From the Dead

However hard that might otherwise be.

There were solid metal gates at the end of the driveway, and from what Thorne could remember from the helicopter pictures he had been shown, it was about a quarter of a mile from them to the house itself. Thorne could not see any security cameras, but he did not much care if he was seen anyway.

He rang the bell and waited. Rang again, then stepped back and walked a few yards along the perimeter fence. Densely cultivated firs obscured the view, so he moved back to the gates, pushing the sweat out of his eyes with the heels of his hands. He pressed the bell one more time, then leaned down to the speaker that was built into a concrete post. He had no idea if anyone was listening.

'You made another mistake, Alan,' he said. He could hear nothing but the low buzz of power lines overhead and the humming of cicadas. 'Your last one…'

He turned at the sound of a vehicle approaching and watched a white VW Golf coming around the steep bend that led to the villa. The car slowed when the driver saw him, then stopped altogether. Thorne took a few casual steps and recognised the man he had seen watching him on his first two nights in Mijas. The man who may or may not be working for Alan Langford.

Thorne and the driver looked at each other for ten seconds before Thorne began walking quickly towards the car. The gravel spat as the driver immediately threw the Golf into a three-point turn. Thorne started to run, but there was never any chance of him catching it. He made a mental note of the number plate and was repeating it to himself as the Golf disappeared around the corner and his phone rang.

It was Holland.

'How did it go in Nottingham, Dave?'

'Chris Talbot is definitely our man,' Holland said. ' Was our man, whatever. But listen, there's a photo you need to see.' He told Thorne about the rugby picture, about the man whose face he had recognised.

Thorne felt what might have been a bead of sweat, or an insect crawling across the nape of his neck. He had already forgotten the VW's number plate. 'It's not that strange, is it? Considering the team.' He began walking back towards his car.

'Not if it was just that, but Sonia Murray called from Wakefield. They did a random search of Jeremy Grover's cell last week and found a mobile phone.'

'Last week? So why are we only hearing about this now?'

Holland explained standard HMP protocol in such circumstances, as it had been explained to him by Murray. The phone had immediately been sent to the prison's security department in case it contained pictures of officers or keys, and from there to an outside technical support unit. The techies had extracted data from the SIM card, including the numbers of all incoming and outgoing calls, and had then passed the information on to Murray.

'If she hadn't been on the ball, we might never have heard about it,' Holland said. 'But she thought we might be interested in the calls made and received in the few days before Monahan was killed. And on the day…'

'You've checked them out?'

'One number came up repeatedly.'

'Whose?'

Holland told him. The same man he had seen in the photograph at Alison Hobbs' house. A mobile registered in his wife's name.

'Grover sent a text the day he killed Monahan,' Holland said. 'And he was called back a few hours later. The same thing happened the day after Cook was killed.'

Thorne reached the car and leaned against it for a few seconds.

'There's your jungle drums,' Holland said.

Thorne opened the door and climbed in, turned on the ignition and waited for the cold air. He ran through conversations from two months before. Let the pieces fall into place.

'Sir? Tom…?'

'We use him to get Langford,' Thorne said. He was thinking aloud, but he knew it was the best chance they had. The only chance. 'We can use him, but we need to get him here, all right?'

'How do we do that?'

'Piece of piss,' Thorne said.

Suddenly he knew exactly what needed to be done. And he knew just the man to do it.

FORTY-THREE

'For Christ's sake, drink your beer,' Langford said. 'And relax, will you?'

A clink of glasses, or bottles maybe, and the sound of something ticking fast in the background.

'I don't know how you can be so calm. We're in trouble here.'

'I don't agree.'

'How can you-?'

'Getting worked up doesn't do anybody any good.'

'They're really turning the screws on Grover.'

'Everything can be sorted. As long as you've been careful.'

'Course I have.'

'So, no problem then.'

'Thorne's not going to give this one up, I'm telling you.'

'He'll have to, eventually. Chasing lost causes always pisses the brass off in the end. Well, you know that.'

'You should never have done the girl.'

Just that ticking for ten seconds or more then the scrape of a chair against the tiles.

'You're sweating like a pig, mate,' Langford said, laughing. 'Take your shirt off, have a dip in the pool.'

'I'm fine.'

A throat cleared loudly…

'If he takes his shirt off, we're in big trouble,' Samarez said.

Thorne shrugged. 'Not as much trouble as he'll be in.'

They were sitting in the back of a van with blacked-out windows and the name of a plumbing company on the side. It was parked in a small turning a hundred yards or so from the gates, but with a clear view of them. The conversation at the villa was coming through loud and clear, with the voice of the man wearing the wire only a little more distinct than Langford's. He'd been told to get as close as he could.

'It's a decent enough microphone, though,' Thorne had told him as the wire was being fitted. 'So, no need to sit on his lap…'

Now, up at the villa, Langford was telling his visitor how warm the pool was. 'Like a bath,' he said.

The other man said he wasn't much for swimming.

'We have not discussed what we should do if this does not… work out,' Samarez said.

'Damn, I knew we'd forgotten something,' Thorne said. He pretended to think about it for a few seconds, to give a toss. 'I suggest we just sit here and listen to him getting battered.'

'Well, for a while, perhaps.' Samarez was wearing the headphones, while Thorne was sitting close to a small speaker on the table next to the receiving equipment.

Next to him, Andy Boyle shifted his folding chair nearer to the speaker. 'He's pushing it too hard, if you ask me.'

'Maybe,' Thorne said.

They listened for another minute.

'How do we know the tosser's not writing notes?' Boyle asked. '"Say nothing" or whatever.'

Thorne shook his head. 'He's deep in the shit and this is his only chance of keeping his head above it.'

'Hope you're right,' Boyle said.*

Thorne had met the Yorkshireman at the airport two days before. Boyle had shaken his hand, said it was a damn sight warmer than Wakefield.

'Thanks for doing this, Andy,' Thorne had said.

Boyle had glanced at the man he had brought with him. 'An absolute fucking pleasure, mate.' Still holding on to Thorne's hand, Boyle had leaned in close to Thorne and said, 'Really sorry about the lass.'

'I know…'

Then, as if embarrassed to show too much of a soft side without so much as a single drink inside him, Boyle had stepped away and pointed an accusing finger. 'Oh, and you never sent my pants back by the way. ..'

Thorne had not spoken to Boyle's fellow passenger – the one in plastic cuffs – until a couple of hours later when Thorne had felt good and ready. Only once he, Boyle and Samarez had had a chance to put their heads together and Gary Brand had been given an hour or so to stew in a Guardia Civil safe house.

'Not quite as clever as your boss, then,' Thorne had said. 'Very careless all this phone business, but I'm guessing you were stitched up by somebody else.'