for the pack of cigarettes lying on a low, glass-topped table.
'Housing association,' she said. 'Kate found it.'
Thorne nodded. He could still hear the working-class Essex upbringing in her voice. If anything, it was stronger now than it had been before, the result of ten years inside trying to pretend she was tougher than she was. He thought about the last time he had visited this woman at her home – a surprisingly tasteful mock-Tudor pile in the Hertfordshire countryside. 'You couldn't even fit your old kitchen inside this place,' he said. He remembered the echo and the gleaming, dust-free surfaces. 'Never seen so much marble in my life.'
Donna blew out a plume of smoke and tossed the disposable lighter on to the table. 'I probably cooked in that kitchen three times,' she said. 'Never knew where anything was.'
'What happened to the house?'
'Gone. Same as everything else.'
'Right, yeah.' Thorne sat down on the sofa. He remembered that Donna had been the main beneficiary of her husband's will, that for a while this had been considered her motive for wanting him killed. As it had transpired, there was far less to inherit than anyone had thought – the majority of Alan Langford's assets turning out to have been paper – with the little that was tangible seized by the Serious Organised Crime Agency before Donna had even been sentenced. 'So, not a lot to come out to?'
'I had plenty,' Donna said. She shrugged, reached for a large glass ashtray and pulled it towards her. 'My priorities had changed.'
Kate shouted from the kitchen, asking if Thorne wanted sugar. He shouted back, letting her know that he did not.
'Actually,' Donna said, 'you've put on a bit of weight.'
'Yeah, well.' Thorne smiled, unamused. 'We've all changed.'
She too was heavier than she had been ten years before, puffy-faced and jowly, while her hair, which Thorne also recalled that she had been inordinately proud of, was grey and far from perfectly coiffured. She was still prison-pale and, on top of the smoking habit, she had acquired a wariness that Thorne had seen in many with a few years inside under their belt. She shifted focus every few seconds, the circles beneath her eyes as blue- black as bruises.
She might have been the mother of the woman Thorne had last seen a decade earlier.
'Her Majesty does pretty good makeovers,' Donna said, seeing what Thorne was thinking. She nodded towards Kate, who was coming through the door with three mugs and a packet of biscuits. 'Not that bloody drastic, though.'
Thorne looked from Donna to Kate. 'Sorry.'
Donna leaned over, smirking, to stub out her cigarette. 'You thought she was me, didn't you?'
Thorne looked again and saw that Donna's companion was at least ten years younger than he had originally taken her for, ten years younger than Donna herself. He also noticed the delicate swirls of blue that snaked up from below the neck of her T-shirt. He could just make out a 'D' and an 'O' and guessed what the rest of the tattoo spelled out. Now he could see that there was no physical similarity whatsoever between the two women. What had seemed familiar to him was merely something they shared in their expressions: a suspicion, a challenge, an invitation to judge.
He had simply recognised an ex-con.
Kate smiled as she handed Thorne his tea, that invitation even clearer this time. 'Me and Donna met in Holloway, a couple of years back.'
'I'm thrilled for you,' Thorne said.
'I was released nine months ago. Got all this set up for us.'
'It's quite lovely.'
Kate bent down and took a cigarette from the packet on the table. 'Donna said you were a wanker.'
'Sorry, I just don't give a toss,' Thorne said.
Kate shrugged, like that made sense, and lit the cigarette. She took two good, deep drags. 'So, you going to find her ex, then?'
Thorne held up his free hand. 'Look, I'm just here because someone asked me, OK? And because I'm an idiot.'
Kate took two more cigarettes from the pack and slipped them into her shirt pocket. 'I'll leave you to get on with it.'
'You don't need to go,' Donna said.
But Kate was already at the door, her back to them, waggling her fingers in a goodbye.
When the door closed, Donna said, 'I couldn't do this without her.'
'Do what?'
'You saw the photograph of Alan.'
'I saw a photograph,' Thorne said.
'Come on, you know it's him.' She leaned forward in her chair. 'You know Alan's still alive.'
Thorne took a slurp of tea. Deciding he might just as well stay until he had finished it, he went over some of the same ground he had covered with Anna Carpenter. Donna had received the photograph two months earlier in a plain brown envelope addressed to her at HMP Holloway. There had been no accompanying note. Two more pictures had followed, both delivered in the same way. Then, a fortnight ago, after her release, a fourth had arrived at the flat.
Donna showed Thorne the three other photos. They were all from the same batch, dated three months earlier, each shot showing the man in more or less the same pose, holding up his glass of beer or drinking from it. The same triumphant grin. The same sea and sky, the same black mountain and distant boat.
'No helpful postmark, I suppose?' Thorne asked.
'All posted in London,' Donna said.
'You keep the envelopes?'
'I didn't think. Sorry.'
Thorne stared down at the photographs laid out on the table, listened to the rustle and click of the lighter, the faint hiss as Donna lit another cigarette.
'Why didn't you come to us straight away?' Thorne asked.
'Because I knew you'd be like this. Suspicious. I knew you'd think I was full of shit.'
'But you didn't mind when Anna came to see me?'
'She's a nice girl,' Donna said. 'But to be honest, I don't think she does much more than fetch and carry. I'd rather you lot weren't involved, no point me pretending otherwise, but if it's the only way I'm going to find out…'
'Find out why the photos are being sent?'
Donna nodded. Her eyes were closed and smoke drifted from the corner of her mouth.
'And who's sending them?'
'Where he is,' she said. 'I want to know where that bastard is.'
Thorne fought the temptation to make some crack about knowing exactly where Donna's ex-husband was, about there not being an awful lot left of him, seeing as how he had essentially been cremated twice. He watched as Donna reached for another stack of photographs from a small sideboard, flicked through them, then passed a couple across.
These were much older. Donna and Alan Langford dressed up to the nines on an evening out. Black tie for him, cocktail dress for her, and best smiles for the camera.
'Looks fancy,' Thorne said.
'Some charity bash or other.' Donna spat the words out as if she now saw what a sham her life had been back then. The contented wife. The gangster masquerading as philanthropist. She pointed from one image of her ex-husband to the other; from a photograph taken a dozen years earlier to one dated a few months ago. 'You can see it's him, can't you?'
Thorne looked. He could not deny the resemblance.
'Alan had a scar,' Donna said. 'He got knifed in the belly when he was a teenager, some ruck in the local pub.' She pointed again at the photo of the older man and Thorne saw the mark: a pale line just above the crinkled waistband of the swimming shorts, clear against the sagging, brown gut. 'I reckon he's had a bit of work
