'Did you ever see him with anyone suspicious?' Boyle asked.
Pat Cook seemed to find that pretty funny. 'He was a prison officer, love,' she said. 'He spent eight hours a day with some of the most suspicious characters you'd ever come across.'
'Right…'
Once again, Thorne wondered what Andy Boyle was expecting: Oh, yes, come to think of it, there was this one man… very shifty-looking he was, making sure nobody was watching, then slipping Howard this big brown envelope bulging with cash. Funny, because I didn't really think anything of it at the time…
'So, what now?' she said.
'Well, we'll do everything we can to bring those responsible for your husband's death to justice…' It was the start of a small speech that Thorne had made many times before, one that he knew sounded convincing, but he stopped when he saw Pat Cook shaking her head.
'No, love, I mean about Howard.' She folded her hands together in her lap. ' Now, will you leave him be?'
Afterwards, Andy Boyle drove them into Wakefield, then on to where his team was based in a sprawl of interconnected units on an industrial estate to the south of the city. Police facilities were rarely beautiful, but this one was grimmer than most, making Becke House seem positively charming by comparison. Thorne wondered if each force had some kind of exclusive deal with the same people who designed slaughter-houses and multi-storey car parks. Did these places really need to be quite so dismal? He wasn't holding out for thatched roofs or artfully incorporated water features, but Jesus… wasn't the job bad enough already?
It could hardly help the cause if those doing it felt depressed just walking into the place.
Thorne said as much on their way in, but the Yorkshireman said he'd never really thought about it and didn't give a toss either way. Thorne asked if he'd heard of sick-building syndrome, but Boyle just shook his head and led him into the incident room, gesturing towards the dozen or so men and women who were busy at cluttered work- stations.
'Sick- bastard syndrome, more like,' he said, pleased with himself. 'You want to hear some of the stuff this lot come out with.'
As he was being introduced, Thorne could see that, for all the curmudgeonly posturing, Boyle was not only proud of his team but rather fond of most of them. Certainly more fond than Thorne was of some he had the misfortune to be working with.
He was also struck, as he had been in similar situations before, by how coppers brought together in teams always seemed to fall into distinct and recognisable categories. There were the can-do types and the moaners. There were arse-lickers, loners and thugs. Thorne recognised an Yvonne Kitson and a couple of Dave Hollands and after a few bad jokes and off-colour comments, was able to identify the team's Samir Karim. Having spoken to almost everyone, he was unsure which of those he had met was the closest approximation to himself. He wondered if it might be Andy Boyle, but even as he considered it his eyes drifted towards a surly DS who was sitting slightly away from the others. He had just grunted when Thorne was introduced and then turned back to his computer screen. He seemed vaguely disturbed.
Thorne spoke to the officers responsible for looking into the financial affairs of Howard Cook and Jeremy Grover and was told much the same story he had heard already from Andy Boyle. Almost certainly cash. No paper trail so far.
'Buggers aren't daft,' one of them said.
Thorne remembered what Pat Cook had said to him before they left – the plea on behalf of her husband. He had dodged the question, unwilling to tell the painful truth. The fact was, though, until they had something – anything – better to go on, they would not leave him be.
'Keep digging,' he told the officers.
He made a small speech, outlining how the inquiry was developing from the London end. As far as tracing Alan Langford went, they were following up promising leads, but they still needed all the help they could get. 'When it comes down to it,' he said, 'the work you are doing up here is likely to prove crucial in gaining a conviction.'
'Stirring stuff,' Boyle said, when Thorne had finished. 'You'll make brass one of these days.'
'Over my dead body,' Thorne said.
'Talking of which…' Boyle nodded towards a tall man in an expensive suit who was striding towards them. He muttered, 'Here we bloody go…' then smiled and introduced Detective Chief Inspector Roger Smiley.
The DCI failed miserably to live up to his name as he shook Thorne's hand and told him how pleased he was with the way their two forces were working together. Thorne did his best to look as though he were paying attention and formulated an instant opinion. Same rank as Brigstocke, but probably not a Brigstocke. Way too much formality and, thankfully, no card tricks.
'We like to think that we can stay as ahead of the curve as you boys down south,' Smiley said. 'That's right, isn't it, Andy?'
'Spot on,' Boyle said, looking as if he hadn't the faintest notion of what or where this curve might be.
'So, we're particularly proud that this inquiry is such a good example of the CRISP initiative in action.'
' Which initiative?' Thorne asked.
Smiley finally smiled. 'The Cross-Regional Information Sharing Project.'
'Yes, well, it's a shining example.' No, not a Brigstocke, Thorne decided. Definitely a complete and utter Jesmond.
'I'm sure you've got plenty to be getting on with,' Smiley said. 'Andy can sort you out with an office, if you need one.'
Thorne thanked him, said he wasn't planning to hang around too long, but an office for an hour or two would be nice. When Smiley had left, Thorne turned to Andy Boyle. ' CRISP? Is he having a laugh?'
'Does he look like the type?'
'Sometimes I think they come up with these half-arsed schemes just to fit the stupid bloody initials.'
'I suggested one of my own the other day,' Boyle said. 'The National Unified Tactical Service. Told him that way he could have CRISPS and NUTS.'
Thorne laughed.
'Didn't even crack his face,' Boyle said.
By the end of the day, Thorne had spent a couple of hours in a poky office, reading through everything that the West Yorkshire team had put together in the wake of the Paul Monahan murder and in the few hours since Howard Cook's. All information pertaining to the investigation would be accessible from London via a shared- database system, but it made sense for Thorne to review the material while those who had compiled it were on hand to answer any questions.
As it was, nothing worried or excited him.
Building a case, some called it, though the likes of Jesmond and Smiley probably had a far more convoluted description. To Thorne's mind, nobody was building much of anything, although that was understandable, given that they lacked most of the necessary materials and had no clear idea of what was being built.
Get Alan Langford. For Thorne, it had already become that simple.
And find his daughter.
He called and left a message for Louise, to let her know that he would be leaving soon and that, barring delays on the train, he should be back in time for a late dinner. He offered to pick up a curry on the way back from King's Cross.
He was ready to go and reaching for his jacket when he changed his mind and went back to the desk. He picked up the phone and called Donna Langford.
'What the hell do you want?'
'How's everything with you and Kate?' he asked.
'What do you care?'
'I care enough to ask, obviously.'
'We're beating seven bells out of each other. We're not talking. I'm moving out. Which of those would you like best? Which one would give you the biggest stiffy?'
'You're being stupid, Donna.'
'Look, it's not exactly love's young dream at the minute. Let's leave it there, shall we?'
