From the Dead by Mark Billingham Page B

Thorne and the others, waited until a guard arrived to take him back to his cell.
    â€˜That go like you wanted?’ Boyle asked. He walked around the table until he stood in Thorne’s eye-line. ‘Happy with it?’
    Thorne ignored him and turned to lift his leather jacket from the back of the chair.
    â€˜Cocky bastard knows we’ve got nothing,’ Holland said.
    Thorne stood up. ‘Not yet.’
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    It was dry and cold, and Thorne stared out of the taxi window as the streets narrowed and the greys of office blocks and multi-storeys gave way to those of rutted fields and spindly trees, with the black ribbon of the River Calder twisting alongside. ‘Whatever we turn up on Monahan money-wise is probably academic,’ he said. ‘Considering he won’t be around to spend it. So, we need to look at Grover as well. Find what he’s getting paid for doing Monahan and where it’s going.’
    â€˜And where it’s coming from, with a bit of luck,’ Holland said.
    â€˜I don’t think there’s too much doubt about that.’
    â€˜Definitely Langford, you reckon?’
    â€˜Got to be.’
    â€˜But how’s he organising all this?’ Holland asked. ‘We’re presuming he’s still out of the country, right?’
    Thorne turned away from the window, stared over the driver’s shoulder at the road unwinding in front of the car. ‘Monahan was killed within hours of me talking to him,’ he said. ‘So, wherever the hell Langford is, he’s tuned in to a seriously good set of jungle drums.’
    Before they had left the prison, Boyle had told Thorne that he and his team would start getting stuck into Jeremy Grover and his family, see if there were any funds knocking about that could not be accounted for. Thorne told him that there might be a fair bit more to do, depending on how his and Holland’s next appointment went. Boyle said the overtime would come in handy.
    Follow the money, that’s what Louise had said.
    She hadn’t said anything else the night before, at least not about Thorne’s day out with Anna Carpenter. She had gone to bed early, leaving Thorne and Hendricks talking nonsense in front of the television. It was the way Thorne had been hoping the evening would turn out.
    You’re not going to get it on a plate .
    She’d said that too, just before things had turned a little awkward, and, much as it pained him, Thorne knew she was right. There were too many hard-arses like Monahan and Grover and not enough luck. On a plate would have been nice, but he was happy to do things the hard way if it meant getting the right result in the end.
    The taxi slowed as it drove into Kirkthorpe, a village four miles west of the city.
    â€˜Reckon you could live out here?’ Holland asked.
    Thorne looked out of the window again and shook his head. ‘A bit too Last of the Summer Wine for my liking,’ he said.
    Holland laughed.
    â€˜Not nearly dirty and noisy enough.’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know,’ Holland said. ‘I can just see you coming down one of those hills in an old bathtub on wheels.’
    Thorne looked at him. ‘Sophie still trying to get you out of London, is she?’
    â€˜We’re still . . . talking about it.’
    As ever, Thorne could see that Holland was uncomfortable discussing his girlfriend. They both knew that she was not Thorne’s greatest fan, and that she wanted to get Holland and their daughter Chloe away from more than just the city.
    â€˜As long as it’s just talk,’ Thorne said.
    The driver found the address Thorne had given him quickly enough and pulled over. Holland paid the fare and hurried after Thorne to the door of a modern terraced house. Thorne rang the bell and stepped back, thinking: One of these buggers has got to give us something .
    Howard Cook was older than they had been expecting. Thorne guessed that the man who eventually