From the Dead

Another hand was raised. One of the new boys. Brigstocke nodded.

'If we're presuming that Langford, or whatever he calls himself now, is up to his eyeballs in drugs or what have you over there, shouldn't we be looking at some of the other characters who are doing the same thing? Maybe one of them sent the pictures.'

A woman sitting next to him – another new face – nodded in agreement. 'Right. It's a clever way for one of his business rivals to try and get rid of him, isn't it? Send the pictures, the police start looking-'

'It doesn't make sense,' Thorne said. The woman turned to look at him. She was young, black, serious-looking. 'First off, this "business rival" would need to know that it was Langford. And even if he did, look at the pictures.' He waved a hand in the general direction of the whiteboard. 'He's smiling, holding up his glass, posing for the camera. He's like a pig in shit. Whoever's taking those photographs, Langford at least thinks they're a friend.'

The woman smiled thinly at Thorne and turned back to the front. Brigstocke thanked her and the other officer for their input and began to wrap things up. But right at the death, the woman – whom Thorne had already decided was destined for great things – had one more suggestion.

'I was thinking about tax evasion,' she said.

Brigstocke looked at her. Waited.

'I wouldn't bother,' Karim said. 'It's against the law, you know.'

'Seriously. If nicking Langford for these murders is going to be as tricky as it sounds, then we might get him for something like that.' She spoke loudly and quickly; nervous, Thorne decided, but hiding it well. 'Whatever business he's in now, I'm damn sure he's not declaring his earnings.'

The friend next to her said, 'It's how they got Al Capone.'

'Look, I want to get Alan Langford back here and put him away for murder,' Brigstocke said. 'For three murders, if at all possible. Having said that, if you want to liaise with Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs, that's entirely up to you. If I have to, I'll settle for him going down on whatever charge we can get.'

'I'll make a few calls,' Thorne said. 'See if he's got any library books overdue.'

Fifteen minutes later, Thorne was in Brigstocke's office. He read through the information sheet detailing how the location of the Langford photographs had been determined, while Brigstocke gave a blow-by-blow account for good measure.

'Every boat in Spain has to be officially registered, and each owner – the patron de yate – has to obtain the necessary qualification to command his vessel. All this information is logged with the local Commandancia de Marina Mercante, and he feeds it back to the authorities who collect assorted taxes on pleasure craft. So-'

'I can read,' Thorne said.

'All right.'

'I'm impressed with the accent, though…'

Each stage of the process was laid out for him in black and white. Providing the appropriate government department in Madrid with the boat's registration number had quickly yielded the name of its owner. Interpol, liaising with the Guardia Civil, had then tracked down the man in question in a matter of hours. Senor Miguel Matellanes had been able to confirm exactly where he was on the day in question; that he always moored his eighteen-foot sailing cruiser in the small harbour at Benalmadena Costa on a Sunday afternoon. Something about the best pulpo a feira on the south coast.

'I'm just showing off,' Brigstocke said, pleased with himself. 'Been a long time since I did a decent bit of donkey-work.'

' Pulpo what?'

Brigstocke pulled a face. 'Some sort of octopus…'

Thorne shook his head. 'But this only tells us where Langford was that day,' he said. 'He might live a hundred miles from there.'

'It's somewhere to start, though.' Brigstocke was standing behind Thorne, looking over his shoulder, staring down at the information sheet. 'It's all been passed on to the relevant lot at SOCA. You've got a meeting with them at three o'clock.'

'Here or there?'

'There.'

'Good,' Thorne said. 'They provide a better class of biscuit.'

Brigstocke pointed at the sheet. 'Actually, they seemed to think this was a bloody good start. Better than the information you got off your mate Brand, at any rate. None of those names led anywhere.'

'This truly is some of the finest police work it's ever been my privilege to witness, Russell,' Thorne said, waving the piece of paper. 'Seriously, I really don't know how you're ever going to top it.'

'Yeah, all right.'

'Maybe you can pull a few coins out of your backside or something

…'

Brigstocke wandered over to his desk. 'How come you're so bloody chirpy all of a sudden? You looked like shit when you came in.'

'Early start.'

'Taking out your bad mood on that new girl.'

'She's good,' Thorne said.

'Glad you think so. Because, providing you haven't scared her off already, we might get to keep her when this is all over.'

'I'll have a word,' Thorne said. 'Show her my charming, funny side. I think she's a bit in love with me already, to be honest.'

'You might want to calm down a bit first…'

In the quarter of an hour since the briefing had ended, Thorne had necked three cups of strong coffee and he was feeling good and buzzy. Just before going in to see Brigstocke he had found two minutes to text Andy Boyle. To thank him for his hospitality, to rave once again about the stew, and, most importantly, to suggest a new acronym to try out on his boss. A specialist unit for the investigation of contract murders.

Tactical Operations, Tasking And Logistics of Covert Organised Criminal Killings.

Or TOTAL COCK.

'Try and hold on to that good mood for a while longer, will you?' Brigstocke said. 'I had half an hour on the phone with our beloved chief superintendent this morning.'

The buzz began to wear off fast. 'I'm all ears,' Thorne said.

'Jesmond is making this a high priority now, which is why getting more resources is not a problem. He's fired up.'

'Oh, God help us.'

'With certain high-profile cases having gone against us recently, he wants to make sure this one turns out the right way.' Brigstocke ploughed on, talking over Thorne's attempts to interrupt, using his fingers to form quotation marks. 'He told me he wants us to "bounce back". That "not getting a result isn't an option" any more. Something like that.'

'What happened to keeping this "low key"?' Thorne mimicked the use of air quotes.

'All gone out of the window now a prison officer's been killed. He reckons the media's going to be all over it… and he's probably right.'

'Can't we quietly let the media know that Cook was on the take?'

'Do we have proof of that yet?'

'Come on, Russell…'

'Jesmond also seems to think putting that information in the press might tip Langford off that we're on to him.'

Thorne didn't know whether to laugh, cry or bang his head against the wall. So he settled for raising his voice. 'I think the fact that Langford has had two men killed in the last week might indicate that he already knows, don't you?'

Brigstocke raised a hand to make it clear that he agreed, but he did not appreciate being shouted at. Thorne mumbled an apology.

'What's happening with Anna Carpenter?' Brigstocke asked.

'What do you mean, "happening"?'

The hand was raised in warning again. 'Since things have got a bit more… serious, Jesmond is even more keen that we try to keep a lid on the mistakes we made ten years ago.'

'Which "mistakes"?'

'We've been through this, Tom,' Brigstocke said. 'I'm just telling you that he wants us to cooperate fully with anyone who has access to that information. Donna Langford, Miss Carpenter…'