Be nice to get out that bit sooner and see him.
He thought about what Thorne had said, the request for help that was really an offer. However tempting it might be, he knew it was short-term thinking. Dangerous thinking. The money being set aside every month for his release was a threat as well as a promise; he had always understood that. It put a price on his silence, but never let him forget what shooting his mouth off would cost him.
His life and his son’s life, no question about that.
Living is what counts, right?
He thought about the man who promised and threatened so much, and above the sound of the acid bubbling in his gut, he heard the hiss and crackle of a fire. The whump of an explosion and the distant drumming of a woodpecker.
‘Paul?’
There was a knock on the open cell door and Monahan sat up. Jeremy Grover was a con he got on with better than most. He did his time quietly enough and was fairly bright, as armed robbers went.
‘Jez.’
‘Thought you were coming to play cards.’
‘Sorry, mate, my belly’s a nightmare.’
‘I’ll have some tea then, if you’re getting a brew on.’
Monahan swung his feet to the floor and walked over to where the kettle stood on a small table in the corner. He asked who was winning all the money, reached for a mug and promised to take all the lads to the cleaners as soon as he stopped shitting through the eye of a needle. Then he turned to say something else and stepped into a punch that pushed the breath from his lungs in an instant. Grover’s breath hot and sour on his face.
‘Jez . . . ?’
Only it wasn’t a punch, course it wasn’t, and there was already blood pooling on the floor as he slipped down to his knees and then dropped on to his side. It was hard to raise his head and he was scared to look at what was leaking into his hands. He saw Grover lean back against the door and then step forward as an officer pushed his way into the cell. He watched them speak while his guts slipped, warm between his fingers, but he could hear nothing, not really, until the officer had gone again and an alarm began to sound from a long way away.
PART TWO
HONEY-SWEET AND HELL-DARK
NINE
The man on the prison security desk had as little to say to Dave Holland as he had done to Thorne’s more garrulous female colleague twenty-four hours earlier. There was no question of Anna Carpenter accompanying Thorne this time, not considering the reason he was returning to Wakefield.
Brigstocke had called just after 6 a.m., in no mood for going round the houses. ‘Whoever was paying Paul Monahan to keep quiet can cancel the direct debit,’ he said.
The Crime Scene Investigators from the West Yorkshire force had already been and gone, but the murder scene was still sealed off with blue tape that stretched from the cell door to the edge of the landing. Thorne and Holland were escorted on to the wing by a prison officer and met outside the cell by a grim-looking welcoming committee. Sonia Murray, an attractive black woman in her early thirties, was the prison’s police liaison officer. She made herself known, then introduced Andy Boyle, the local DI, whose team had been on call when the incident had occurred.
Boyle seemed less than thrilled to meet his colleagues from down south. ‘If we have to work together on this,’ he said, ‘I suppose we have to.’ The Yorkshireman was clearly no shrinking violet, but he still had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the shouts and jeers that echoed along the landing. The entire wing had been confined to their cells for more than fifteen hours, since the body had been found, and the prisoners were not shy about making their feelings known. ‘It’s not ideal though, is it?’
‘We’ll try not to step on anyone’s toes,’ Holland said.
Thorne forced a smile, but was beyond caring if it was convincing. ‘And if we do, we’ll make sure we’re wearing slippers.’
Paul Monahan’s body was in the city mortuary, awaiting post-mortem. He had died on the way to hospital the previous evening, having been discovered on the floor of his cell with serious stab wounds. The prisoner who had been found inside the cell with Monahan had been taken to the local station, but he remained uncharged and had been returned to the prison that morning in anticipation of Thorne and Holland’s arrival.
‘So, here’s the story,’ Murray said. She emphasised the last word, making it clear to Thorne that they were now leaving the known facts behind and venturing into an area where all they had were possibilities, interpretation and bullshit. It was dangerous territory, and interesting. It was the part Thorne had always liked the most. ‘A prison officer named Howard Cook entered Monahan’s cell just after nine-thirty last night.’ Murray was reading from a small notebook. ‘He discovered a prisoner named Jeremy Grover covered in blood and bent over Monahan’s body. Grover told Officer Cook that he had discovered the body a minute or so earlier, had been unable to find a pulse and was trying to perform CPR.’
‘Good of him,’ Holland said.
‘Oh yeah, he’s a regular good Samaritan is our Jez.’
‘Except when he’s waving sawn-off shotguns around in building societies,’ said Boyle.
Murray returned to her notebook. ‘Cook left the cell to sound the alarm, an ambulance was called and a Code Black was declared. Within twenty minutes, the wing was shut down and the police were informed.’
‘We were here just after ten,’ Boyle said. ‘Monahan had already pegged it in the ambulance.’
Thorne nudged the cell door open and stepped inside. Everything except the bunk and the metal chair had been removed. The blood had run towards one wall, down the slope of an uneven floor. Dried, it looked almost black against the dark orange linoleum. ‘Where’s Officer Cook?’ he asked.
Murray moved to the door. ‘He was sent home and given a day’s trauma leave,’ she said. ‘Standard practice after a Code Black incident.’
Thorne turned and walked back on to the landing.
Holland caught his eye and nodded towards the CCTV camera mounted high on the opposite wall. ‘Should give us a bird’s-eye view,’ he said.
Thorne looked at Boyle. ‘I presume you’ve checked the footage to see if anyone else went in there before Jez Grover?’
Boyle shrugged, satisfied that he knew something Thorne did not.
‘The camera was not in operation,’ Murray said. ‘That wasn’t established until the early hours of this morning.’
‘Meaning it was broken or had been switched off?’
‘No idea.’
‘That’s handy,’ Holland said.
Thorne nodded, thinking. ‘Murder weapon?’
Boyle shook his head. ‘Turned the place upside down,’ he said. ‘Gave Grover a full body search an’ all, just to be on the safe side, but no sign of it. Sharpened toothbrush, something like that, be easy enough to hide it where the sun don’t shine.’
Holland winced. ‘I don’t suppose there were any other prisoners walking about covered in blood?’
‘Not that we could find.’
‘We’d best have a word with Mr Grover then,’ Thorne said.
Murray said she would arrange to have Jeremy Grover taken down to the Visits Area. ‘All visits have been cancelled,’ she said. ‘So you can pick a room out over there.’
Thorne said that would be fine and he and Holland followed Murray down the landing. Those inside many of the cells they passed made it very clear what they thought of her. If she was upset by the vileness of the language or the suggestions, she did not show it.
As they walked down the stairs, Boyle caught up with Thorne. ‘We’ve already had a pop at Grover,’ he said. ‘But if you think you can do any better . . .’
‘Looks like I’d best get my slippers on,’ Thorne said.
‘Cheeky bastard.’
Thorne kept walking and did not stop smiling, but he made sure Boyle got a good look at his eyes and said, ‘Why don’t you piss off home and walk your whippet?’
It was the same room in which Thorne and Anna Carpenter ha
d interviewed the man who had since become a murder victim. When Jeremy Grover was escorted in by a prison officer, he looked no more happy to be there than Paul Monahan had been.
‘For Christ’s sake, I’ve been through this already.’
Was no more happy . . .
Grover was taller and skinnier than the average armed robber, but his eyes were dead enough. There were flecks of ginger in the neatly trimmed goatee and a little grey in the curly brown hair. He was the same age as Thorne or thereabouts, but he looked lithe and wiry in regulation jeans and striped shirt. Thorne marked him down straight away as the sort who worked out not because he wanted to display himself, but because he enjoyed being fit. The sort who felt the need to stay keen and ready.
He looked past Thorne and Holland, who were seated at the table, towards Andy Boyle, who was leaning against the wall behind them. ‘Any chance of getting my trainers back?’
Boyle said nothing, looking as though he could not bear to expend any more energy than was necessary to chew his gum.
‘That’s a “no” then, is it?’
Grover’s bloodstained clothes had been taken and sent to the Forensic Science Service laboratory for testing. Nobody was expecting anything other than confirmation that the blood and scraps of stomach tissue belonged to Paul Monahan. Grover could not deny that he had been covered in it.
‘Those look all right,’ Holland said. He nodded towards the shiny white training shoes with which Grover had been issued. Grover glanced down at them then looked back at Holland as though he were something stuck to the bottom of one.
‘So, you got your Boy Scout first-aid badge, did you?’ Thorne asked.
‘Come again?’
‘Or maybe you just saw it on Casualty. Either way, very heroic – trying to save your friend’s life.’
‘You don’t think about it, you know? You just do whatever you can.’
‘You didn’t think about alerting a prison officer? I mean, they’re probably trained for it, right?’
‘Like I said—’
‘Oh, I forgot,’ Thorne said. ‘One came along pretty quickly anyway, didn’t he?’
‘Bit of luck,’ Holland said.
‘So, here’s our problem,’ Thorne said. ‘And I’m sure it’s the same problem Detective Inspector Boyle has.’ He turned. ‘Right, Detective Inspector Boyle?’
Boyle nodded.
‘Thing is, the man who attacked your mate Paul, who killed him, as it turns out, seems to have vanished into thin air. Disappeared inside a high-security prison without so much as a spot of blood on his clothes and taken the murder weapon with him.’ Thorne held up his hands. ‘Any thoughts? I mean, you can see why we’re a bit confused here, can’t you?’
Grover sat back, stretched his long legs underneath the table. ‘If you think I’m going to do your job for you, you’re more than confused, mate. You’re completely mental.’
‘You sure?’ Holland said. ‘You don’t know anything that might help us?’
Grover shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t matter if I did, would it? You know how it works in here. Paul was my mate, and if I find out who carved him up, they’ll have me to answer to. But you still don’t grass.’
‘That’s a real shame,’ Thorne said. ‘Because as soon as we clear this up, we can crack on with getting your good citizen medal organised.’
Grover seemed to find that genuinely funny, but told Thorne to go and fuck himself anyway.
‘It also means we can’t really do anything but jump to conclusions,’ Holland said. ‘I mean, we’d rather not, but when you’ve not got anything else . . .’
‘What “conclusions”?’ Wide-eyed and mock-innocent.
Boyle pushed himself away from the wall suddenly, clearly irritated by the back and forth. ‘Like it was you, you poxy little wankstain. You strolled into Monahan’s cell and shanked him.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Because someone paid you to,’ Thorne said. ‘You were contacted and told to get Paul Monahan out of the way. Now, if you could tell us who contacted you and how, it might make a difference when this comes to trial.’
‘You think this is going that far?’
‘I wouldn’t bet against it.’
Grover let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling, as though he were considering what Thorne had said. As though the accusations were perfectly fair and justified. When he looked at Thorne again, though, it was clear how little he cared if they were justified or not.
‘I’ll tell you what your problem is,’ he said. ‘This non-existent murder weapon.’ He was full of himself now, leaning forward and pointing at Thorne. ‘I mean, what am I supposed to have done with it? Did I stab Paul and then walk out of the cell covered in claret, nip off somewhere to get rid of the blade and then calmly stroll back in there again? Is that really what you think happened?’
‘No,’ Thorne said. ‘I don’t think that’s what happened.’
‘Well, until you can prove it happened any other way, you can kiss my arse.’
Thorne said nothing as Grover calmly stood and walked to the door. He knocked, then turned and smiled at Thorne and the others, waited until a guard arrived to take him back to his cell.
‘That go like you wanted?’ Boyle asked. He walked around the table until he stood in Thorne’s eye-line. ‘Happy with it?’
Thorne ignored him and turned to lift his leather jacket from the back of the chair.
‘Cocky bastard knows we’ve got nothing,’ Holland said.
Thorne stood up. ‘Not yet.’
It was dry and cold, and Thorne stared out of the taxi window as the streets narrowed and the greys of office blocks and multi-storeys gave way to those of rutted fields and spindly trees, with the black ribbon of the River Calder twisting alongside. ‘Whatever we turn up on Monahan money-wise is probably academic,’ he said. ‘Considering he won’t be around to spend it. So, we need to look at Grover as well. Find what he’s getting paid for doing Monahan and where it’s going.’
‘And where it’s coming from, with a bit of luck,’ Holland said.
‘I don’t think there’s too much doubt about that.’
‘Definitely Langford, you reckon?’
‘Got to be.’
‘But how’s he organising all this?’ Holland asked. ‘We’re presuming he’s still out of the country, right?’
Thorne turned away from the window, stared over the driver’s shoulder at the road unwinding in front of the car. ‘Monahan was killed within hours of me talking to him,’ he said. ‘So, wherever the hell Langford is, he’s tuned in to a seriously good set of jungle drums.’
Before they had left the prison, Boyle had told Thorne that he and his team would start getting stuck into Jeremy Grover and his family, see if there were any funds knocking about that could not be accounted for. Thorne told him that there might be a fair bit more to do, depending on how his and Holland’s next appointment went. Boyle said the overtime would come in handy.
Follow the money, that’s what Louise had said.
She hadn’t said anything else the night before, at least not about Thorne’s day out with Anna Carpenter. She had gone to bed early, leaving Thorne and Hendricks talking nonsense in front of the television. It was the way Thorne had been hoping the evening would turn out.
You’re not going to get it on a plate.
She’d said that too, just before things had turned a little awkward, and, much as it pained him, Thorne knew she was right. There were too many hard-arses like Monahan and Grover and not enough luck. On a plate would have been nice, but he was happy to do things the hard way if it meant getting the right result in the end.
The taxi slowed as it drove into Kirkthorpe, a village four miles west of the city.
‘Reckon you could live out here?’ Holland asked.
Thorne looked out of the window again and shook his head. ‘A bit too Last of the Summer Wine for my liking,’ he said.
Holland laughed.
<
br /> ‘Not nearly dirty and noisy enough.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Holland said. ‘I can just see you coming down one of those hills in an old bathtub on wheels.’
Thorne looked at him. ‘Sophie still trying to get you out of London, is she?’
‘We’re still . . . talking about it.’
As ever, Thorne could see that Holland was uncomfortable discussing his girlfriend. They both knew that she was not Thorne’s greatest fan, and that she wanted to get Holland and their daughter Chloe away from more than just the city.
‘As long as it’s just talk,’ Thorne said.
The driver found the address Thorne had given him quickly enough and pulled over. Holland paid the fare and hurried after Thorne to the door of a modern terraced house. Thorne rang the bell and stepped back, thinking: One of these buggers has got to give us something.
Howard Cook was older than they had been expecting. Thorne guessed that the man who eventually answered the door, bald and blinking, was only a few years away from retirement.
A nice, cosy one.
Thorne and Holland showed the prison officer their warrant cards.
‘I hope we’re not disturbing you,’ Holland said.
‘This’ll be about what happened last night, I suppose.’
Thorne said that it was.
‘You’d best come in then,’ Cook said. ‘I’ve not long boiled the kettle.’
Thorne stayed where he was. ‘I’ll keep this quick if it’s all the same to you, Howard. I just want to know where the knife is.’
‘Sorry?’
The sounds of a TV show were coming from inside the house. A lot of shouting, gunshots.
‘Knife, sharpened toothbrush . . . whatever Grover used. I just want to know where you put it once he’d passed it to you.’
Cook was shocked, or else did an amazing job of looking it. Thorne guessed it was more at the manner in which he had been confronted than the accusation itself.
‘How dare you?’ Cook said. ‘How bloody dare you?’
‘I know you’ve been through a trauma,’ Holland said. ‘So you might want to think about calming down.’
From the Dead Page 8
