Monahan for him. Grover tells Langford that we've been in to see Monahan…'
'It's possible, but-'
'… then Langford tells Grover to kill Monahan.'
'It happened too fast, though.'
'Like you said, he couldn't afford to take any chances.'
Thorne was not convinced. 'The likes of Alan Langford try not to get too closely involved,' he said. 'There was probably a go-between. More than one, even.'
'What about the bent prison guard, then? Cook?'
'I reckon we'll find out soon enough,' Thorne said. He was in no hurry to head back up north and had been happy to delegate, to leave Howard Cook and Jeremy Grover to the less-than-tender mercies of his West Yorkshire counterpart. Much as he had taken a dislike to DI Andy Boyle, Thorne felt sure that when it came to putting the squeeze on, the Yorkshireman would make a decent job of it. He emptied his glass and caught the half-smile on Anna's face. 'What?'
'This is good, isn't it?' She moved her hand backwards and forwards. 'The pair of us batting ideas around, trying to work stuff out.' She finished her own drink. 'It's what I thought it would be like all the time, being a detective.'
Thorne went to fetch more drinks. He waited at the bar, wishing that the background music would fade a little further into the background and failing to catch the eye of a barmaid who was every bit as attractive as her male colleagues. He was finally served by one of the GQ boys and carried the drinks back to the table.
'What you said before' – Thorne handed Anna her glass of Merlot – 'about what you thought it was going to be like. Sounds like you've been disappointed.'
'I think I was just naive,' she said.
'So, not the cleverest career move, then?'
She told him about how unhappy she had been working at the bank. How fearful. Drifting towards a future that had seemed mapped out, the pressure of it becoming increasingly unbearable and nudging her towards a potentially dangerous depression every day. How a move as rash and off the wall as the one she had eventually made had come to feel in the end like the only option she had left. 'I never fitted in,' she said. 'Not really. Never said the right thing, wore the right thing, did the right thing.' She thought for a few seconds. 'Never have, if I'm being honest.' She looked down and rubbed at the edge of the table with a finger. 'Fitted in, I mean.'
'It's overrated,' Thorne said.
'The stupid thing is that, for a while, I really thought I'd landed on my feet. Frank Anderson said he needed someone like me, and I felt… vindicated, you know? I thought he meant someone enthusiastic, eager to learn the ropes, all that. Actually, he just wanted someone who could keep the agency records straight and nip to the off licence when he ran out of Scotch.' She took a sip of wine, then another. 'Plus, he knew there was decent money to be made if he could get into the honey-trap market, and he couldn't really provide the honey himself. '
'Right…'
'So, back on with the slap and the high heels again.' Anna's face was not quite as red as her wine, but there was not a great deal in it. 'Who would have thought anything could be less sexy than banking, eh?'
Thorne laughed.
'Not to mention making me feel even less good about what I was doing for a living.'
'I gave up worrying about that a long time ago,' Thorne said.
'So, yeah, I've been disappointed.' She tapped a finger against the rim of her glass, staring down at a fingernail that Thorne could see was chipped and bitten. 'But not as disappointed as some.' She looked up. 'My parents weren't exactly thrilled.'
'You can see their point.'
'They couldn't see mine, though.' Her tone was casual enough, but there was tension around her mouth. 'My mum especially. We had words.'
Thorne struggled for something to say. He thought about some of the words he had exchanged with his father, both before and after the old man's death a few years earlier. He had learned since that the fire in which his father had died had not been accidental, that Jim Thorne had been targeted because of him.
Thorne still woke up sometimes stinking of sweat, tasting the smoke.
He looked across at Anna and thought about saying 'Sorry' or 'Be glad you've still got them.' In the end, though, he settled for an understanding nod and the safety of his beer glass.
'I think I'll go and see Donna tomorrow,' he said.
'OK, but I already told you what she told me.'
'Right, but I need to pick up this latest photo. And I want to talk to her about Langford. I know she hasn't clapped eyes on him for ten years, but she still knows him better than anybody else.' He caught Anna's look. 'What?'
'You sure about that?'
It was a fair point. Donna Langford had not known too much about what her husband was thinking ten years earlier. She had not known that he had rumbled her, that he planned to fake his own death and skip off with everything, leaving her to rot in prison. She had not known he would come back years later and snatch their daughter. 'OK, but she's the closest thing I've got to him,' Thorne said.
'Sounds like a plan, then.'
'This is what being a detective's like, most of the time. Making it up as you go along.'
'Can I come with you?'
'I don't think so.'
'Donna trusts me.'
'I told you, you need to back away.'
'Yes, I know, but-'
'Langford found out we'd been to see Monahan, so he'll also know we're talking to Donna.'
'I'm not scared,' Anna said.
Thorne could see that she meant it. 'Then you're stupid,' he said. 'And I need to get home…'
When Thorne came out of the Gents' she was waiting for him, standing by the bar's main door, with her hands in her pockets. He offered to run her home, but she reminded him that her flat was only a five-minute walk away.
'Good luck tomorrow,' she said. 'I mean obviously you'd get more out of Donna if I was there.'
'Obviously.'
'You wouldn't have to make up quite so much as you went along.'
'You don't give up, do you?'
She pushed open the door to the street and they both grimaced at the blast of cold air.
'That's something we've got in common,' she said. 'Isn't it?'
ELEVEN
He carried a bottle of decent wine out on to the balcony, sat and poured himself a glass, hoping it might help him relax.
When he was younger, marauding around the pubs of Hackney and Dalston, playing the big man, booze always fired him up; made a bad temper worse and turned a minor niggle into something worth pulling a knife for. Once he'd got into his thirties, with a few quid and a reputation behind him, alcohol started to have the opposite effect. Now, much to his and everybody else's relief, a good drink was more likely to put the brakes on and calm him down. He guessed that was because he was smarter than he used to be. Or just older. Then again, it could be down to the quality of what he was drinking these days.
Either way, it usually did the trick. And right now, he needed calming down.
He drank a glass, then another, and felt his mood gradually begin to lift a little. He stared down towards the lights of the town a few miles below, and the bright slice of moon reflected in the sea beyond.
Silly bastard, he was. Still playing the big man.
