob.

  'I don't want to spoil a beautiful friendship,' Thorne said. 'But what are the chances that this corruption you were talking about might involve some of these "shit-hot agents" of yours?'

  Silcox and Mullenger looked at each other.

  'I know,' Thorne said. 'You go that extra yard with the biscuits and then I go and bring the mood right down.' He smiled, but he was thinking about the speed with which the killings of Monahan and Cook had been sanctioned and executed; about an exchange of information. Those jungle drums. 'Only, if I was Langford, or somebody like Langford, they'd be the first people I'd be looking to sweeten, you know?'