From the Dead Page 18

  Robert Carpenter was still a year or two the right side of sixty, and until recently had worked full time at one of the city’s largest accounting firms. But he had been going into the office less and less since his wife had begun drinking heavily again, and Anna knew that his firm’s tolerance would last only so long. She felt guilty about it every day, although she knew very well that it was not her fault.

  ‘She does talk about you, you know.’

  Anna dropped her spoon and sat back hard in her chair. She saw that her father was startled, but she was too irritated with him to care a great deal. ‘You’ve really got to stop doing that.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Talking about her in those ridiculous hushed tones, like she’s the mad woman in the attic or something.’

  ‘I didn’t realise I was.’

  ‘She hasn’t lost her marbles . . . yet. She’s just a stupid, stubborn old cow.’

  ‘Don’t get all worked up—’

  ‘A stubborn, pissed old cow.’

  ‘Please stop shouting.’

  ‘I don’t care if she hears me. She’s probably listening anyway, if she’s still conscious, that is.’

  Her father turned back to his cleaning, but gave up after half a minute or so. He tossed the cloth into the sink and sat down opposite Anna.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘It’s fine.’ He was wearing a smart shirt tucked into jeans, as though, Anna thought, he could not quite allow himself to relax. Or afford to.

  ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘A little better, I think. We had a couple of days up in the Lakes last week. A nice hotel. She really seemed to enjoy it.’

  ‘Did she stay sober?’

  A half-smile. ‘More or less.’

  ‘Is she taking all her tablets?’

  ‘I think so, but I can’t watch her all the time, you know?’

  ‘I know.’ Anna leaned across and patted her father’s arm. ‘And you can’t blame yourself if she pours half a bottle of vodka down her neck while you’re busy trying to make a living. To have a life.’

  He watched her eat for a while. She had almost finished. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, either . . . for any of this. It’s not your fault.’

  Anna tried to answer too quickly, dribbled milk down her chin. They both laughed and she had another go. ‘It feels like it sometimes.’

  ‘You were an excuse, that’s all,’ he said. ‘The excuse she was waiting for. It’s what addicts do.’

  Anna looked at him.

  ‘I got a couple of books on it. It’s always better if they can make out that somebody’s driven them to the drink or whatever it is. It’s easier to hate somebody else rather than yourself.’

  ‘You think she hates me?’

  ‘No, course not, that came out wrong . . .’

  Anna nodded and took the last couple of mouthfuls. ‘She’s not going to come down, is she?’

  ‘I can go and ask again,’ her father said. ‘Try and persuade her.’

  ‘She shouldn’t need persuading, for God’s sake, I’m her daughter.’ She leaned back, the chair tipping on to two legs. ‘And I’m happy, do you know that?’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And whatever’s going on inside your mum’s head, however bad all this gets, I’m pleased it’s working out for you.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I can barely pay my rent.’

  ‘Do you need some—?’

  ‘God, no, I just meant . . . I’m still learning the ropes, that’s all. But this case I’m working on now is brilliant. The people are interesting, and fun. Back at the bank . . . Well, you know.’

  She stopped, and they both pretended that they weren’t listening to the heavy footsteps from the floor above, the door closing louder than it should have.

  ‘Tell me about the case,’ he said.

  Anna nodded. ‘You sure? I mean, it might only be interesting to me.’

  ‘That’s good enough,’ he said. Then he leaned across the table to pour another helping of cereal into his daughter’s bowl.

  Andy Boyle was one of those drinkers who said less the more he had to drink. He still talked happily enough, but he tended to repeat himself, and the silences grew longer between his increasingly slurred and rambling pronouncements.

  ‘You need to appreciate what you’ve got, is all I’m saying, because one minute everything in the garden’s rosy, and the next you’re buggered. You’re bowling along, happy as Larry, you go to a doctor because you find a lump or whatever, and everything goes to hell. So, be bloody careful.’

  ‘I will be.’

  ‘All I’m saying . . .’

  Thorne listened, made the appropriate noises, and glanced at his watch whenever Boyle looked away or closed his eyes for a few seconds. Finally, at around quarter-past nine, he asked where the train timetable was, and for the number of a local taxi company. Boyle directed him to a drawer in the hall table, then to a bowl in the kitchen. As Thorne squinted at the stupidly small font on the timetable, Boyle reached down to the side of his chair for another can, one of several he had brought back from his last trip to the fridge.

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know how long this last bloody train takes to get to London?’ Thorne had looked twice, just to confirm that the 22.10 from Wakefield took nearly nine hours to reach St Pancras, with one change at Sheffield, then a four-and-a-half-hour wait for a connection at Derby.

  ‘I know, it’s ridiculous,’ Boyle said.

  ‘I could walk home in that time.’

  ‘But have a look, mate . . . you can get one back at quarter to six in the morning, or even earlier if you can be arsed getting up. You’ll be back at your desk by half eight. Problem solved.’

  Thorne swore at the East Coast Mainline, Richard Branson and anyone else who seemed deserving of it for a minute or two. Then he picked up one of Boyle’s cans and went into the hall to phone Louise.

  ‘Sounds like he wanted you to stay the night all along,’ Louise said, when Thorne had told her about the trains. ‘Maybe he’s going to murder you in your bed.’

  ‘He might have even stranger plans . . .’

  ‘Could have been Rohypnol in that stew.’

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Well, since you ask, it started with me stepping in cat sick and went downhill from there.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Thorne had fed Elvis just before he’d left that morning, a good half-hour before Louise was due to get up. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘So, what happened at work?’

  ‘Just dealing with this bitch of a DS who’s been drafted in.’ Now, the frustrations of her day were there in her voice. ‘Spreading poison around, usual stuff.’

  ‘What kind of poison?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry, I’ll sort her out.’

  Thorne grunted. He knew that she would. ‘So . . .’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve had a useful day, though.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Thorne took another step away from the living-room door. ‘Even if the last few hours have been closer to care in the community. ’

  ‘Your good deed for the year,’ Louise said.

  ‘I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking I might go back to my place tomorrow. I’ve got a few things to do.’

  ‘Oh, OK. I just thought it would be nice to . . .’

  ‘You can come over to mine, you know.’

  Suddenly the conversation felt stilted and odd; especially as they had made such simple arrangements a hundred times before.

  ‘I’ll do that, then,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Provided you make it through the night, of course . . .’

  By the time Thorne went back into the living room, Boyle was asleep in his chair. Thorne shook him gently awake and suggested that he might want to get to bed, but Boyle insisted he was more than happy where he was. He s
crabbled around blindly for the remote control and turned on the television. He opened his eyes wide and reached down towards his severely depleted lager stash.

  ‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘So, where are we?’

  Thorne called the taxi company and booked a cab for five-fifteen the following morning. He told the controller he knew it was stupidly early, and to make sure the car was on time. He picked up a few empties and carried them through to the kitchen, got a glass of water then said goodnight.

  He could hear Andy Boyle quietly talking to himself as he walked upstairs in search of the spare bedroom.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jeremy Grover lay on his bunk and listened.

  There was always plenty of chat echoing around the wing in the hour after lock-down: earlier conversations continued and news shared; filthy jokes and songs bawled from behind cell doors that spread along the landing; rumours, curses and threats.

  He listened out for Howard Cook’s name.

  A couple of the black lads had been talking about Cook while dinner was being dished up, pissing themselves in a corner and grinning happily across at the screws who were on duty. Grover heard them, caught the name and wandered across. They told him this was big news and funny as fuck. One of them said something about Cook’s retirement being permanent, but a fat, ugly screw named Harris came over and broke up the conversation before Grover could find out any details.

  Harris was a mate of Cook’s and, from the look on the bastard’s face, he had heard something, too.

  Grover had gone right off his dinner, wandered back to the landing and crawled into his bunk. Happy to be on his own until lock-up and needing time to think. Hoping the flutter in his guts would settle. He had dug out the mobile from its hiding place and sent a text message to the usual number, making it clear that he needed to talk. Needed to be told.

  Now the phone lay tucked inside the pillow case beneath his head; the same phone, ironically enough, that Howard Cook had given to him.

  That was when Grover had found out Cook was iffy. That, when it came down to it, they were on the same team. It had come as a major surprise. If he’d been asked to guess, Grover would have marked down plenty of others, that fat sod Harris included, as a bent screw long before he would have picked out Howard Cook. He supposed it was the same as with the cons themselves. Often those who looked like full-on nutters wouldn’t say boo to a goose, while the ones who sat good as gold in the library all day, would tear your head off if you took the piss out of the book they were reading.

  Still, it had been a shocker definitely, finding out a jobsworth like Cook was on the take.

  He remembered how it had been in that cell, the evening he’d done Monahan. Cook standing there in the doorway, clearing his throat like he was struggling to breathe and holding out his hand. ‘Give it to me,’ he’d said and Grover had handed over the sharpened toothbrush; wiped the blood off against his trousers first so Cook wouldn’t get it on his uniform. For a second they’d just stared at each other and Grover could still remember how utterly terrified the screw had looked. His face was the colour of porridge, and at first he couldn’t even get the toothbrush put away properly. Couldn’t find his pocket because his hand was shaking so much.

  From what Grover was hearing now, it seemed that Cook had been right to be afraid.

  ‘The twat is dead, with tyre-tracks on his head,

  Howard Coo-ook, Howard Coo-ook . . .’

  The song rolled along the landing like a football chant. Aggression and exuberance in equal measure.

  When he felt the vibration beneath his cheek, Grover started, then reached quickly to retrieve the phone. He slid off his bunk and stood flat against the wall to the side of the door.

  Took a deep breath.

  ‘What’s the panic?’

  ‘Tell me about Cook,’ Grover hissed.

  ‘Bloody hell, that was quick. They haven’t finished scraping him up yet.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Would you like me to explain, Jeremy? Words of one syllable, that kind of thing.’

  ‘There’s no way he would have said anything.’

  ‘He was being given a hard time by that West Yorkshire DI, and, you know, better safe . . .’

  Grover said, ‘Hold on,’ and pressed his ear to the cell door. Still plenty of noise and no way that he’d be heard talking over it. ‘So, I’m supposed to be scared, am I?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Tell me about the money I’m supposed to get. For doing Monahan.’

  ‘We’ll need to leave it a while longer, until the pressure’s off, but there’s no need to worry. It’ll be sent where you wanted it to go.’

  Grover thought about his son, and the woman who had given birth to him. He couldn’t be sure that the silly cow wouldn’t blow most of the cash on powder and booze when she finally got it, but it should certainly make life easier for them.

  ‘By the way, it seems like a nice school. The one your son goes to. He’s a pretty decent footballer too. You should be proud.’

  Grover refused to rise to it, understanding well enough what was really being said, but he suddenly found it that bit harder to breathe. A belt pulled tighter across his chest. ‘So, what . . . ?’

  ‘Just keep your head down.’

  ‘I always do.’

  ‘We’ll try to make things as pleasant as we can for you in there. Long as you know it can go the other way easy enough.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I hope so. I remember having much this conversation with Paul Monahan a long time ago . . .’

  Grover said, ‘Listen, you can relax, OK?’ then realised he was talking to himself. He put the phone back in its hiding place and lay down again.

  Outside, they were still singing about Howard Cook, inventive variations now on a popular theme, until a voice rose above the cacophony, shouting about the withdrawal of privileges and suggesting they shut up.

  Fucking Harris.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Thorne felt like death warmed up. He tried to focus, but his brain was fuzzy and sluggish, and Russell Brigstocke had definitely delivered livelier briefings. Something was needed to ginger proceedings up a little, Thorne decided.

  ‘So, let’s move on to the incident in Kirkthorpe,’ Brigstocke said.

  Maybe he could saw one of the DCs in half, Thorne thought . . .

  Having set the alarm on his phone, he had woken at a little after 5 a.m. feeling as though he had barely slept at all. Downstairs, Boyle had been asleep where Thorne had left him, but managed to surface just long enough for Thorne to ask if he could borrow some clean socks and underpants.

  ‘I’ll stick them in a jiffy bag tomorrow,’ Thorne had said.

  Boyle had grunted and mumbled, ‘Thanks for stopping.’ Still not properly awake.

  With both taxi and train miraculously on time, Thorne had – as Boyle had promised – made it back to Becke House by half-past eight. There had just been time to grab tea and a bacon sandwich from the canteen. To think about the best way to deal with the text message he had received from Anna Carpenter as the train had pulled into King’s Cross.

  what the hell did you say to donna??

  Now, he sat towards the back of the incident room, behind two dozen or so others gathered on chairs around a pair of desks that had been pushed together. Another ten officers had been drafted on to the team the day before, following the hit and run in West Yorkshire. Overnight, the operation had become ‘more significant’. It was a convenient and sensitive euphemism.

  It simply meant that more people were dying.

  ‘The car that was used to run down and kill Howard Cook on Sunday evening was found late last night, having been set alight in a field between Wakefield and Castleford.’ Brigstocke looked to the back of the room, caught Thorne’s eye.

  A burning car. Wasn’t that where all this had started?

  ‘As you can imagine, there wasn’t a great deal left of it,�
� Brigstocke went on. ‘Just enough to confirm that it was the vehicle involved. It had been stolen from a car park in Wakefield on Sunday morning. A forensic team up there is looking at it, but I don’t think we should be holding our breath on that score.’

  From one of the chairs near the front, Yvonne Kitson said, ‘If whoever was in that car thought there was anything we might be able to use, they wouldn’t have made it so easy to find.’

  ‘Right,’ Brigstocke said.

  Behind him, the case was mapped out on a whiteboard: a series of names and images linked by thick black lines drawn in marker pen. On the left-hand side was a photograph of Howard Cook that had been provided by his wife. Above that was a shot of Paul Monahan and at the very top, a picture from the original post-mortem report of the very first victim. The blackened remains that had been removed from Alan Langford’s Jaguar in Epping Forest more than ten years earlier.

  A face, barely recognisable as such. The rest no better than body-shaped.

  In the middle of the board was one of the many shots on file – all of which were at least a decade out of date – of Alan Langford himself. There were arrows from this photo to the pictures of the victims, and towards copies of the more recent photographs that had been sent to his ex-wife. Donna Langford’s own photo and one of her daughter were on the right-hand side of the whiteboard.

  Now and again as he spoke, Brigstocke stepped across and pointed to the appropriate picture on the case-map. It was a simple aidemémoire for some of the less creative thinkers on the team. This murder victim. That missing girl. This dodgy-looking bastard who we’d like to speak to in connection with the death of this man.

  ‘We’re still no nearer to finding out who this poor sod was.’ Brigstocke pointed to the topmost photograph. ‘So, we’re concentrating on tying Langford to the murders of Howard Cook and Paul Monahan.’

  Thorne was struck, as he had been many times before, by how positive Brigstocke managed to sound, how good he was at maintaining a team’s morale. Even when, as in this instance, ‘concentrating on’ could easily have been replaced by ‘getting nowhere with’.

  ‘As to his whereabouts,’ Brigstocke continued, ‘we’ve had some luck in tracking him down to the southern coast of Spain.’