Thorne looked to Mullenger for an explanation.
'That's the new nickname for the place,' Mullenger said. 'Spanish for "lead".' He made a gun with his fingers. 'Because of-'
'I get it,' Thorne said.
Mullenger had the good grace to look embarrassed, but Thorne caught the trace of a smirk from Silcox. Thorne stared across the table and Silcox stared back, his doughy features a picture of innocence.
'We've been working with the local police in southern Spain for the last few years,' Mullenger said. 'Trying to disrupt a few of the criminal networks and round up as many fugitives as we can. It's tricky, though, because some of the people who are supposed to be on our side aren't really on our side, if you know what I mean.'
'Corruption in high places?'
Silcox was still staring. 'High places, low places.'
'Last year, three local mayors and a couple of high-ranking officers in the Guardia Civil were prosecuted for laundering drug money.' Mullenger shrugged and picked up another piece of paper. 'We're making some progress, but just to give you an idea of the scale of what's going on over there…' He glanced down and read from the sheet. 'Last year, Operacion Captura led to the arrest of forty-one people and the seizure of four hundred million euros' worth of funds, as well as over twenty yachts and private planes, forty-two cars and two hundred and fifty houses.'
'Pretty impressive,' Thorne said.
Silcox smiled. 'Us or them?'
'And that's in Marbella alone.' Mullenger laid down his list. 'So
…'
There was a knock on the door and a man brought in the coffee: a Thermos jug and three cups on a tray. Mullenger did the honours while Thorne stood and walked to the window. He was still feeling fractious and fidgety, and decided that both he and the double-act assigned to brief him would be a lot happier were he to be nodding off aboard one of the pleasure boats he could see moving up and down the river two storeys below.
'We managed to get you your biscuits,' Mullenger said.
Thorne went back to the table and took his coffee. 'I was expecting chocolate ones at least,' he said. He bit into a digestive and pointed to one of the headed notepads. 'Obviously spent too much on your fancy logo.'
Mullenger forced a nasal laugh and said something about cost-cutting that was less funny than he thought it was. Thorne ate his biscuit and pretended to listen.
Thinking: Thunder-Thunder-Thunder-Thundercats Ho!
Mullenger pointed to a spot on a larger-scale map. 'I don't think the location where these photographs were taken is likely to be where Langford actually operates. It's a smallish town, not too many visitors.' He nodded to himself. 'But I shouldn't think he's too far away.'
'His business is likely to be based around a marina somewhere,' Silcox said. 'But a lot of the big players tend to live up in the hills or on one of the golf resorts. There's still plenty of building work going on all along that coast.'
'He's probably into some of that as well,' Thorne said. 'It's how he made his money over here.'
'Always pays to diversify,' Silcox said.
Mullenger refilled Thorne's cup and talked about the best way to proceed, if and when Thorne made the journey to Spain himself. He seemed confident that the man who used to be called Alan Langford would be known to Spanish-based SOCA operatives and local drugenforcement officers. Thorne's job, working with them, would simply be to establish that the criminal in question was indeed Langford, and then to find something for which he could be arrested and brought back to the UK for trial.
'Piece of piss, then,' Thorne said.
'We'll hook you up with one of our agents in Malaga or Marbella,' Mullenger said. 'Probably easier for him to brief you when you get there.'
Thorne agreed, knowing that his contact might turn out to be a copper, a customs officer or even, God forbid, a taxman. In an attempt to create a British FBI, SOCA had been formed as an amalgamation of the National Criminal Intelligence Service and the National Crime Squad, but had also taken staff from HM Revenue and Customs and UK Immigration. Thorne knew that the agency had officers embedded within many police forces and that the arrangement was reciprocal. He also knew that their powers were wider-ranging than those of their counterparts; and that, unlike regular coppers such as himself, they were exempt from the Freedom of Information Act.
They didn't have to tell anybody anything.
'We've got some shit-hot agents over there,' Mullenger said. 'You'll be working with good people.'
Thorne smiled. To be fair, this was an agency, so those who worked for it were, strictly speaking, agents. But Thorne saw how much Mullenger relished saying the word; imagined that it made him feel like a proper G-Man. Thorne worked regularly with people who had the same affectations. One DS on a parallel team to his own had once visited Quantico and had somehow managed to acquire an official FBI lanyard from which he proudly suspended his Met Police swipe card and ID. On the lanyard it said: Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity.
It should simply have said: Knob.
'I don't want to spoil a beautiful friendship,' Thorne said. 'But what are the chances that this corruption you were talking about might involve some of these "shit-hot agents" of yours?'
Silcox and Mullenger looked at each other.
'I know,' Thorne said. 'You go that extra yard with the biscuits and then I go and bring the mood right down.' He smiled, but he was thinking about the speed with which the killings of Monahan and Cook had been sanctioned and executed; about an exchange of information. Those jungle drums. 'Only, if I was Langford, or somebody like Langford, they'd be the first people I'd be looking to sweeten, you know?'
Mullenger gathered together his photos and maps. 'It's a fair question. '
'Bad apples in every barrel,' his partner said.
'Absolutely. Who's to know?'
'You can drive yourself mad worrying about that stuff,' Silcox said. His voice was louder than it had been all afternoon. 'I should worry about things you can do something about, like how many pairs of shorts to pack.'
A few minutes later they walked him briskly back to the lift and said perfunctory goodbyes. There were handshakes, one firm and one less so; and, as the lift doors closed, Thorne took a final look at the pair of them.
It did not feel quite as childish as it had forty-five minutes before.
If it came to it, Thorne knew he could take Mullenger with one arm tied behind his back. But he was less sure about Silcox. The shorter, older man had the kind of eyes you worried about and would almost certainly fight dirty.
Outside, he switched on his phone and saw that there had been another text from Anna Carpenter: we still need to talk about donna!
He looked at his watch. It was hardly worth going back to the office now.
And Vauxhall was only two stops from Victoria.
TWENTY-FIVE
With more than half an hour until going-home time, Anna was delighted to answer the intercom to what sounded like a potential client. If Frank stuck to his usual routine and took the man across the road to discuss business over a drink, then there was every chance he would let Anna leave early. As it was, the man at the front door had no interest in waiting on the street and insisted on talking to Frank in the office, so somewhat disconsolately, Anna buzzed him up.
Having hurriedly cleared the worst of the clutter from his desk, Frank opened the door and showed his visitor to a chair. He immediately apologised for the mess, which he put down to working too hard on cases to have time for cleaning, and for Anna's bike, which was propped against a radiator.
The man seemed unconcerned and keen to get on with it.
Frank handed over a folder filled with laminated testimonials – many of which he had written himself – and told the man a little about the business as he flicked through it. Only then did he introduce Anna, as his associate. The man looked at Anna for the first time and nodded a hello.