From the Dead

'The camera was not in operation,' Murray said. 'That wasn't established until the early hours of this morning.'

'Meaning it was broken or had been switched off?'

'No idea.'

'That's handy,' Holland said.

Thorne nodded, thinking. 'Murder weapon?'

Boyle shook his head. 'Turned the place upside down,' he said. 'Gave Grover a full body search an' all, just to be on the safe side, but no sign of it. Sharpened toothbrush, something like that, be easy enough to hide it where the sun don't shine.'

Holland winced. 'I don't suppose there were any other prisoners walking about covered in blood?'

'Not that we could find.'

'We'd best have a word with Mr Grover then,' Thorne said.

Murray said she would arrange to have Jeremy Grover taken down to the Visits Area. 'All visits have been cancelled,' she said. 'So you can pick a room out over there.'

Thorne said that would be fine and he and Holland followed Murray down the landing. Those inside many of the cells they passed made it very clear what they thought of her. If she was upset by the vileness of the language or the suggestions, she did not show it.

As they walked down the stairs, Boyle caught up with Thorne. 'We've already had a pop at Grover,' he said. 'But if you think you can do any better…'

'Looks like I'd best get my slippers on,' Thorne said.

'Cheeky bastard.'

Thorne kept walking and did not stop smiling, but he made sure Boyle got a good look at his eyes and said, 'Why don't you piss off home and walk your whippet?'

It was the same room in which Thorne and Anna Carpenter had interviewed the man who had since become a murder victim. When Jeremy Grover was escorted in by a prison officer, he looked no more happy to be there than Paul Monahan had been.

'For Christ's sake, I've been through this already.'

Was no more happy…

Grover was taller and skinnier than the average armed robber, but his eyes were dead enough. There were flecks of ginger in the neatly trimmed goatee and a little grey in the curly brown hair. He was the same age as Thorne or thereabouts, but he looked lithe and wiry in regulation jeans and striped shirt. Thorne marked him down straight away as the sort who worked out not because he wanted to display himself, but because he enjoyed being fit. The sort who felt the need to stay keen and ready.

He looked past Thorne and Holland, who were seated at the table, towards Andy Boyle, who was leaning against the wall behind them. 'Any chance of getting my trainers back?'

Boyle said nothing, looking as though he could not bear to expend any more energy than was necessary to chew his gum.

'That's a "no" then, is it?'

Grover's bloodstained clothes had been taken and sent to the Forensic Science Service laboratory for testing. Nobody was expecting anything other than confirmation that the blood and scraps of stomach tissue belonged to Paul Monahan. Grover could not deny that he had been covered in it.

'Those look all right,' Holland said. He nodded towards the shiny white training shoes with which Grover had been issued. Grover glanced down at them then looked back at Holland as though he were something stuck to the bottom of one.

'So, you got your Boy Scout first-aid badge, did you?' Thorne asked.

'Come again?'

'Or maybe you just saw it on Casualty. Either way, very heroic – trying to save your friend's life.'

'You don't think about it, you know? You just do whatever you can.'

'You didn't think about alerting a prison officer? I mean, they're probably trained for it, right?'

'Like I said-'

'Oh, I forgot,' Thorne said. 'One came along pretty quickly anyway, didn't he?'

'Bit of luck,' Holland said.

'So, here's our problem,' Thorne said. 'And I'm sure it's the same problem Detective Inspector Boyle has.' He turned. 'Right, Detective Inspector Boyle?'

Boyle nodded.

'Thing is, the man who attacked your mate Paul, who killed him, as it turns out, seems to have vanished into thin air. Disappeared inside a high-security prison without so much as a spot of blood on his clothes and taken the murder weapon with him.' Thorne held up his hands. 'Any thoughts? I mean, you can see why we're a bit confused here, can't you?'

Grover sat back, stretched his long legs underneath the table. 'If you think I'm going to do your job for you, you're more than confused, mate. You're completely mental.'

'You sure?' Holland said. 'You don't know anything that might help us?'

Grover shook his head. 'Wouldn't matter if I did, would it? You know how it works in here. Paul was my mate, and if I find out who carved him up, they'll have me to answer to. But you still don't grass.'

'That's a real shame,' Thorne said. 'Because as soon as we clear this up, we can crack on with getting your good citizen medal organised.'

Grover seemed to find that genuinely funny, but told Thorne to go and fuck himself anyway.

'It also means we can't really do anything but jump to conclusions,' Holland said. 'I mean, we'd rather not, but when you've not got anything else…'

'What "conclusions"?' Wide-eyed and mock-innocent.

Boyle pushed himself away from the wall suddenly, clearly irritated by the back and forth. 'Like it was you, you poxy little wankstain. You strolled into Monahan's cell and shanked him.'

'Why would I want to do that?'

'Because someone paid you to,' Thorne said. 'You were contacted and told to get Paul Monahan out of the way. Now, if you could tell us who contacted you and how, it might make a difference when this comes to trial.'

'You think this is going that far?'

'I wouldn't bet against it.'

Grover let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling, as though he were considering what Thorne had said. As though the accusations were perfectly fair and justified. When he looked at Thorne again, though, it was clear how little he cared if they were justified or not.

'I'll tell you what your problem is,' he said. 'This non-existent murder weapon.' He was full of himself now, leaning forward and pointing at Thorne. 'I mean, what am I supposed to have done with it? Did I stab Paul and then walk out of the cell covered in claret, nip off somewhere to get rid of the blade and then calmly stroll back in there again? Is that really what you think happened?'

'No,' Thorne said. 'I don't think that's what happened.'

'Well, until you can prove it happened any other way, you can kiss my arse.'

Thorne said nothing as Grover calmly stood and walked to the door. He knocked, then turned and smiled at Thorne and the others, waited until a guard arrived to take him back to his cell.

'That go like you wanted?' Boyle asked. He walked around the table until he stood in Thorne's eye-line. 'Happy with it?'

Thorne ignored him and turned to lift his leather jacket from the back of the chair.

'Cocky bastard knows we've got nothing,' Holland said.

Thorne stood up. 'Not yet.'

It was dry and cold, and Thorne stared out of the taxi window as the streets narrowed and the greys of office blocks and multi-storeys gave way to those of rutted fields and spindly trees, with the black ribbon of the River Calder twisting alongside. 'Whatever we turn up on Monahan money-wise is probably academic,' he said. 'Considering he won't be around to spend it. So, we need to look at Grover as well. Find what he's getting paid for doing Monahan and where it's going.'

'And where it's coming from, with a bit of luck,' Holland said.

'I don't think there's too much doubt about that.'

'Definitely Langford, you reckon?'

'Got to be.'

'But how's he organising all this?' Holland asked. 'We're presuming he's still out of the country, right?'

Thorne turned away from the window, stared over the driver's shoulder at the road unwinding in front of the car. 'Monahan was killed within hours of me talking to him,' he said. 'So, wherever the hell Langford is, he's tuned in to a seriously good set of jungle drums.'