pizza ordered by phone and delivered to the gate.
Thorne called twice, and was told twice by Yvonne Kitson that he wasn't helping.
The search parameters remained broadly the same. They were looking for missing Caucasian males of approximately six feet in height. The age of the victim was somewhat trickier. At the time of the post-mortem, there had been no reason to suspect that the body in the car was anyone other than the man identified by Donna Langford as her husband, and therefore no reason to examine bone fragments and tissue samples for an accurate assessment of the victim's age. So, Phil Hendricks had re-examined the samples he'd taken during the PM ten years earlier. He established conclusively that the victim had not been drugged, but the damage caused by the fire meant determining a precise age was impossible.
'Between twenty and fifty years old,' Hendricks had told Holland. 'But even that's just a guess, and make sure you-know-who knows that.'
*
Thorne had to sit through twenty minutes of Far East business reports on BBC World before the main news bulletin came on.
It was the second item.
Thorne was shocked to see that the MP Brigstocke had mentioned was a woman – young and earnest in a nicely cut business suit. She was standing outside Scotland Yard, the iconic sign revolving slowly behind her as she outlined the aims of the campaign.
'Yes, Adam Chambers is innocent in the eyes of the law,' she said. 'But that is not enough. He has been traumatised by the experience of being falsely accused of such a terrible crime and is finding it desperately hard to rebuild his life. Mr Chambers is as much a victim as anybody. In fact, as far as anyone has been able to prove, he is the only victim in this entire shambolic investigation.'
Thorne was sitting on the edge of the bed, no more than a couple of feet from the small screen. 'Bollocks,' he said.
'What do you want to see happen now?' the interviewer asked.
The woman half turned towards the building behind her, skilfully alternating her tone between concern and outrage. 'At the very least, Adam Chambers is owed an official apology, but I will be lobbying hard to see an independent inquiry launched.'
'Do you have a message for the parents of Andrea Keane?'
Now the concern was even clearer in the studied nod and the lowering of the voice. 'I have nothing but sympathy for the unfortunate parents of the missing girl. And I can assure you that Adam Chambers feels exactly the same way. But… on his behalf, on behalf of anyone who truly believes in justice, I'm demanding that those who sanctioned such a ridiculous and expensive prosecution be called to account.'
'Can you tell us how Mr Chambers is coping?'
In the background, Thorne could see one of the Scotland Yard security officers watching, a machine-gun slung against his hip. He leaned forward to grab a beer from the mini-bar, slammed the door shut and heard the remaining bottles tumbling inside.
Imagined the officer taking aim and delivering a message of his own.
THIRTY-SIX
Thorne woke with an idea.
He called Yvonne Kitson and asked her to dig out Langford's file; to look through the list of his blood relatives and get dates of birth and phone numbers for any who were still alive. When Kitson called back fifteen minutes later, he scribbled down the information on a scrap of hotel notepaper.
'Sorry about this Chambers thing,' Kitson said. 'It must feel like a kick in the teeth.'
'It'll blow over,' Thorne said.
Then he called Samarez.
He gave the Guardia Civil officer the significant dates and numbers and explained what he was looking for. Samarez said he would check the phone records and get back to him later in the day.
'I don't need telling that Mackenzie is Langford,' Thorne said, 'and I know this probably won't stand up in court. But until we've got the print evidence, it'll have to do.'
Samarez told him that they would not have too long to wait for the fingerprint match. 'Candela met up with Mackenzie in a nightclub last night. She told him she had a headache and left early with Mackenzie's champagne glass in her handbag. So, with luck…'
'I hope she was careful.'
'She is not stupid.'
'Neither is Langford,' Thorne said.
They talked for a few minutes about how the inquiry might best be taken forward, both skirting around the fact that until there was some new information, either in Spain or from the UK, it was likely to go precisely nowhere. Samarez said that he was busy on other cases for the rest of the day, and that Fraser had called in sick. He asked Thorne what he was planning to do and Thorne said he had no idea.
'You should get up to Ronda,' Samarez said. 'It's really very nice.'
'So I hear.'
'It might do you good to relax for a few hours.'
Coming from Samarez, the suggestion seemed less like an attempt to get Thorne out of the way than it had done from Fraser. Thorne wondered if Samarez might be right. There was nothing else that could usefully be done while they were waiting for Forensics to lift a print off the glass Candela Bernal had provided. To scan the results and send them through to London for comparison. A trip would certainly kill some time and might help take his mind off Langford for a while.
Off Anna Carpenter and Andrea Keane.
'I'll see how I feel,' he said.
He left the hotel and found a cafe. He drank two cups of milky coffee and made short work of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes and chorizo. Then he walked down towards the commercial area of the village to collect his hire car.
The enthusiasm in Thorne's voice had been clear enough when he had called the previous afternoon. His voice always rose a little higher when he was fired up and he talked faster. Everything he had suggested made sense, and Holland and Kitson had gone about their task with all the dedication they could muster. But Holland could not help but feel that increased hope would only lead, in the end, to increased disappointment.
That penalty kick he was destined to fluff had just become even more important.
Going back as far as Thorne had requested had eventually yielded another eight candidates. Having made certain that each one was still missing, Holland and Kitson had arrived at work that morning to begin the laborious process of contacting the next of kin, making appointments, and arranging wherever possible for DNA samples to be collected. As with the list they had worked through in February, most of the stories were simple yet terrible. The reasons why these individuals might have vanished without a trace, for the holes left in other people's lives.
Drugs. Abuse. Mental illness.
Or nothing at all.
A case that fell firmly into the last category caught Holland's eye halfway through the morning. Just for a moment or two, it made him feel as though he might have his penalty-taking boots on after all. Having talked to Brigstocke, he and Kitson decided they would not tell Thorne until they were sure there was really something to get excited about. But everyone agreed that it looked promising; that they should focus all their attention on this case.
Find out who was in that Jag, Dave. He's the key to all this.
It seemed to Holland as if it had risen up from the stack of files like a card from one of Brigstocke's magic decks.
The car was stifling and smelled plasticky when Thorne picked it up, but once the air con had been running
