From the Dead tt-9

by Mark Billingham

  SEVEN

  Though there had been a prison on the same site since 1595, the majority of the current building dated from two hundred and fifty years later, with a brooding neo-Gothic gatehouse and wings arranged in the typical midnineteenth-century radial system. Like most Victorian prisons, HMP Wakefield had certainly not been designed to be beautiful, but approaching it, as he had done several times before, it seemed to Thorne as though every blackened brick and each barred window had been infused by those that had built it with something poisonous. Something subtle and dark that might leach from the building's brutal fabric into those inside and slowly kill off hope; harden them. Or perhaps it was the other way round. Was it the people within its walls that made the place so ugly?

  Whether it was a Victorian monstrosity like Pentonville or Strangeways, or a pale, concrete, US-style penitentiary like Belmarsh, Thorne was never wholly comfortable stepping inside a prison.

  He could see that Anna Carpenter felt the same way.

  He watched her cheerfully handing over her passport at the first of three checkpoints they would have to pass through before being admitted into the main body of the prison.

  'Trust me to get the wrong end of the bloody stick,' she said, nodding towards Thorne. 'There I was thinking that when he asked me to bring my passport, he was going to whisk me off on some glamorous, last-minute holiday.'

  The man-monkey checking her details did not so much as glance up from the paperwork. Anna turned to Thorne, rolled her eyes. She was rattled, he could see that, and overdoing the nonchalance.

  'Nice to chat,' she said, when her passport was handed back.

  She was right to be apprehensive, though. Thorne knew that better than most. The outfit she was wearing – a suitably understated dark skirt and jacket – would lead any prisoner to assume she was a copper. She would feel studied and hated, just as much as Thorne always did. But, as a woman, she would also feel things that were a damn sight more unpleasant.

  'He was a cheery so-and-so,' she said, as they moved on.

  Rattled as she might have been, Anna seemed in a better mood now than she had been two and a half hours earlier at King's Cross, marching up to where Thorne stood slurping from a takeaway coffee at one minute before eight o'clock.

  'A bit of notice would have been nice.'

  'You're very punctual,' Thorne said. 'I like that.'

  'And I don't like being told what to wear.'

  'You should consider yourself lucky. I was dead set against you coming at all.'

  'So why am I here?'

  'Because I do what I'm told.'

  'Why don't I believe that?'

  Thorne blew on his coffee, began walking towards the platform.

  'Coming where, anyway?' she asked, following. 'Do I get to find out where I'm going, or is that classified information? I'm guessing it's not Hogwarts.'

  Thorne told her.

  'Bloody hell.'

  '"Bloody hell" is right,' Thorne said. 'Now, here are the rules. ..'

  Once they were through security, they moved towards the Visits Area. Even though the route kept them well clear of prison landings and association areas, the atmosphere worsened. Wakefield was a high-security lifers' prison, and the air tasted a little different when so many of those breathing it had nothing to lose and no reason to give a shit. Anna was clearly still thrown simply by being there, maintaining an all but constant stream of frivolous comments as they walked.

  'You need to turn it down a bit,' he said.

  'Turn it down?'

  'The volume. All of it. I know you're nervous, but-'

  'I'm fine.'

  'And I certainly don't want any chit-chat when we see Monahan. Fair enough?'

  'Sorry,' she said. 'I talk too much, I know that. Always have. Overcompensating, I suppose.'

  'For what?'

  'All sorts.'

  They rounded a corner and entered the waiting area. Two dozen people sat clutching torn-off, numbered tickets as though they were queuing at a supermarket deli counter. Thorne showed his authorisation to the officer at the desk, and he and Anna walked straight through to the Visits Area. The room was large, bright and airy, with several rows of clean tables and simple metal chairs. A prison officer sat near the doors at either end, while a third moved slowly up and down between the tables, leading a bored-looking sniffer-dog. The carpet smelled new and Thorne wondered if that made the dog's job any harder. It can't have helped, surely. How many visitors were able to waltz in with wraps of crack shoved up their arses for weeks after Allied Carpets had been in?

  There was a supervised play area in one corner, and a few smaller rooms for private visits at the far end. As they moved past a refreshments counter towards one of these, Anna asked, 'What about building a rapport?'

  'What?'

  'No chit-chat, like you said, but don't we need to make him relaxed or whatever?'

  ' We don't need to do anything,' Thorne said. 'And trust me, you don't want any kind of "rapport" with a man like Paul Monahan.'

  He was waiting for them, looking agitated, if not exactly nervous. His face and hair were both greyer than Thorne remembered, and he had filled out a little beneath the blue and white striped shirt he wore with standard HMP-issue jeans and training shoes. He stabbed at his watch. 'You're late.' The irritation was clear enough under the nasal Derry twang.

  'Somewhere else you'd like to be?' Thorne asked. He took off his jacket, laid it across the back of a chair. Anna did the same.

  'Got a class.'

  Thorne nodded. It looked like he, rather than Gary Brand, had been closer to the mark when it came to guessing at Monahan's prison hobbies. That said, it might have been a class in cage fighting. Like most prisons, aside from a bewildering assortment of treatment programmes, Wakefield had an enormous range of activities and educational opportunities on offer. Thorne happened to know for example that those working in the engineering workshop spent their time making security gates, grilles and fencing. Even he had to admit that sounded like taking the piss. 'I thought you might have a hot date.'

  'You were funny as cancer ten years ago,' Monahan said. 'You've not got any funnier.'

  'Nice to see you again, too.'

  Monahan looked at Anna for the first time. 'Who's this?'

  'Detective Carpenter,' Thorne said. Not a lie. Not exactly. He saw Monahan's eyes wander across Anna's body, lingering where they shouldn't. 'Let's crack on, shall we? Seeing as you're so busy.'

  Monahan shrugged, leaned back.

  'You know your former employer's out and about, don't you?' Thorne let it hang for a few seconds. 'I'm talking about Donna Langford, obviously.'

  Another shrug. Monahan might have known, or known and not cared.

  'Sorry, when I said "employer", did you think I meant Alan Langford?'

  The hesitation was brief, but it was enough. 'Why would I think that?'

  'Well, you did some work for him too, once upon a time. Before Donna hired you, I mean.'

  'So?'

  'So, I'm just trying to avoid any confusion.'

  'You're the one who's confused, pal. How can he be out and about anywhere?'

  'Of course. He's dead meat, isn't he?' Thorne shook his head in mock-annoyance at his own mock-idiocy. 'Seriously overdone meat, now I think about it, but certainly dead. Stupid mistake on my part. Don't know what I was thinking.' He looked hard at Monahan, watched the eyes move back to Anna.

  Less about lust this time. More an attempt to change the way the conversation was heading.

  'Isn't it kind of annoying?' Thorne asked. 'Donna on the out while you're still stuck in here, doing your GCSEs or whatever.'

  'Not thought about it,' Monahan said.

  'I don't think I believe you.'

  'Believe what you like.'

  'Not that you've done yourself a lot of favours, mind you. All that extra time getting whacked on to your sentence. Assaulting prison guards, trashing your cell…'

  'Why should you care?'

&nb
sp; 'I couldn't give a toss, but it's not clever, is it?'

  'I get wound up.'

  'You must love that Seg Unit.'

  Monahan's head dropped a little, one hand pulling at the fingers of the other. 'Can't do anything about it.'

  'What have you got, another seven or eight years, minimum?'

  A nod. His chin inching closer to his chest.

  Thorne was about to speak again when Anna cut in. 'Sounds like it could get a whole lot longer if you're not careful,' she said. If she was aware of the hard look Thorne gave her, she chose to ignore it. 'You need to sort yourself out.'

  Monahan raised his head, sniffed. After a few seconds he looked away from Anna, sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Cocksure again and waiting for them to get to whatever it was they had come such a long way to talk to him about.

  'There are ways to reduce your sentence,' Thorne said. 'Radical idea, I know.'

  Monahan smiled thinly, with just a hint of prison teeth. 'Getting to it now, are we? What you actually want.'

  'What? We can't just pop in to see how you are?'

  'Like I said, funny as cancer.'

  'It's really no big thing,' Thorne said. 'Just a little help with a murder we're trying to solve. Not even that, actually, because we know very well who the murderer is. It's more a question of trying to identify the victim.'

  'Why should I know anything?'

  'Well, because it was you that handcuffed the poor bastard to the wheel of that Jag and set fire to it.'

  Monahan stared for a few seconds, then began to shake his head and show a few more teeth. 'You're mental, you know that?'

  'Barking,' Thorne said. 'Completely off my trolley. But let's see just how mad I am, shall we? I mean, let's think for a minute about how this might have panned out. I'm guessing that Alan found out what his dearly beloved was up to. Overheard her on the phone or talking in her sleep, it doesn't really matter. Then he comes to you before you get a chance to do what she's paid you for and makes you a better offer.'

  Monahan looked at Anna, nodded towards Thorne. 'Who did you piss off to get stuck with him?'

  'So, you had to find someone to take his place,' Thorne said. 'Did you do that or did Alan find someone? Had to be someone roughly the same height and general appearance, I suppose. Not that it really mattered by the time you'd finished with him.'

  Monahan was still looking at Anna. 'Seriously, love, you want to put in for a transfer.'

  'Thanks, I'll bear it in mind,' she said. 'Now tell us who you got to replace Alan Langford in that car.'

  Thorne turned, ready with another hard stare of admonishment. Then he saw the look on Anna's face, and Monahan's reaction to her simple, straightforward question, and decided to save it for later.

  Monahan composed himself. Took a deep breath. 'Alan Langford is dead, OK? Jesus, why do you think I'm in here? His missus paid me to get rid of him and I did what I was good at back then. Fair enough?'

  'Well, it would be,' Thorne said. 'If I hadn't just seen a photo of Mr Langford looking ever so well.' Monahan swallowed and looked away. 'He's alive and kicking, Paul, and we all know it.'

  'So, no need for any more bullshit,' Anna said.

  Thorne nodded, sat back. 'Yep, that's another one on the out, getting himself a very nice suntan while you're rotting in here, the colour of a manky spud. I mean, we've got to presume he's been making it worth your while all these years, you saying nothing. Something nice to look forward to when you come out, I shouldn't wonder. And he's probably taking care of your nearest and dearest, right? Keeping up the mortgage payments, all that.'

  'This is stupid,' Monahan said quietly. ' You're the ones who are bullshitting.'

  'Has it really been worth it, though?' Thorne almost sounded as if he meant it. 'I mean, you've already been in here a good long while, no matter how much you might cop for when you get out.'

  Monahan stared above their heads, chewed at something.

  'You've got a son, haven't you?' Anna asked.

  Thorne took the cue without a beat. 'What is he now, mid-twenties?'

  'Be nice to get out that bit sooner and see him,' Anna said. 'Don't you reckon?'

  Monahan reddened, and as his hands tightened around the arm of his chair, in the few seconds before he dragged himself closer to the table, it was easy to see why he had spent so much time in segregation. He leaned towards Anna and whispered, 'I reckon that I'll be thinking about you a bit later.' His hand dropped to his groin and squeezed. 'When I'm lying on my bunk with my cock in my hand.'

  Anna moved closer to him. 'That's nice to know, because I'll be thinking about you too, Paul.'

  Thorne raised a hand. 'Anna…'

  If there were any nerves left, she showed no sign of them. 'And I'll be having a good laugh, because I'll just have been shagged stupid by a bloke who can do whatever he wants, whenever he fancies it, and doesn't have to shit in a bucket.' Her smile developed as quickly as Monahan's disappeared. 'But you go ahead and enjoy yourself too.'

  Monahan stood up quickly and Thorne moved with him, ready to step in if need be. For a moment, it looked as though Monahan might snap, but then he sucked his teeth and grinned, as though it had been no more than a cosy chinwag, before turning and walking to the door.

  A guard appeared and Monahan told him that he was done.

  'Have fun in class,' Thorne said.

  EIGHT

  They caught the two-thirty train back to London. As soon as they were settled in a relatively quiet carriage, Thorne gave Anna a ten-pound note and sent her to the buffet car for hot drinks and sandwiches. Once she had gone, he phoned Brigstocke.

  '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.'