cowboy's lit this rubbish…'
Thorne studied the explicit double-page spread that Bethell was helpfully holding only inches from his face, aware of the eyes on both of them; the heads that had turned, same as they always did whenever Dennis Bethell's voice was heard for the first time.
'I'm not sure that anyone really gives a toss,' Thorne said. He nodded towards the customer closest to them, a man in a brown suit who looked like Central Casting's most in-demand 'seedy accountant'. 'You think he cares about the lighting or the composition?'
'I know what you're saying, but you've got to have some pride in what you're doing, surely?'
Thorne said he supposed so, struck as ever by the contradictions in the man before him: the bouncer's torso and the helium voice; the genuine passion for his craft and the seeming lack of care or concern for those who took their clothes off for his camera. On a more basic level, Thorne had never figured out Bethell's own sexual leanings, coming to the conclusion that he probably didn't much care either way.
Man, woman, fish, whatever. None of the images conjured up was particularly pleasant.
To Bethell's right, the only woman in the place was looking at the back of a magazine sealed in plastic. Bethell caught Thorne's look, leaned in close and lowered his voice. 'You'd be surprised, Mr Thorne. A lot of women go for this stuff these days.'
Thorne pointed to the magazine that Bethell was still holding. 'Not that stuff, surely?'
'No, you're right, it's more of a specialised market. Material that's a bit more aimed at them, a touch more sensitive or what have you. Believe it or not, they like a story, you know what I mean? If it's a film where the hunky plumber comes round, him and the horny housewife usually talk for a while before he starts giving her one. They might even have a cuddle afterwards.'
'That's disgusting!' Thorne said. 'Does he offer to sleep in the wet patch as well?'
Bethell laughed, high-pitched and scary. The woman looked round, a little alarmed. Thorne smiled and she quickly turned away again.
'So, let's have it,' Thorne said.
Bethell reached into a shoulder-bag and produced a large brown envelope. 'Right, well, it's almost certainly Spain.'
'You serious?' Thorne fought to keep his voice down. 'We'd pretty much got to that point ourselves.'
'Hold on, Mr Thorne. I might be able to tell you which part as well.' Bethell pulled four large colour prints from the envelope and handed them over. 'I managed to isolate and enhance the bits of the photos with the boat. Remember the boat in the background?'
Thorne looked at the pictures. 'I remember. Go on…'
Bethell pointed. 'That's the Spanish flag. By law, every boat registered in Spain has to fly it. Now, we might be unlucky. I mean, it's possible that some Spaniard was sailing about off the Greek islands or something, but I doubt it. So, like I said, I reckon Spain's a fair bet.'
'You said you could be more specific.'
'Well, I think you can find out from the registration.' He pointed to an indistinct black smudge on the boat's hull, then took out another print in which this section had been blown up to fill the entire frame. Now a series of letters and numbers was blurred but legible. 'There's no name, but I reckon this should be all you need. A mate of mine had a boat in Lanzarote and the Spanish are shit-hot when it comes to keeping records about all that stuff.'
From the corner of his eye, Thorne could see the seedy accountant staring, clearly keen as mustard to know what was in the photographs.
'It's because they charge extortionate taxes,' Bethell said. 'Mooring fees on the boats, harbour taxes, all that. Now, you should be able to trace the owner of this boat and, with a bit of luck, he'll be able to tell you where he was on this date.' Just to be extra helpful, Bethell produced a final print in which the date that had been stamped on the original photograph had been blown up. 'See?'
'You're wasted in porn, Kodak.'
'Nice of you to say, but I don't think I'm cut out to be a copper.'
'No, probably not.'
'They are some of my best customers, though.'
Thorne slid the prints back into the envelope. 'Nice one, Kodak. I think this may be one of those rare occasions when you've earned your money.'
'Talking of which…'
'Sorry, I didn't bring any cash with me. I thought I'd just make a donation to an appropriate charity.'
'What?'
'Something for the blind, maybe?'
'Funny, Mr Thorne.'
Thorne reached into his jacket pocket and took out the four fifty-pound notes he'd signed out from the CHIS fund. These days, only stubborn old sods like himself still used the word 'snout'. In a prime example of corporate wank-speak, the likes of Dennis Bethell were now officially known as 'covert human information sources', even though there was nothing remotely covert about Kodak. Besides which, on this occasion, he was acting more as an expert witness. Not that Thorne or anyone else would ever consider putting him on the stand, of course. Even if Bethell changed his appearance and his occupation went unmentioned, any iota of credibility would disappear as soon as he opened his mouth.
'Who's the bloke in the photos anyway?' Bethell squeaked.
'A ghost,' Thorne said.
He thanked Bethell again and Bethell thanked him right back, reminding Thorne that he was always available for this kind of work and handing him a fistful of business cards. 'Give them out to some of your colleagues, if you get the chance,' he said. 'Either for this sort of thing or, you know, I can fix them up with any other material they might need.'
Thorne put the cards in his pocket, wondering if Yvonne Kitson might be in the market for a hunky plumber/horny housewife DVD. With added cuddling.
'I'm very discreet.'
'You couldn't be discreet if your life depended on it,' Thorne said.
He moved away, stopping at the foot of the stairs and beckoning the seedy accountant across. The man looked nervous but could not resist the invitation. Thorne drew him close then glanced around to check that the coast was clear, before teasingly pulling out one of the photographs of the boat.
'Look at the mast on that!' he said.
Friday evening, and the main routes out of the West End were predictably snarled up. Sitting in traffic on Regent Street, Thorne called Brigstocke and told him about the meeting with Bethell. He gave him the registration number of the boat and Brigstocke said he'd get on to it straight away.
'I wouldn't bank on getting hold of anybody before Monday, though, even if it was a British boat,' the DCI said. 'And we're dealing with the Spanish here, mate. Manana, manana, all that…'
Thorne told him he was a racist and to let him know as soon as he heard anything.
The BMW moved a few feet forwards, then stopped again. Thorne had tuned into talkSPORT, but was only half listening to a discussion about the following day's football fixtures. Mostly he was thinking about Ellie Langford.
Had her father really spirited her away to Spain?
Thorne realised he knew next to nothing about the missing girl. What had her life been like before she disappeared? What had her plans been? She was eighteen. Had she been planning to go to college or did she already have a job? Was there a boyfriend?
Thorne needed to find out.
He had managed to get across Oxford Street and was waiting at the traffic lights by Broadcasting House. Drizzle had just begun to fall and some pundit or other was talking about Arsenal's leaky defence when Thorne glanced to his left and saw the woman crying in the car. She had parked twenty yards past the Langham Hotel in a blue Peugeot 405, and at first, Thorne thought she was rocking with laughter at something on the radio or a hands-free call. Then he saw that she was racked with sobs.
He stared…
