‘Granted,’ Thorne said, ‘there are reasons why we might want to find Alan Langford if we thought he was the man in these pictures. But why do you want to find him? I’m guessing you’re not looking to kiss and make up, see if he’s got room on his yacht for you and your girlfriend.’
‘Me and Kate are fine as we are.’
‘I’m pleased for you. But even so, you’ve got good reason to be ever so slightly pissed off with him.’
‘Life’s too short.’
‘For some more than others,’ Thorne said.
‘I was angrier with him when I thought he was dead than I am now,’ Donna said. ‘I could have happily killed him a dozen times over. It’s not about that any more.’
‘So why, then?’
‘I want to find him,’ Donna said, ‘because I think he’s got my daughter.’
Thorne had completely forgotten that there had been a child. A memory stirred and came quickly into focus: a young girl standing at the fridge in that cavernous kitchen, pouring herself something to drink, asking her mother who Thorne was and what he wanted.
He struggled to remember the name. Emma? Ellen?
‘I’m listening,’ Thorne said.
‘Ellie was only seven when I went inside, and there was no one to take her. Nobody who wanted her at any rate. Nobody who Social Services considered fit for it.’ She leaned forward, mashed her cigarette butt into the ashtray, and told Thorne that with no grandparents to step in, her daughter had eventually been taken into long-term foster care. ‘My younger sister would have taken her if she’d had to, but we never got on that well. Besides which, her old man wasn’t keen. The only other option was Alan’s brother, but he had even more form than Alan, which didn’t make him an ideal candidate either. So . . .’
Thorne felt a niggle of guilt that he had not known any of this, nor taken the trouble to find out. But it was the way things worked. Though not always successful, he tried not to think too much about those he put away or the people they left behind. His concerns were generally reserved for the dead and their relatives. But in this case, of course, he had not cared a great deal about the victim, either.
‘When did you last see her?’ Thorne asked.
‘The day I was arrested.’
‘What? I don’t understand.’
‘Obviously she was way too young to visit,’ Donna said. ‘I was told she’d gone into care, that she was doing OK and that Social Services would consider allowing visits when she turned sixteen. Meanwhile, I got photos.’ She reached for yet more pictures and passed them across to Thorne. ‘Three or four times a year. Occasionally they let her put a note or a drawing in with them.’
Thorne saw the girl he remembered from Donna’s kitchen growing up over the course of a dozen or so finger-smeared photographs. A gawky-looking child cradling a puppy. A girl with long, blonde hair posing with her friends in netball kit. A sullen teenager, the hair now cut short and dyed black, the practised and perfected expression somewhere between boredom and resentment.
‘When she was sixteen,’ Donna said, ‘Social Services wrote and told me that, considering the severity of my offence, they had decided it would not be in my daughter’s best interests to visit until she was eighteen. Then, last August . . .’ She stopped and took a deep breath, swallowed hard. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. ‘I got a letter telling me that she’d gone missing.’
‘What happened?’
‘She vanished, simple as that. According to her foster parents, she went out one night and never came home. They were upset, obviously, but since she was eighteen the police weren’t interested and that was that.’ She picked up the cigarette packet, then dropped it back on to the table. The whisper had darkened. ‘Social Services said they thought I’d like to know. Thought I’d like to know. Can you believe that?’
‘If she went missing last August,’ Thorne said, ‘that was only a few months before you received the first photograph.’
‘She didn’t go missing. She was taken.’
‘Don’t you think the two things might be connected?’
If Donna heard the question, she showed no sign of it. She just stared at Thorne, her breathing heavy and her eyes filling as she reached for her cigarettes yet again, turned the packet over and over in her hands. ‘I need her back,’ she said. ‘I was taken from her. Now she’s been taken from me.’ She looked at Thorne. ‘Can you find her?’
Thorne could not hold the look. He dropped his eyes to the tabletop, to the changing face of Ellie Langford.
‘Can you?’
An eighteen-year-old girl, gone. Missing.
Another one.
The phone buzzed in Thorne’s jacket pocket and he stood up quickly. He saw that it was DS Dave Holland calling, told Donna he needed to take it, and stepped into the corridor.
‘It’s Chambers,’ Holland said. ‘It’s not good news.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
‘Bastard’s on TV right now.’
Thorne walked back into the living room and asked Donna if she would mind turning on her television.
It was actually the bastard’s solicitor doing all the talking, posing on the steps outside the Old Bailey and issuing a statement on his client’s behalf because ‘Mr Chambers’ was ‘too overcome to speak’. Family and friends were thanked, as were those who continued to believe in his client and to have faith in a just outcome. Chambers himself stood a few feet behind and to the right. He kept his head down, nodding in agreement, looking up only once to wave at the rank of photographers who were shouting his name.
He smiled shyly. He’d already taken off his tie.
Kate had appeared in the doorway behind Thorne. ‘He definitely did it,’ she said, nodding towards the TV. ‘I said that right from the start, didn’t I, Don? He killed that poor girl and hid her somewhere. Look at him, you can see it.’
‘You can’t see anything,’ Donna said. ‘You can never tell.’ She shook her head. ‘Not everything’s what it seems, is it? I mean, I thought Alan was dead.’
‘Thanks for the tea,’ Thorne said.
SIX
Unexpectedly running into his chief superintendent could provoke a wide range of emotions in Tom Thorne. Revulsion, horror and fury were among the most common. But seeing him with his feet under Russell Brigstocke’s desk, today of all days, caused Thorne to feel nothing but a wash of bog-standard bemusement.
Thorne was spotted hovering in the doorway, beckoned into the office and instructed to close the door.
As a man who normally kept well away on days such as this one, blithely wafting the stink of failure in the direction of others, Trevor Jesmond was the last person Thorne expected to see. Had the Chambers result gone the other way, of course, it would have been a different story. Jesmond would have been the first one cracking open the supermarket Cava and saying his finely honed piece to all and sundry.
Failure, though, did not touch the likes of Trevor Jesmond. Not in any sense.
Thorne walked towards the desk, nodding to Brigstocke, who was seated near the window, as he went. Even before he had sat down, Jesmond was shaking his head, then raising his arms in theatrical disbelief and giving it his best, matey ‘What can you do?’ expression.
‘No sense to it, Tom,’ he said. ‘No sense at all. Just chalk it up.’
Chalk it up? You pathetic, pussy-arsed tosser.
‘Right,’ Thorne said.
‘You did everything you could. You did a fantastic job.’
So, it’s my fault? thought Thorne. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Just put it behind you. Get back on the horse.’
Why are you here?
‘Now, obviously, I came in to gee the team up a bit in the wake of this Chambers fiasco, but seeing as I’m here . . .’
Here we go . . .
Jesmond leaned forward, leafing through the papers in front of him on the desk. He nodded towards Brigstocke, and Thorne noticed that the bald patch was that little bit bigger than las
t time; that even though there was less hair, the production of dandruff only seemed to have increased.
‘I’ve been talking to Russell about this Alan Langford thing.’
Thorne glanced at Brigstocke, whose barely perceptible shrug told Thorne everything he needed to know. DCI was a tricky rank; caught in an uncomfortable limbo between the lads and the brass. ‘Like a cock in a zip,’ Brigstocke had told Thorne once. ‘Up or down, it’s a world of pain.’
‘What thing are we talking about?’ Thorne asked.
‘No need to be arsey, Tom,’ Brigstocke said. ‘You’re not the only one around here in a bad mood.’
Jesmond waved away the DCI’s concerns. He had not stopped smiling. ‘The same thing that took you to Donna Langford’s this morning.’
Thorne watched Jesmond’s smile widen as he enjoyed his moment or two of triumph; watched him shake his head as though it meant nothing.
‘I checked the log,’ Jesmond said. ‘No big mystery. I saw the address you’d signed out to for the morning was the same as the one I’ve got in front of me.’ He picked up a sheaf of papers. ‘I started doing my homework yesterday, putting a small dossier together as soon as Russell had filled me in on this photo business.’ He straightened the papers, laid them down again. ‘So, what do we think, Tom? Is Alan Langford still alive and kicking?’
‘I reckon so,’ Thorne said. ‘Either that or he’s got a double.’ It was strange how saying it made Thorne realise that he’d known who the man was from the first moment he’d clapped eyes on the photo. That without quite understanding why, it had been easier to pretend otherwise. But having acknowledged the simple and seemingly harmless fact of it, he still felt as though denial might have been the safer option. As though he were no more than a step or two away from a terrible drop.
‘Well, I don’t think there’s any reason to panic,’ Jesmond said. ‘Russell?’
Brigstocke was cleaning his glasses. ‘No reason at all. There’s no way a miscarriage-of-justice suit would stick. I mean, regardless of whether the man she wanted dead was the man who actually died, Donna Langford did conspire to kill her husband. She’s certainly not denying that, so there’s no worries on that score.’
‘What about Monahan?’
‘Same thing,’ Brigstocke said. ‘We know he killed somebody, so I can’t see an appeal with any legs coming from that direction either.’
‘Looks like we can all sleep easy in our beds, then,’ Thorne said.
Jesmond missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. ‘I’m not sure that’s quite true, Inspector. In the light of these developments, we have to look at the Langford inquiry again and it seems obvious to me that, in retrospect, we might have done one or two things differently.’
So, this one’s down to me as well, is it? Thorne thought. He cleared his throat. ‘Such as?’
‘Well, DNA and dental checks are the obvious ones.’
‘She identified him, for Christ’s sake!’ Thorne saw Brigstocke raise a hand in warning. He raised his own to make it clear that he was perfectly in control, that he was unlikely to throw himself across the desk and start throttling the chief superintendent just yet. ‘The body was the same height as Alan Langford and wore Alan Langford’s jewellery. And Alan Langford’s wife formally identified it.’
‘Even so—’
‘And if all that wasn’t enough, she knew it was him handcuffed to the wheel of that Jag because she had paid somebody to do it. Bearing that little lot in mind, sir, aside from the formality of the post-mortem, there seemed no reason to trouble the boys in the white coats.’
‘However it might have seemed, a belt-and-braces approach is always advisable. And it would certainly have paid off in this instance.’
Thorne could not suppress a grin, remembering something. ‘On top of which, I seem to recall a memo from yourself which was widely circulated at the time, implementing a Command-wide cost-cutting scheme.’
‘Hang on . . .’
Thorne leaned forward, enjoying it. ‘“Any non-essential procedures involving payment to external bodies or individual specialists must be carefully considered and if at all possible . . .” Blah blah blah, bullshit like that. With respect. Sir.’
Jesmond’s smile was long gone, although Thorne noticed one creeping across Brigstocke’s chops. ‘We need to cover ourselves.’
‘How?’ Thorne asked.
‘Take the case,’ Jesmond said. ‘Treat it as though you’ve just caught the Epping Forest Barbecue all over again. We desperately need to ID the body, and as there’s now every reason to believe that Alan Langford had something to do with the murder, we need to find him. What do you think the ex-Mrs Langford wants out of all this?’
Thorne told them about his conversation with Donna Langford, about the daughter that had gone missing and Donna’s belief that her ex-husband was responsible.
‘Well, that clearly needs to be another element of the inquiry,’ Jesmond said. ‘We need to keep her happy.’
‘Do we?’
‘She may not have a leg to stand on legally, but she might decide to make a few quid by selling her story. If she went to the press or wrote a book, we could be made to look like idiots.’
Thorne bit his tongue.
‘Let’s give her what she wants,’ Brigstocke said. ‘After all, it’s what we want too, near enough.’
Thorne had no real objection, at least not when it came to searching for Ellie Langford. Her mother’s concern was genuine. And it was not the first time Thorne had looked at photographs of a missing girl and found it hard to catch his breath for a few seconds. ‘OK, whatever,’ he said.
Jesmond nodded and grunted enthusiastically. ‘But let’s try to keep it all as low key as we can, all right? Make this a priority, but we don’t want any bulls in china shops.’
Thorne did not need telling which particular bull his superior officer was talking about. ‘What about Anna Carpenter?’ he asked. Jesmond glanced down at his papers. Clearly the homework had not been that thorough. ‘The private detective.’
‘Right.’ Jesmond thought for a few seconds. ‘She could embarrass us too, if she felt like talking to the papers.’ He looked over to Brigstocke, received a nod of agreement. ‘What does she want?’
‘This case,’ Thorne said. ‘Well, any case, I’m guessing, but she’s keen to do something.’
‘OK, let her get involved,’ Jesmond said. He saw Thorne open his mouth to object. ‘Or let her think she’s involved. Tell her she can shadow you?’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘As long as she knows when to keep her mouth shut, it shouldn’t be a problem. Fair enough? Russell?’
‘I can’t see it doing any harm,’ Brigstocke said.
Thorne shook his head. ‘Yeah, well, you’re not the poor sod who’ll be stuck with her.’
Jesmond stood up, said that he needed to crack on. To get into the incident room and do whatever he could to build morale, bearing in mind what had happened. On his way out of the door, he told Brigstocke and Thorne that he was pleased they were all singing from the same hymn sheet.
‘What a racket that’s going to be,’ Thorne said.
The Royal Oak was unlikely to attract anyone for whom great service or a friendly atmosphere was important, but it was five minutes’ walk from both the Peel Centre and Colindale Station. As such, and with an ex-DI’s name above the front door, it was always going to be a pub where the Met’s finest, and its decidedly less fine, were in the majority. Tonight, though, any punter without a warrant card would have been well advised to open a few cans at home instead.
It was wall-to-wall Job.
The clientele could equally well have been bikers, football fans or braying, pissed-up City boys. Friends, colleagues or strangers, it hardly mattered. Something in their shared experience, in the unspoken bonds between these men and women, caused feelings to run high and wild as bewilderment turned to anger and sorrows were drowned many times over in white wine, Stella and Jameso
n’s. Had it not been for the stronger smell coming from the toilets, the whiff of testosterone might have been overpowering, drifting above the pockets of aggression and self-pity as Thorne pushed his way to the bar. Walking back to the table with another Guinness for himself and lager-tops for Dave Holland and Yvonne Kitson, he was accosted several times by those keen to give vent to one emotion or another; to pass comment on the only topic of conversation in the room.
‘Bad luck, mate . . .’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll get what’s coming to him.’
‘Wankers!’
Thorne handed Holland and Kitson their drinks and sat down, wondering exactly who that last half-cut philosopher had been talking about. The members of the jury? Adam Chambers and his legal team? Thorne and his? Himself and every other copper in the pub for not making a better job of the case?
Whichever it was, Thorne wasn’t arguing.
‘Cheers,’ Holland said.
Thorne nodded and drank.
‘They’re like arseholes,’ Kitson said.
‘What are?’
‘Opinions.’
Holland swallowed. ‘Every bugger’s got one.’
Thorne looked from one to the other. ‘So, what’s yours?’
Thorne had spent a good deal of the morning with Russell Brigstocke, speculating as to what might have happened in that jury room, but he had yet to sit and talk things through with anyone else whose opinion he valued. He had tried to get hold of Louise, but she had been in and out of meetings all day and able to do no more than leave a message saying how sorry she was.
Kitson was a damn sight less cautious than she had once been when it came to speaking her mind; and Holland, though not quite the wide-eyed innocent he used to be, could still usually be counted upon to say what he thought.
‘It’s hard enough getting a conviction at the best of times,’ Holland said. ‘You’ve got the judge instructing the jury, banging on about reasonable doubt and the weight of evidence, all that.’
From the Dead Page 5