Mark Billingham - From the Dead

'Right. He's never going to be convicted of doing Monahan without Cook's confession. And Cook's already done the smart thing and handed in his resignation, by the way. Claims his wife's poorly.'

'Well, there's an admission of guilt.'

'Yeah, you know that, and I know that…'

Thorne also knew that Boyle was right to be pessimistic. Wherever he was, as things stood, Alan Langford did not have a great deal to be worried about.

'I'll keep squeezing,' Boyle said. 'All I can do.'

'We'll find something.'

'The thing is, even if I could pin something on Cook, and even if he put Grover firmly in the frame for the Monahan murder, I don't think you'd get your man. Not directly, anyway.'

Thorne found it hard to argue with what Andy Boyle was suggesting. What had Donna said about her ex-husband considering all eventualities? Alan Langford was not stupid, and by getting Monahan out of the way so efficiently he had already proved just how careful he was. He would certainly not be dealing personally with the likes of Jeremy Grover and Howard Cook.

There had to be a middle man.

Thorne's mobile buzzed on his desk. He picked it up, saw the caller ID and told Boyle he'd check back with him tomorrow. 'Sorry about that whippet comment, by the way,' he said.

'Don't worry. If it weren't for the fact that I've actually got one, I might have clocked you.'

'That's all right then.'

'I'm joking, you twat.'

Thorne hung up and answered his mobile. 'About bloody time, Kodak.' His nickname for Dennis Bethell. 'I was on the verge of sending a few friendly vice-squad types round to kick your door in.'

'Yeah, sorry, only I didn't want to get back to you until I had something on these photos, you know?'

Irritated as he was, Thorne smiled at the familiar high-pitched squeak, the voice so at odds with the man's appearance.

'Let's have it, then.'

'Best if we meet up, don't you reckon? So we can sort out the cash and what have you.'

'I've not got time to piss about.'

'Tonight's good for me.'

'I'll have to owe it you.'

'I'm a bit strapped, if I'm honest, Mr Thorne.'

Thorne sighed and rolled his eyes at Kitson. 'Right, when and where?'

Anna could not say that she had ever seen Frank Anderson roaring drunk. She guessed that he had a tolerance borne of many years' practice and could put away a fair amount without it becoming obvious, but she was often aware that there was drink on him. She could smell it, the sweetness not quite hidden by the gum or extra-strong mints, could see the flush in his face after one too many glasses of red at lunchtime. The songs sung under his breath and the slight tremor in his hands.

The singing aside, her mum had been much the same.

It had been apparent an hour before, when Frank had returned from a three-hour lunch meeting with a prospective client, that a good deal had been drunk. Anna was not surprised, but did not know whether his ebullience was down to the booze or to landing the job. Frank preferred to conduct such interviews in the swanky bar across the road, and though Anna could understand his reluctance to let clients see the unimpressive office, she often wondered if the prodigious consumption of alcohol might be even more off-putting, might cost him more in the long run than he would ever earn.

She had never bothered voicing her concerns.

Since four o'clock, while Anna had been stuffing tacky A5 adverts into envelopes – 'F.A. Investigations: Peace of Mind Needn't Cost the Earth!' – Frank had been hunched over his computer or making calls. He had chased a couple of late payments, trying and failing to sound fierce, then phoned half a dozen competitors, posing as a prospective client and arranging time-consuming meetings at distant locations.

'Anything that gives us a bit of a leg up,' he'd told Anna when she'd first caught him doing it.

She looked at her watch and saw that it was almost quarter-past five. 'Can I get off now, Frank?'

He looked up, glanced at his own watch and shrugged. 'You've had a fair amount of time off lately…'

'I've been ill-'

'What about this morning?'

'That was a family thing. I told you.'

'I don't think I'm being unfair asking you to make it up.'

Anna had not told Frank about Donna; about her meetings with and alongside Tom Thorne. He would not have been pleased to discover she had taken on a client behind his back. Actually, if she were being honest with herself, she could not be sure how he would react, but she was certain he would at least insist that she hand over the majority of the fee.

She stared back at him across the small office, thinking, Sod that !

'A lot of time off.'

'It's not like you've been run off your feet,' Anna said.

Frank nodded slowly, went back to his computer. Anna slotted two more flyers into envelopes. The Association of British Investigators logo was reproduced on the bottom. F.A. Investigations was not a member of the ABI, and any client would only need to visit the association's website to discover that, but Frank was unconcerned. Few ever bothered, he had assured Anna, and besides, maintaining a punter's confidence was more important than complete honesty.

Frank was happy to play fast and loose with the concept of transparency where business was concerned. Anna had known him to take money for jobs he had no intention or was incapable of carrying out properly. She remembered a distraught widow who had probably read one too many crime novels and was convinced that her husband's death in a car crash had not been accidental. Frank took the consultation fee and two weeks' expenses, sat on his backside for a fortnight, then reported back that, after extensive investigation, there had been nothing suspicious about the man's tragic death. Of course, he was unable to supply a shred of documentary evidence to support this assertion, but he assured the woman that, as no law appeared to have been broken, it would have been 'unethical' and 'against ABI policy' to provide details of his research.

Such obfuscation, or what Frank called 'blinding them with science', usually did the trick.

'Nothing you're not telling me, is there, love?'

'Like what?'

'I don't know. Just that we spend our time sniffing around for other people's dirty secrets, so we shouldn't have any of our own, should we?'

'You're bonkers, Frank.'

Three more flyers, three more envelopes.

'Who's Donna?'

'Sorry?'

'Someone called Donna phoned for you yesterday.'

Anna tried to make sense of it. Donna normally used the mobile number, had been told to, and had called Anna on it the day before to tell her about the latest photograph. She must have rung the office beforehand by mistake. 'I don't know who that could be.'

'Didn't sound like one of your mates,' Frank said. 'Sounded… older.'

Anna shook her head, as if struggling to recall the name. Perhaps Frank was a better detective than she took him for. She shrugged. 'Well, she'll call back if it's important.'

'So, this new client sounds promising,' Frank said.

'Really?' Anna had become used to tangential jumps in conversation. She put it down to the drink. Something else she recognised.

'It's a matrimonial job, so you might need to dig out the slinky frock again.' He was grinning now, enthusiastic. 'Thinking about it, you should maybe get another outfit or two, go to town a bit. This is a growth area, I'm telling you.'

Another honey trap.

Anna felt sweat begin to prickle on her neck and chest. 'Come on, Frank.'

He held up a black-and-white photo. A head shot. The man's face was ordinary, unmemorable. 'At least this one's not some lardy old bugger, so you know, not too bad.'

'I don't care what they look like.'