Mark Billingham: From the Dead

'You need to turn it down a bit,' he said.

'Turn it down?'

'The volume. All of it. I know you're nervous, but-'

'I'm fine.'

'And I certainly don't want any chit-chat when we see Monahan. Fair enough?'

'Sorry,' she said. 'I talk too much, I know that. Always have. Overcompensating, I suppose.'

'For what?'

'All sorts.'

They rounded a corner and entered the waiting area. Two dozen people sat clutching torn-off, numbered tickets as though they were queuing at a supermarket deli counter. Thorne showed his authorisation to the officer at the desk, and he and Anna walked straight through to the Visits Area. The room was large, bright and airy, with several rows of clean tables and simple metal chairs. A prison officer sat near the doors at either end, while a third moved slowly up and down between the tables, leading a bored-looking sniffer-dog. The carpet smelled new and Thorne wondered if that made the dog's job any harder. It can't have helped, surely. How many visitors were able to waltz in with wraps of crack shoved up their arses for weeks after Allied Carpets had been in?

There was a supervised play area in one corner, and a few smaller rooms for private visits at the far end. As they moved past a refreshments counter towards one of these, Anna asked, 'What about building a rapport?'

'What?'

'No chit-chat, like you said, but don't we need to make him relaxed or whatever?'

' We don't need to do anything,' Thorne said. 'And trust me, you don't want any kind of "rapport" with a man like Paul Monahan.'

He was waiting for them, looking agitated, if not exactly nervous. His face and hair were both greyer than Thorne remembered, and he had filled out a little beneath the blue and white striped shirt he wore with standard HMP-issue jeans and training shoes. He stabbed at his watch. 'You're late.' The irritation was clear enough under the nasal Derry twang.

'Somewhere else you'd like to be?' Thorne asked. He took off his jacket, laid it across the back of a chair. Anna did the same.

'Got a class.'

Thorne nodded. It looked like he, rather than Gary Brand, had been closer to the mark when it came to guessing at Monahan's prison hobbies. That said, it might have been a class in cage fighting. Like most prisons, aside from a bewildering assortment of treatment programmes, Wakefield had an enormous range of activities and educational opportunities on offer. Thorne happened to know for example that those working in the engineering workshop spent their time making security gates, grilles and fencing. Even he had to admit that sounded like taking the piss. 'I thought you might have a hot date.'

'You were funny as cancer ten years ago,' Monahan said. 'You've not got any funnier.'

'Nice to see you again, too.'

Monahan looked at Anna for the first time. 'Who's this?'

'Detective Carpenter,' Thorne said. Not a lie. Not exactly. He saw Monahan's eyes wander across Anna's body, lingering where they shouldn't. 'Let's crack on, shall we? Seeing as you're so busy.'

Monahan shrugged, leaned back.

'You know your former employer's out and about, don't you?' Thorne let it hang for a few seconds. 'I'm talking about Donna Langford, obviously.'

Another shrug. Monahan might have known, or known and not cared.

'Sorry, when I said "employer", did you think I meant Alan Langford?'

The hesitation was brief, but it was enough. 'Why would I think that?'

'Well, you did some work for him too, once upon a time. Before Donna hired you, I mean.'

'So?'

'So, I'm just trying to avoid any confusion.'

'You're the one who's confused, pal. How can he be out and about anywhere?'

'Of course. He's dead meat, isn't he?' Thorne shook his head in mock-annoyance at his own mock-idiocy. 'Seriously overdone meat, now I think about it, but certainly dead. Stupid mistake on my part. Don't know what I was thinking.' He looked hard at Monahan, watched the eyes move back to Anna.

Less about lust this time. More an attempt to change the way the conversation was heading.

'Isn't it kind of annoying?' Thorne asked. 'Donna on the out while you're still stuck in here, doing your GCSEs or whatever.'

'Not thought about it,' Monahan said.

'I don't think I believe you.'

'Believe what you like.'

'Not that you've done yourself a lot of favours, mind you. All that extra time getting whacked on to your sentence. Assaulting prison guards, trashing your cell…'

'Why should you care?'

'I couldn't give a toss, but it's not clever, is it?'

'I get wound up.'

'You must love that Seg Unit.'

Monahan's head dropped a little, one hand pulling at the fingers of the other. 'Can't do anything about it.'

'What have you got, another seven or eight years, minimum?'

A nod. His chin inching closer to his chest.

Thorne was about to speak again when Anna cut in. 'Sounds like it could get a whole lot longer if you're not careful,' she said. If she was aware of the hard look Thorne gave her, she chose to ignore it. 'You need to sort yourself out.'

Monahan raised his head, sniffed. After a few seconds he looked away from Anna, sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Cocksure again and waiting for them to get to whatever it was they had come such a long way to talk to him about.

'There are ways to reduce your sentence,' Thorne said. 'Radical idea, I know.'

Monahan smiled thinly, with just a hint of prison teeth. 'Getting to it now, are we? What you actually want.'

'What? We can't just pop in to see how you are?'

'Like I said, funny as cancer.'

'It's really no big thing,' Thorne said. 'Just a little help with a murder we're trying to solve. Not even that, actually, because we know very well who the murderer is. It's more a question of trying to identify the victim.'

'Why should I know anything?'

'Well, because it was you that handcuffed the poor bastard to the wheel of that Jag and set fire to it.'

Monahan stared for a few seconds, then began to shake his head and show a few more teeth. 'You're mental, you know that?'

'Barking,' Thorne said. 'Completely off my trolley. But let's see just how mad I am, shall we? I mean, let's think for a minute about how this might have panned out. I'm guessing that Alan found out what his dearly beloved was up to. Overheard her on the phone or talking in her sleep, it doesn't really matter. Then he comes to you before you get a chance to do what she's paid you for and makes you a better offer.'

Monahan looked at Anna, nodded towards Thorne. 'Who did you piss off to get stuck with him?'

'So, you had to find someone to take his place,' Thorne said. 'Did you do that or did Alan find someone? Had to be someone roughly the same height and general appearance, I suppose. Not that it really mattered by the time you'd finished with him.'

Monahan was still looking at Anna. 'Seriously, love, you want to put in for a transfer.'

'Thanks, I'll bear it in mind,' she said. 'Now tell us who you got to replace Alan Langford in that car.'

Thorne turned, ready with another hard stare of admonishment. Then he saw the look on Anna's face, and Monahan's reaction to her simple, straightforward question, and decided to save it for later.

Monahan composed himself. Took a deep breath. 'Alan Langford is dead, OK? Jesus, why do you think I'm in here? His missus paid me to get rid of him and I did what I was good at back then. Fair enough?'

'Well, it would be,' Thorne said. 'If I hadn't just seen a photo of Mr Langford looking ever so well.' Monahan swallowed and looked away. 'He's alive and kicking, Paul, and we all know it.'

'So, no need for any more bullshit,' Anna said.

Thorne nodded, sat back. 'Yep, that's another one on the out, getting himself a very nice suntan while you're rotting in here, the colour of a manky spud. I mean, we've got to presume he's been making it worth your while all these years, you saying nothing. Something nice to look forward to when you come out, I shouldn't wonder. And he's probably taking care of your nearest and dearest, right? Keeping up the mortgage payments, all that.'