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.
Anna smiled and said, 'Nice to meet you.'
'I gather that you specialise in matrimonial work,' the man said, turning his attention back to Frank.
'It's one of several areas-'
'A friend of mine used you and said you were very good.'
'Oh… who was that?' Frank asked. 'It's always nice to hear about another satisfied customer.'
'I'd rather not say.'
'I understand,' Frank said. 'And you can be sure that discretion is very much part of the service we provide.'
'Honey traps, right?'
'Some people call it that,' Frank said. 'We prefer to think of it-'
'Yes or no?'
'Yes,' Frank said. 'Definitely.' He glanced across at Anna, who tried not to look too disgusted at the excitement in his face. The job he had mentioned to her on Friday had failed to materialise. Another in a long list of clients who had gone elsewhere after learning that other agencies provided a more efficient service. 'We can definitely do that.'
'As long as we're clear. So, how much does it cost?'
'It all depends on the circumstances and so on…' Frank was beginning to look a little flustered. 'But there's something I'm not clear about.'
The man looked at Frank, waited.
Frank cleared his throat. 'We're talking about your wife?'
'Girlfriend.'
'Fine, girlfriend. But that still leaves us with the same problem.'
'Which is?'
