‘Well, I don’t think we were telling Monahan anything he didn’t know,’ Thorne said.

‘Other than the fact that we know.’

‘Right.’

‘That shake him?’

‘I think so. We’ll need to come back at some point, have another crack at him, but in the meantime we can gather a bit of ammunition. We need to look at his family. Get their bank statements, check out new cars they shouldn’t be able to afford, where they’ve been going on their holidays, usual stuff.’

‘I don’t think it’ll be as simple as that,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Probably all done in cash, nothing that can be traced.’

‘You never know,’ Thorne said. ‘Give some people more than they’re used to and there’s always some idiot who can’t resist flashing it around. The main thing is that word gets back to Monahan. As long as he knows we’re looking, putting on the pressure, he won’t be quite so cocky next time we come to visit.’

‘Course, he might not know much,’ Brigstocke said. ‘If Langford organised that side of it, he might have decided that the less people who knew the better.’

‘Monahan knows something that’s worth paying for. He could have made some sort of deal ten years ago, told us the truth and got himself a shorter sentence, but he swallowed it. Langford obviously promised him a decent whack in exchange for keeping his mouth shut, and I don’t think he would have done that unless Monahan knew something . . . dangerous.’

‘Like who was really in that Jag.’

‘I reckon.’

Brigstocke told Thorne that he’d set up a meeting with somebody from the Serious and Organised Crime Agency, because trying to build a case against Alan Langford was likely to involve them at some point. They had departments that could uncover any financial irregularities or examine in forensic detail the business dealings that Langford – or whatever he was calling himself these days – had been engaged in since his ‘death’. SOCA had money and manpower, but was not always easy to deal with and moved notoriously slowly.

‘Be a damn sight simpler for everyone if we could just nail him for murder,’ Brigstocke said.

‘I’m doing my best,’ Thorne said.

‘And there’s the small matter of finding him . . .’ Again, Brigstocke explained that SOCA would have far greater resources available than any homicide team when it came to tracing overseas felons, but that they did need to know which country they should start looking in.

In the absence of the high-tech photographic facility Anna Carpenter had been talking about, Thorne had sent copies of the Langford photographs to a man he hoped would be able to help. Dennis Bethell was an informant of many years’ standing. He was also something of a genius when it came to cameras and film development, albeit one who chose to use his talent in the production of hardcore pornography.

‘I’ve told Dennis we’re in a hurry,’ Thorne said.

‘How were things with your new partner?’ Brigstocke asked.

‘We need to have words.’

‘That good, eh?’

When Thorne spotted Anna on her way back from the buffet car, he told Brigstocke that they were about to go into a tunnel, that he’d give him the details next time he saw him. Brigstocke told him not to bother coming back to the office, so Thorne agreed to call him from home.

‘Have fun with young Miss Marple,’ Brigstocke said.

Thorne took his tea and sandwiches and swore loudly enough to provoke disgusted looks from the elderly couple across the aisle when Anna told him there was no change from his tenner. He sugared his tea and lowered his voice and said, ‘So, what the hell was all that about back there?’

‘All what?’

‘I told you not to say anything.’

‘Come on, I couldn’t just sit there like a plank,’ Anna said. ‘It would have looked really strange.’

‘I don’t care how it would have looked. I was there to question a potentially crucial witness and you were there to observe, that’s all. I did not want you chipping in.’

‘I thought we made a good team.’

‘We’re not any sort of team,’ Thorne said.

‘Whatever.’

‘And what was all that stuff about his son?’

‘That worked. You know it did. It got a reaction.’

‘It’s about getting the right reaction.’ Thorne’s voice was loud enough to have attracted the attention of the elderly couple again, but he was past caring. ‘You were there as a courtesy, and you abused that.’

‘Sorry—’

‘It won’t be happening again.’

‘I said I’m sorry.’

Thorne sat back and bit into his sandwich. He lifted the bread and peered down at the sliver of sweating ham. Rain was starting to streak the window, and the countryside moved past in blocks of brown and grey.

‘Maybe you’ve got a problem working with women,’ Anna said.

Thorne swallowed quickly. ‘What?’

‘Some blokes do. The bloke I work for certainly does.’

‘We were not working together.’

‘You said that already.’

Thorne glanced across at the elderly couple and smiled. They both looked away. He lowered his voice. ‘Anyway, that’s bollocks. I’ve worked with plenty of women. I still work with plenty of women.’

‘Are you married?’

‘What?’

‘I’m just making conversation. I mean, I presume that woman I met the other night . . .’

‘We just live together,’ Thorne said. ‘Off and on. I don’t mean that the relationship is off and on. I mean . . . we have our own places.’

‘Sensible.’

‘I’m glad you approve.’

‘What does she do?’

‘She’s a police officer.’ Thorne shoved the remains of his sandwich back into its bag. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

Anna held up her hands. ‘Sorry.’ She turned towards the window. ‘Again.’

Thorne wasn’t sorry. It had needed saying, all of it. In spite of that, he started to feel a little guilty, watching her stare out at the damp and desolate Yorkshire landscape as the silence grew between them. She looked like a teenager who wanted to be older, trying hard not to show that she cared about being slapped down. She looked thwarted, and Thorne found himself thinking she was probably used to feeling like that. He also found himself wanting to know more about the ‘bloke she worked for’. Wishing she would start jabbering again.

‘Look, it was out of order,’ he said, ‘But you were probably right. That stuff about Monahan’s son.’

She turned from the window.

‘I’m not saying that I’d want you to do it again, OK? But, yes, it seemed to do the trick. It got the right reaction.’

She mumbled a ‘thanks’, doing her best not to look as delighted as she clearly was.

‘That little speech at the end was pretty good, too. Were you just winding him up, or . . . ?’

‘Meant every word,’ Anna said.

‘Prisoners don’t actually shit in buckets any more, but aside from that it was very moving.’

Thorne had not seen her laugh before, not really. They were the best moments of an average day.

The deal was done with just a look, the smallest of gestures.

He shut the heavy door of the storeroom behind him, sat down alongside a rack of metal shelves stacked with catering-sized cans of soup, tomatoes and kidney beans. He took out the phone. It was small, out of necessity, and a basic model, but he did not need bells and whistles.

The call was answered quickly.

‘You took your time,’ the man said.

‘It’s the first chance I’ve had to call.’

‘Busy schedule?’

Voices were raised right outside the door. He told the man to hang on, closed his hand around the phone, waited a minute. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s safe.’

‘No point taking stupid risks . . .’

‘Listen, there were coppers here today.’

‘I know.’

‘Visits Area still stinks of bacon.’

‘Why do you think I sent the text?’

‘So, what do you want me to do?’

The man paused, like he was taking a sip of something. ‘I want you to start earning your money.’

Thorne could see straight away that his friend was keen to kick back a little. ‘Tough day at the office, dear?’

‘I could do with a drink,’ Hendricks said. ‘Been cutting up a teenager all afternoon.’ He took a can from the bag and opened it. ‘I mean, obviously he’d already been cut up by several other teenagers.’ He dropped his long black coat on to the sofa and sat down at the small dining table.

As Home Office-registered forensic pathologists went, Phil Hendricks was unusual, to say the least. Thorne had certainly not met any others with shaved heads, multiple body piercings and more tattoos than the average heavy metal guitarist. He had never met one as skilled either, or as empathetic to the victims he dissected. The jokes – delivered with immaculate timing in a flat, Mancunian accent – were often tasteless, but Thorne knew what was going on behind them.

He had seen his friend’s pain up close and often.

‘That smells fantastic, Lou.’

It had been a while since Hendricks had treated himself to a new piercing, something he usually did to mark the acquisition of a new boyfriend, but he was keen to show off his latest tattoo: a scattering of small red stars on his right shoulder.

‘Looks like designer acne,’ Thorne said.

Hendricks was chewing, so just stuck up a finger.

‘Didn’t fancy the “Sodomy” tat then?’ Louise asked.

A few months earlier, a City-based chaplain had made headlines by saying that gay men should be ‘marked’ with government health warnings, like cigarette packets. His suggestion that they have ‘Sodomy Can Seriously Damage Your Health’ tattooed across their buttocks had caused predictable outrage and eventually forced the priest into hiding. ‘I’m going to hunt the God-bothering little gobshite down,’ Hendricks had said at the time. ‘Damage his health.’

Now, he shook his head and grinned. ‘Decided against it in the end,’ he said. ‘Mainly because I couldn’t fit all those words across my perfectly tight little arse.’

Louise laughed and said that she would have had no trouble. In a decent-sized font. In capital letters.

Thorne talked about his trip to Wakefield, about Monahan’s refusal to admit that the body in the Jag had not been Alan Langford’s. About the need to prove that Monahan was being paid to keep quiet.

‘If he’s not going to cough, I don’t see what else you can do.’ Louise poured herself and Thorne more wine. ‘You’re only likely to get anywhere by following the money.’

‘That won’t get us very far though, will it?’

‘Sorry, but you’re not going to get it on a plate, darling.’

Ten years earlier, Hendricks had carried out the post-mortem on the body that had been found in Epping Forest. What had been left of it. ‘You could always exhume the remains,’ he said. ‘There might be the odd blackened molar knocking around in the ashes. But even dental won’t help unless you’ve got some idea who the victim was.’

‘Which we haven’t.’

‘So, you’re pretty much stuffed, mate. As long shots go, it’s right up there with Tottenham getting a top-four finish.’

‘Shouldn’t you be heading home?’ Thorne said.

They finished eating, opened another bottle and a couple more cans. Thorne put on a new CD of stripped-down Willie Nelson recordings and Hendricks told him that it sounded as though someone was slowly feeding a cat through a mangle. Thorne pointed out that, as usual, Hendricks had now slagged off both his football team and his taste in music, and asked to be reminded exactly why Hendricks considered himself to be a friend. Hendricks said it was less about being a ‘friend’ and more to do with being the only person Thorne did not actually sleep with who was willing to put up with him.

Louise started gathering the plates, scraping at the leftovers. ‘Who did you go up to Wakefield with today?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Boys’ day out with Dave Holland, was it?’

Thorne looked for something other than simple curiosity in her face and felt blood move inexplicably to his own. He hesitated, began rubbing at a mark his glass had left on the table. ‘Actually, I took that private detective with me,’ he said. ‘The one who popped round here the other night. Had to take her, in the end.’

‘The girl?’

Thorne shrugged, pulled a face that he hoped would say, ‘Ridiculous, I know,’ and explained: ‘Jesmond thinks we need to keep her on side, make sure she doesn’t go blabbing to the papers about the fact that we screwed up with the Langford case.’ He knew he was talking too fast, sounded as though he were lying. ‘Pain in the arse, as it turned out, just like I told Jesmond it would be, but there we are. I got well and truly lumbered. What can I tell you?’

‘You don’t have to tell me anything,’ Louise said, laughing. ‘I just asked a simple question.’

She carried the plates out to the kitchen and began to load the dishwasher. Thorne looked over and saw Hendricks mouthing a ‘What?’ He waved the question away and stood up to change the CD.

Louise shouted from the kitchen: ‘Do you want coffee, Phil?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ Hendricks said. ‘I’ll be up all night, and not in a good way.’

Thorne looked along the rack of albums, trying to decide whether Louise’s laugh had been forced or genuine. He could not be sure either way, but was fairly confident that the subject would resurface once Hendricks had left.

Louise appeared in the doorway. ‘You sure?’

‘I think I should probably be heading off.’

‘I’ve got decaf.’

‘Why don’t you just stay the night?’ Thorne asked.

Animal noises.

When he was not in the Segregation Unit, this was his favourite part of the day. The hour he liked best. On his own, reading or smoking, while the other inmates got through association their own way, playing table tennis, working out or whatever. A bubble of peace, with the rest of the prison moving around him. He enjoyed the stillness – such as it was, with six hundred other blokes sharing the oxygen – but knew there was company just a few feet away, if ever he wanted it. He far preferred being alone in a crowd to those stinking, scratchy hours of genuine isolation, even though he’d always brought them on himself.

It was like he’d said to Thorne, though. Sometimes he just couldn’t help himself.

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.

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.