From the Dead

'Still afraid they'll go running to the papers?'

'Nobody likes bad press, do they?'

However the case turned out, Thorne had no idea what Donna Langford might do down the line, and he found it hard to believe that Anna would ever sell the story. 'I've already spoken to Donna,' he said. 'Told her to tell Anna she doesn't want her involved any more.'

'Because…?'

'Because I don't want her involved any more. This has gone way beyond spying on unfaithful husbands.'

Brigstocke nodded. 'No room for amateurs.'

'Plenty of those around already.'

'OK, well, I'm just passing on what Jesmond said. I'll leave you to think about the best way to handle it.'

Thorne said he would, though in truth he had been thinking of little else all day

Back in his office, Thorne tried hard to clear his desk and caught up with Yvonne Kitson. She asked what he thought of the new girl and he told her about the evening he'd spent at Andy Boyle's place. Just as he was thinking of heading out for his meeting at SOCA, a call from Julian Munro was put through.

For a moment or two, Thorne thought that Munro might have remembered something; that he was calling with some vital, new piece of information.

'I just wanted to see how things were going,' Munro said. 'See if you'd made any progress, you know?'

Thorne raised his eyebrows at Kitson. 'Obviously, we'll let you know if there's any news, sir, but you need to know we're doing everything we can.'

'OK,' Munro said. 'Thanks.' Then he cleared his throat. 'So, what would you say are the chances? I mean, do you think…?'

'I'm hopeful,' Thorne said.

He would not normally have come out with something so optimistic. You always tried to keep things upbeat with the relatives, of course, but it made sense to keep your powder dry as much as possible. Generally, it was no more advisable to say, 'Don't worry, she is definitely alive,' than it would be to draw a finger across your throat and mutter darkly, 'Brown bread, mate, no question about it.'

I'm hopeful…

And he was. It had already struck Thorne that he was not thinking as much about Ellie Langford as he might otherwise have expected. Not with an eighteen-year-old girl missing, her foster parents bereft, the birth mother distraught. In fact, he was still thinking far more about Andrea Keane, a girl he had long since given up for dead.

But he thought he knew why.

He had come to believe that Donna Langford was right and that her ex-husband had taken their daughter. It was the only logical explanation for her sudden disappearance, coming as it did within weeks of the first photograph arriving. And if it were the case, Langford had surely been trying to hurt Donna and not Ellie. He was a man who would do whatever was necessary to survive and prosper, who could order the execution of others and who could stand by, so Thorne was starting to think, and watch while someone burned alive. But Thorne was not convinced that he would deliberately harm his own daughter.

He could only hope that this atypical bout of optimism was not just Anna Carpenter's naivete starting to rub off on him.

TWENTY-FOUR

The London headquarters of the Serious Organised Crime Agency was on the south side of the river, near Vauxhall Bridge, a stone's throw from MI6, in a cream brick and glass building that looked out across the water towards Millbank. The IRA had fired missiles at the complex in 2000, and rumours persisted of a secret network of tunnels that ran beneath the Thames to Whitehall.

Becke House was far less interesting, Thorne reckoned, but probably a whole lot safer.

Walking from the tube station at Vauxhall, he called Gary Brand.

'You remember Trevor Jesmond?'

'Bloody hell, don't tell me you're still stuck with that wanker.'

'Afraid so.'

'I'm amazed he hasn't been beaten to death, or had a truncheon stuck where the sun don't shine.'

'I've thought about it,' Thorne said, before running Brand through the latest piece of Jesmond double-think, giving vent to a good deal of bottled-up aggression as he did so. Though Brigstocke was usually on Thorne's side where such things were concerned, it felt good to cut loose with someone who had no need to be diplomatic.

'I heard about the prison officer,' Brand said.

'Cook. Right…'

'Sounds like it's all getting seriously nasty.'

'Like you said, "can of worms".'

'Snakes, more like.'

'It's starting to look that way.'

The sky was a wash of grey, but the sun was struggling through in places and, walking north along the Albert Embankment, Thorne could see the top half of the London Eye beyond Lambeth Bridge, with the spires of Westminster just visible a mile or so away on the other side of the river. The spooks certainly had a decent view, he decided, when they weren't busy keeping the free world safe. Or whatever.

'Where are you?' Brand asked. 'Sounds like you're out and about.'

Thorne told Brand about his appointment with SOCA. Brand said that he hoped Thorne was ready to be talked down to, and asked if he had struck lucky with any of the names he had given him. Thorne told Brand that none of them had connected with Alan Langford thus far.

'Sorry, mate,' Brand said. 'It was the best I could come up with in a hurry. You want me to keep digging?'

'Don't worry about it,' Thorne said. 'I'm hoping these high-fliers at SOCA will have found something.'

'They'll make you kiss their arses before they give it to you, though.'

'I think my DCI's already done that for me.'

'So, you around for a pint later?' Brand asked. 'Sounds like you might need one.'

'Sorry, I'm at my girlfriend's place tonight.'

'Girlfriend?'

'Don't sound so surprised.'

'Russian mail-order kind of thing, was it?'

'Actually, she's Job.'

Brand laughed. Said, 'Good luck with that.'

Five minutes later, Thorne had passed through a rigorous security check and was presenting his warrant card to the bored-looking woman at a large reception desk. Behind her on the wall was a huge picture of a big cat – a jaguar, maybe, or a puma – its claws and fangs bared as it leapt across a stylised silver globe. The SOCA logo was presumably meant to show that the agency was fierce and powerful, that it had teeth, but Thorne thought it looked like something from the kids' TV show Thundercats which he remembered from the eighties.

'Take a seat,' the receptionist said.

The cushion of the black leather sofa settled beneath him with a soft hiss as Thorne sat back to wait in a lobby that would not have disgraced a five-star hotel. The effects of his morning coffee-fest had worn off hours ago and he was starting to feel sleepy again, and desperate for a hot shower. He made sure that the receptionist saw him looking at his watch, that she knew someone was late and that it wasn't him. He turned to look at the pictures on the wall behind him – splashes of brown and cream in random patterns – and flicked aimlessly through one of the magazines spread out on the glass-topped coffee table.

But he was unable to stop thinking about something Gary Brand had said. The phrase bounced around inside Thorne's head as he sat and waited and tried to stay awake.

Snakes, more like.

She caught the train from Waterloo, walked from the station and stopped when she reached the water mill. She sat on one of several benches, each with a small plaque inscribed in memory of someone who had loved the river or the view of it, ate the sandwich she'd brought with her from home and watched the house.

It was as good a place as any to spend an afternoon.

Initially, Anna had been reluctant to let her have the address, but once Donna had pointed out that she was still the agency's client and paying for the privilege, the girl had given her what she wanted. Then Donna had done what Thorne had asked her to do and dispensed with Anna's services.