began pulling the dead leaves from a plant.
‘Anything you made on the take gets confiscated,’ Thorne said, ‘and you can forget about your pension.’ He nodded towards the inside of the house. ‘How’s
she
going to get on when you’ve gone? What’s she going to do with herself while you’re getting spat at and watching your back on a VP wing?’
‘Just tell us what you did with the knife,’ Holland said. ‘That would be a good start.’
Cook slowly straightened up and considered them. He crushed the dead leaves in his fist and tossed the pieces into the flower bed. Then he pushed his shoulders back and stuck out his chin. ‘You go ahead and dig,’ he said. ‘Fill your boots. Get right down there in the muck and see what happens. Because I promise you
this
: when you’re finished, you’ll be covered in it.’ He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘You’ll find bugger all, because there’s bugger all to find. You’ll look stupid, but from what I’ve been reading lately, I reckon you’re probably used to that.’
‘Are you done?’ Thorne asked.
Cook stepped back and reached across to pull a tabloid newspaper from a table against the wall. He stabbed at the front page. ‘This was your lot, wasn’t it?’ He gleefully turned the paper round to show them.
There was a picture of Adam Chambers on the front page.
‘How much did that little fiasco cost?’
The day was brighter and still mercifully free from rain, so the view from the southbound train was less depressing, but Thorne felt every bit as frustrated as he had done the day before. Three men, each with a connection of some kind to Alan Langford. One dead and the other two – so far at least – saying nothing. Scared or just bloody-minded, it didn’t much matter, as far as making progress in the case went.
Brick walls, as solid as any of those around Wakefield Prison.
Thorne looked across at the table opposite. A young couple sat where the elderly one had been a day earlier, and he wondered if he was in exactly the same carriage, on the same train. He sent Holland to the buffet car for coffees and told him to make sure he got a receipt.
Then he called Anna Carpenter.
She sounded pleased to hear from him. Thorne imagined her sitting alone in her office, bored and flicking through a magazine. He told her where he was calling from, where he had spent the best part of the day.
She laughed. ‘Didn’t trust me to have another crack at Monahan, then.’
‘Monahan’s dead.’
She said nothing for a few seconds, then spluttered a ‘Jesus’.
‘So, you know . . . things have changed.’
‘What happened?’
‘I can’t really go into it,’ Thorne said.
‘OK.’
‘I just thought you should be aware that it’s all a bit more serious now.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Just, you might want to think about . . . Anna?’ He realised that she could no longer hear him and put the phone down on the table. He stared at the handset, waiting for the signal to return, but unsure as to exactly what he would say when it did, or even why he’d called her in the first place. After a minute or so, the icon reappeared on the screen and he called her back. ‘Sorry, lost you. I was just saying—’
‘Donna called me,’ Anna said. ‘She was really upset.’
‘She got another photo.’
‘How did you know?’
‘It makes sense, that’s all. Whoever’s sending them hasn’t got what they want yet.’
‘Which is?’
‘Pass.’
‘She sounds like she’s losing it. Keeps going on about how he’s got her daughter.’
‘What did you say to her?’
There was no reply and, after a few seconds, Thorne realised that the connection had been broken again. While he was looking at the phone, Holland returned with the drinks. He sat down and handed over the change and the receipt. Then, while Thorne was putting the money into his wallet, the phone rang.
‘This
‘Anything you made on the take gets confiscated,’ Thorne said, ‘and you can forget about your pension.’ He nodded towards the inside of the house. ‘How’s
she
going to get on when you’ve gone? What’s she going to do with herself while you’re getting spat at and watching your back on a VP wing?’
‘Just tell us what you did with the knife,’ Holland said. ‘That would be a good start.’
Cook slowly straightened up and considered them. He crushed the dead leaves in his fist and tossed the pieces into the flower bed. Then he pushed his shoulders back and stuck out his chin. ‘You go ahead and dig,’ he said. ‘Fill your boots. Get right down there in the muck and see what happens. Because I promise you
this
: when you’re finished, you’ll be covered in it.’ He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘You’ll find bugger all, because there’s bugger all to find. You’ll look stupid, but from what I’ve been reading lately, I reckon you’re probably used to that.’
‘Are you done?’ Thorne asked.
Cook stepped back and reached across to pull a tabloid newspaper from a table against the wall. He stabbed at the front page. ‘This was your lot, wasn’t it?’ He gleefully turned the paper round to show them.
There was a picture of Adam Chambers on the front page.
‘How much did that little fiasco cost?’
The day was brighter and still mercifully free from rain, so the view from the southbound train was less depressing, but Thorne felt every bit as frustrated as he had done the day before. Three men, each with a connection of some kind to Alan Langford. One dead and the other two – so far at least – saying nothing. Scared or just bloody-minded, it didn’t much matter, as far as making progress in the case went.
Brick walls, as solid as any of those around Wakefield Prison.
Thorne looked across at the table opposite. A young couple sat where the elderly one had been a day earlier, and he wondered if he was in exactly the same carriage, on the same train. He sent Holland to the buffet car for coffees and told him to make sure he got a receipt.
Then he called Anna Carpenter.
She sounded pleased to hear from him. Thorne imagined her sitting alone in her office, bored and flicking through a magazine. He told her where he was calling from, where he had spent the best part of the day.
She laughed. ‘Didn’t trust me to have another crack at Monahan, then.’
‘Monahan’s dead.’
She said nothing for a few seconds, then spluttered a ‘Jesus’.
‘So, you know . . . things have changed.’
‘What happened?’
‘I can’t really go into it,’ Thorne said.
‘OK.’
‘I just thought you should be aware that it’s all a bit more serious now.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Just, you might want to think about . . . Anna?’ He realised that she could no longer hear him and put the phone down on the table. He stared at the handset, waiting for the signal to return, but unsure as to exactly what he would say when it did, or even why he’d called her in the first place. After a minute or so, the icon reappeared on the screen and he called her back. ‘Sorry, lost you. I was just saying—’
‘Donna called me,’ Anna said. ‘She was really upset.’
‘She got another photo.’
‘How did you know?’
‘It makes sense, that’s all. Whoever’s sending them hasn’t got what they want yet.’
‘Which is?’
‘Pass.’
‘She sounds like she’s losing it. Keeps going on about how he’s got her daughter.’
‘What did you say to her?’
There was no reply and, after a few seconds, Thorne realised that the connection had been broken again. While he was looking at the phone, Holland returned with the drinks. He sat down and handed over the change and the receipt. Then, while Thorne was putting the money into his wallet, the phone rang.
‘This
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