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 is ridiculous,' Anna said. 'Why don't we just meet up for a drink tonight?'
'Right…'
'Any time is good for me.'
'We can sort it out later.'
'Or I could buy you dinner or something.' She laughed. 'As long as it's cheap.'
'A drink is fine.' He looked across, saw Holland pretending not to listen, staring into his tea.
'Have you got a decent local?'
'I'll come to you,' Thorne said.
TEN
When it came to bar snacks, Thorne preferred pickled eggs and peanuts to bowls of oversized olives at four quid a pop. And he was never likely to feel too comfortable in a place where conversations had to be conducted above the sound of tuneless jazz and the barmen looked like they belonged on the front cover of GQ. That said, it was preferable to the ersatz bejeezus-ness of an Irish theme pub, or even a 'proper' old boozer, where miserable old men propped up the bar and your feet stuck to the floor, where lager-top was considered to be a cocktail, and where, male or female, the person pulling the pints looked as if they'd once been a fair-to-middling heavyweight. In fact, Thorne only ever felt totally relaxed in the upstairs room of the Grafton Arms. Five minutes' staggering distance from his flat. Playing pool with Phil Hendricks until chucking-out time and putting the world to rights.
Football and music. Love lives and their attendant headaches. Spatter patterns, rigor mortis and knife wounds.
Anna Carpenter seemed to be in her element, though, with her hair tied back and dressed in the same corduroy jacket she had worn to her first meeting with Thorne. And she was certainly enjoying the olives. 'This place isn't as poncey as it looks,' she said. 'And the food's not bad, as it happens. You sure you don't want something?'
'I can't stay that long,' Thorne said.
'I mean, you get a few idiots in here sometimes, but you get them everywhere, and, if you ask me, when you're out somewhere it's down to the company as much as the place itself. Yeah, it's handy, 'cause it's midway between the office and my flat, but me and Rob and Angie, they're probably my best mates, we've actually had a few good nights in here. Had a laugh, you know?'
Thorne nodded. It struck him that she talked just as much when she was relaxed as when she was nervous.
'A couple of shit nights as well, admittedly, but they were with my flatmate and her latest boyfriend.'
Thorne reached for his glass. 'What about you?'
'What about me, what?'
'No 'latest boyfriend'?'
'None worth talking about.' She used the edge of her hand to sweep the discarded olive stones into the empty bowl, then looked up at Thorne.
A full stop.
Thorne swallowed a mouthful of Guinness. 'Listen, like I said on the phone, I think you should probably step back from all this now.'
'You never said that.'
'It's what I was trying to say.'
'But it's my case,' she said.
'Not any more.'
'Donna came to me and I told her I would help. I took it on, and I can't just walk away from it now because things have got a bit heavy.'
' A bit? '
She shrugged. 'I took it on.'
'That was when it was just about a photograph,' Thorne said. 'Now it's a murder. A new murder.' He had already given her the headlines on the Monahan killing: the prime suspect from a few cell doors along, the missing murder weapon and the prison officer who was probably an accessory.
'I still don't understand why Monahan was killed,' she said. 'I mean, we'd already talked to him and he didn't tell us anything.'
'Langford didn't know that, though.' Thorne sat back, thinking out loud. 'Or even if he did, he didn't know what Monahan might decide to say further down the line, once he'd had a bit of time to weigh up his options. Monahan was the only person who could finger Langford for the murder ten years ago, or for conspiracy to murder at the very least. So, as soon as Langford found out he was on our radar again, he couldn't take that chance.'
'He was getting rid of a potential witness.'
'Right.'
Anna nodded, taking it in. She leaned towards her wine glass, then stopped. 'But how did Langford know?' she asked. 'That we'd talked to Monahan, I mean.'
'It's a very good question.' What had he said to Holland? A seriously good set of jungle drums…
'Maybe Grover told him?'
'Maybe.'
'That would make sense, don't you think? Let's say Grover was his mole inside the prison, keeping an eye on
