From the Dead Page 30

  The huge platform swayed from side to side as it was carried, the bearers moving in a choreographed rocking motion that Thorne presumed made their progress easier. Every few minutes a man would turn to ring a bell on the front of the platform and it would be set down. It was not clear if this was part of the ritual or simply a way of giving those carrying it a break, but it gave Thorne the chance to move through the crowd and get close to the effigy itself.

  He took out his phone and tried to get into a good position to take a few pictures. He thought Louise might like to see them.

  The platform was thick with flowers: garlands of pink roses arranged around the ornate silver candelabra which twisted up towards the statue. The effigy stood beneath a silver canopy, with more flowers twisting around the struts and arranged on the top.

  The Virgin was smiling.

  She was five feet or so tall and had a doll’s face. Her lips were bright red, as though freshly painted, but the pale flesh of her cheek was peeling a little in places and there were cracks on the hands that gripped a sceptre and cradled an even more doll-like infant. Her long, brown hair seemed too modern, though, falling in curls across her shoulders and Thorne thought the wig looked a little out of place beneath the sunburst of a huge golden crown.

  But her expression was simple enough, and dazzling.

  Thorne put his phone away and stared as the bell was rung again and the platform was hoisted back on to the police officers’ shoulders.

  A young girl’s face, trusting and content. But with eyes cast down in understanding, or perhaps in expectation of the suffering that was so many people’s lot in life, and the cruelty that seemed so much a part of others’.

  As the platform moved, swaying its way out of the square on its journey around the village, the statue began to wobble, but Thorne kept his eyes on the face.

  Andrea Keane’s face and Anna Carpenter’s.

  A live band started to play, although Thorne could not see them, and those who had not already begun to move away sang along. Thorne felt cold suddenly. It was not a slow song, but the voices sounded sorrowful, as though the Virgin’s expectations had been fulfilled.

  For those few, terrible seconds before he reached her and clamped his hands around her neck, Candela understood what was happening. She knew how stupid she had been to give the police what they had asked for. How naïve she had been to think that she could run.

  His face showed nothing. He did not speak as he pushed her back hard against the window. He calmly moved one hand from her throat to reach for the handle on the sliding door, and she knew that there was little point in struggling.

  But instinct made her fight anyway.

  She kicked at his legs and ripped her nails across his arms. She desperately tried to move her head so that she could bite him, but then she heard the hiss of the door gliding open behind her and felt the wind move into the room.

  Her bladder went at the same time as she staggered back, on to the balcony.

  A jumble of thoughts and pictures in those last few moments. It was cold and she was only twenty-two and there was blood in her mouth where she had bitten through her tongue. She thought about her mother and said, ‘Perdóname, Mama,’ in her head, or perhaps it was out loud when she felt the metal rail pressing hard into the small of her back.

  She was over then – tumbling and gone. Those lights in the marina rushing up at her and the wind like icy water.

  She screamed all the way down.

  FORTY

  ‘We’re gonna chase these fellas clear down to Texas . . .’

  It was late and Langford was in his cinema room, sprawled out in one of the leather recliners, the volume almost as high as it would go. He’d installed top-of-the-range speakers and he liked it good and loud, liked to feel each punch and gunshot go through him. He reckoned Unforgiven was the last great Western ever made. He had lost count of how many times he’d watched it and now it was just getting to the big shoot-out at the end which was hands down his favourite part. Where it’s pissing with rain and Clint walks into the bar to sort everyone out for killing Morgan Freeman.

  He reached down to the cool-box and took out a bottle of Mahou. He was still sweating, still rushing from what had been an eventful day.

  He’d had a couple more beers up in Ronda after his chat with Thorne, had enjoyed the afternoon and driven home a little pissed. It wasn’t something he worried about a great deal. He’d been stopped twice in the past and both times the mention of a high-ranking local cop had seen him waved on his way.

  A nice quiet life, that was what he’d said to Thorne, and Thorne had been right when he’d come back at him. Sometimes you had to do whatever was necessary to keep it that way.

  Some things went beyond business, hurt you in all sorts of places.

  In the bar, Clint cocks the rifle and everybody turns to look at him. He tells them he’s there to kill Little Bill, that he’s killed just about everything that walks or crawls at one time or another. That gets their attention all right.

  What had Thorne expected him to say when he’d reeled off those names? Monahan, the bent screw and the girl Thorne obviously had a thing for. ‘Fair enough, mate, we’ll finish our drinks and then you can pop me on a plane back home to face the music’?

  Probably just looking for a reaction, for a weak spot or whatever.

  Well, he’d be looking a bloody long time, same as everyone else.

  Clint shoots the owner of the place, but Gene Hackman knows he’s only got one round left, so he isn’t that worried. Then the classic misfire and all hell breaks loose and after he’s shot Gene, Clint just gets himself a drink, cool as fuck. Says he’s always been lucky when it comes to killing folks. And Clint hadn’t even wanted to get involved, that was the thing. He had his own nice, quiet life, didn’t he?

  He hadn’t started it . . .

  Those fucking photos, it all came down to them, and whichever spineless ponce had stuck them in the post.

  He was only reacting to the situation he’d been put in, after all. He hadn’t asked for any of it, done anything to warrant all the aggravation. But now the shit was flying at him from every direction and all sorts of people had to be sorted out.

  Only Gene Hackman isn’t really sorted out, not yet. Says he doesn’t deserve to die. Clint tells him that ‘deserves’ has got nothing to do with it before he finishes him off, up nice and close. He walks slowly into the rain then, past his mate’s body, and one by one all the hookers come out too, the whores like Candela who started it all. They all stand there and watch him ride away, even the one with the messed-up face.

  Fucking priceless.

  Langford waited and let the credits run, because he believed it was rude not to. Then he reached for another beer and pointed the remote so he could watch the scene one more time.

  FORTY-ONE

  Alison Hobbs, who used to be Alison Talbot, had remarried three years earlier. Six months after her first husband Chris had finally been declared legally dead. When she answered the door, there was a toddler peering from behind her legs, and her new husband was waiting for them when Holland and Kitson were shown into the living room.

  Stuart Hobbs had a firm handshake and gave a suitably solemn nod.

  Alison went to make tea, leaving Holland and Kitson to fill an awkward few minutes with small talk while her husband wrestled his small son on his lap. The drive up from London had been pretty good, despite the average speed checks on the M1. The toddler’s name was Gabriel, and the ‘terrible twos’ were kicking in. They were waiting on a quote to have the kitchen extended.

  Everyone looked happy when the tea arrived.

  ‘It’ll be a relief, actually,’ Stuart Hobbs said, ‘if you have found Chris. It’s not been particularly easy for either of us.’

  Holland said he could understand that. ‘Like I said on the phone, though, we can’t make a positive identification at the moment. That’s why we’re hoping you can answer a couple of questions that might help.’<
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  Alison sat down next to her husband. He took her hand. ‘Fire away,’ she said.

  ‘Did you know much about what Chris was working on?’ Kitson asked.

  She shook her head. ‘He didn’t really talk about it and I didn’t really want to know. Not once he’d moved into plain clothes, anyway. I knew there was a good deal of secret stuff, some seriously nasty people they were after, but he didn’t bring it home with him, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Sensible,’ Kitson said.

  Hobbs shifted his son gently to one side and leaned forward. ‘I thought this was just about . . . identification.’

  ‘It is,’ Holland said. He had already put a call in to Chris Talbot’s former DCI at Serious and Organised, but was still waiting to hear back. So far, Alison had certainly said nothing to suggest that the work her former husband was doing would not have brought him into contact with Alan Langford ten years before.

  ‘You think the fact that Chris was a copper is important?’ Alison asked.

  ‘Yes, it might be.’

  ‘Might have had something to do with what happened, you mean?’

  ‘Well, as I said before—’

  The door to the living room opened suddenly and a boy walked in – twelve or thirteen, with shoulder-length hair and a My Chemical Romance sweatshirt. He stopped as soon as he saw that there were visitors, shifted awkwardly from one trainer to the other. ‘My World of Warcraft account needs topping up,’ he said, looking at the carpet.

  ‘I’ll sort it out later,’ Hobbs said.

  The boy mumbled a ‘thanks’ and left quickly.

  ‘That was Jack,’ Alison said.

  Holland and Kitson nodded; the maths was easy enough. Chris Talbot’s son.

  ‘Stupid bloody computer game,’ Hobbs said.

  There was a slightly uncomfortable silence until Alison got up, saying ‘oh’ as though she had remembered something and going to fetch a cardboard box that Holland had seen at the bottom of the stairs on their way in.

  ‘I got this down from the loft,’ she said. ‘It’s a few of Chris’s things. I thought they might be useful.’ She laid it on the carpet in front of Holland and he leaned down to look at it. ‘There’s a few photos and some other bits and pieces. Not much, really. Considering.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Kitson said. ‘Thank you.’

  Holland lifted the flaps of the box, tried to make his question as casual as possible. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know if Chris had his appendix out,’ he said.

  Alison looked taken aback, then nodded slowly. ‘I think so. I mean, there was a scar, but you should probably check with Chris’s mum. I can put you in touch with her, but we don’t really talk much these days.’ She shrugged, summoned a thin smile. ‘She wasn’t exactly thrilled when Stuart and I got married.’

  Kitson said, ‘It’s difficult.’

  Alison squeezed her husband’s hand.

  ‘Did he ever have an operation to put pins into his leg?’ Holland asked.

  ‘Yeah, Chris smashed his leg up playing rugby, the silly sod,’ Alison broke into a smile. ‘He was pretty good, actually. Played for the Met’s first fifteen a couple of times.’

  Holland nodded, impressed. He reached down and began rummaging in the box, but could not resist a glance across at Stuart Hobbs.

  ‘I play football,’ Hobbs said.

  Holland looked up at Alison and he could see then that she knew they had found Chris Talbot’s body. He had no idea what she still felt for the man to whom she had been married and whom she now knew to be dead, but the swell of sympathy he felt was not just because of her loss. He could see that the woman simply did not know how she was supposed to react. Sitting there as wife and widow, ten years on, with her new husband and his firm handshake.

  Alison laughed softly, remembering. ‘He used to have all sorts of problems with airport X-ray machines . . .’

  ‘Be even worse these days,’ Hobbs said.

  Holland pulled a framed photograph of a rugby team from the box. He looked for Chris Talbot’s name at the bottom and found him halfway along the second row. His arms were folded high on his chest and his ears stuck out. Holland could not detect much of a resemblance to the boy he had seen a few minutes earlier.

  Kitson started to say something about Jack and DNA, but Holland was no longer paying attention.

  He was staring at the photograph.

  Two along from where Chris Talbot was standing was a face Holland recognised.

  Ten minutes later, he and Kitson were walking back towards the car.

  ‘We have to tell Thorne,’ Kitson said.

  Holland held up a hand. He already had his phone out and was listening to a message. ‘Sonia Murray,’ he said. ‘Asking me to call her back urgently.’ He shook his head, unable to place the name.

  ‘I’ve seen her name somewhere,’ Kitson said.

  Then Holland remembered an attractive black woman, the barrage of abuse as she walked along the landing.

  Sonia Murray was the police liaison officer at Wakefield Prison.

  FORTY-TWO

  Thorne’s mood had been bad enough already when he’d got the call from Fraser . . .

  He had managed to find a copy of the previous day’s Daily Mail and having bitten back the bile – he had only been looking for a report on the Spurs – Villa game anyway – had taken it to the café to read over breakfast. The match report had been brief and uninformative, probably because there was no scope to make any comment on illegal immigrants or dole scroungers, but flicking through the paper he had come across a double-page article written by Adam Chambers’ girlfriend.

  Natalie Bennett had been charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice. Although there was little doubt she had lied, the charges had been dropped following her boyfriend’s acquittal. In the article, beneath a caption that read ‘Picking up the Pieces’, she movingly described her efforts to rebuild her life after the trauma she and Adam had endured. There was a photo of her smiling bravely.

  If Thorne had been served his breakfast by then, he would have heaved it up across the table.

  Even more disturbingly, Bennett mentioned that she and Chambers were currently working on a book that would ‘lift the lid’ on the abysmal failings of the police investigation and in which the full extent of their suffering would be revealed. Thorne read on, thinking things could not get any worse, until he spotted that the book was being co-written by a hack journalist and true-crime writer called Nick Maier. Thorne had had dealings with Maier in the past, and the thought of him profiting in any way from what had happened to Andrea Keane turned his stomach still further.

  By the time he had thrown the paper away, his appetite had all but gone and the call from Fraser killed it altogether.

  Now, he was stepping gingerly through a crime scene, in the apartment from which Candela Bernal had fallen to her death the night before.

  ‘You seen many jumpers?’ Fraser asked.

  ‘She didn’t jump, Peter.’

  ‘Just saying. They take their glasses off, did you know that? I saw it in an old episode of Inspector Morse.’

  ‘She didn’t wear glasses,’ Thorne said, ‘and she didn’t fucking jump.’

  ‘I know, OK? Just making conversation, Christ . . .’

  The sliding door that led to the balcony was open and there were more officers working outside. A blue tarpaulin that had been secured to the railings snapped and fluttered in the wind.

  ‘Why was nobody watching this place?’ Thorne asked. ‘We told her there would be protection.’

  Fraser raised his hands. ‘Nothing to do with me, mate.’

  ‘Well, somebody screwed up,’ Thorne said. He considered everything Silcox and Mullenger had told him back in London. ‘Or looked the other way.’

  ‘Come on, we couldn’t have guessed it would be so quick.’

  ‘Couldn’t we?’ Thorne was as angry with himself as he was with Fraser or any of his colleagues. ‘Langford probably su
ssed it when she told him she had to go home early. He might even have seen her put the champagne glass in her bag.’

  ‘Look, none of this was my idea, all right?’

  Thorne moved away, but Fraser followed, a pace or two behind, his hands stuffed sulkily into the pockets of his plastic bodysuit. Thorne stepped across a local scene of crime officer who was on his hands and knees, scraping at the carpet. The officer muttered something in Spanish that was almost certainly not ‘Good morning and how are you?’ as Thorne walked over to where the two suitcases lay near the door.

  ‘She was trying to leave,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Looks that way.’ Fraser moved alongside him, nodded at the door. ‘No sign of forced entry, so maybe she knew him.’

  ‘You should check with all the local taxi companies.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she just have taken her own car?’

  ‘Too easy to trace,’ Thorne said. ‘She’d have known Langford has friends in high places. Including police officers.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest, mate,’ Fraser said.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything.’

  ‘One or two of the local boys might be a bit dodgy, fair enough, but . . .’

  Thorne had already stopped listening to him. He was staring at a small, glass-topped side table next to the sofa. There was an empty wine glass and a beer bottle minus a label. In the ashtray, dark gobbets of rolled-up paper lay scattered among the lipstick-stained cigarette butts.

  ‘Langford did this himself,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘He killed her.’

  ‘No way,’ Fraser said. ‘You’ve said it yourself, he doesn’t get involved in the messy stuff.’

  ‘Messy’ was the only way to describe the scene on the street seventeen floors below. By the time Thorne had got there, the area had been sealed off and hidden from the public, but there was still a good deal of cleaning up to be done. They would be lucky if there was enough of Candela Bernal left for a post-mortem.