many hard-arses like Monahan and Grover and not enough luck. On a plate would have been nice, but he was happy to do things the hard way if it meant getting the right result in the end.
The taxi slowed as it drove into Kirkthorpe, a village four miles west of the city.
‘Reckon you could live out here?’ Holland asked.
Thorne looked out of the window again and shook his head. ‘A bit too
Last of the Summer Wine
for my liking,’ he said.
Holland laughed.
‘Not nearly dirty and noisy enough.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Holland said. ‘I can just see you coming down one of those hills in an old bathtub on wheels.’
Thorne looked at him. ‘Sophie still trying to get you out of London, is she?’
‘We’re still . . . talking about it.’
As ever, Thorne could see that Holland was uncomfortable discussing his girlfriend. They both knew that she was not Thorne’s greatest fan, and that she wanted to get Holland and their daughter Chloe away from more than just the city.
‘As long as it’s just talk,’ Thorne said.
The driver found the address Thorne had given him quickly enough and pulled over. Holland paid the fare and hurried after Thorne to the door of a modern terraced house. Thorne rang the bell and stepped back, thinking: One of these buggers has got to give us
something
.
Howard Cook was older than they had been expecting. Thorne guessed that the man who eventually answered the door, bald and blinking, was only a few years away from retirement.
A nice, cosy one.
Thorne and Holland showed the prison officer their warrant cards.
‘I hope we’re not disturbing you,’ Holland said.
‘This’ll be about what happened last night, I suppose.’
Thorne said that it was.
‘You’d best come in then,’ Cook said. ‘I’ve not long boiled the kettle.’
Thorne stayed where he was. ‘I’ll keep this quick if it’s all the same to you, Howard. I just want to know where the knife is.’
‘Sorry?’
The sounds of a TV show were coming from inside the house. A lot of shouting, gunshots.
‘Knife, sharpened toothbrush . . . whatever Grover used. I just want to know where you put it once he’d passed it to you.’
Cook was shocked, or else did an amazing job of looking it. Thorne guessed it was more at the manner in which he had been confronted than the accusation itself.
‘How dare you?’ Cook said. ‘How bloody
dare
you?’
‘I know you’ve been through a trauma,’ Holland said. ‘So you might want to think about calming down.’
‘I’m perfectly calm.’ Cook folded his arms across his chest and swallowed. His lips were dry and white. ‘And I’m
thinking
about how many shades of shit my solicitor is going to knock out of you two smartarses.’
‘That’ll be pricey,’ Holland said. ‘Hope you’ve got a bit of cash tucked away.’
A woman appeared behind Cook, asked if everything was all right. He didn’t turn round; just said that he was dealing with something and told her to go back into the living room.
‘If we dig hard enough, we’ll find something,’ Thorne said. ‘You need to know that.’
‘Have you any idea how long I’ve served as a prison officer?’
Thorne ignored him. ‘We’ll find the weapon. We’ll find someone who saw you dump it or saw you turn off the security camera. We’ll find someone willing to turn you over—’
‘Thirty years.’ He pointed back towards the city, the tip of the cathedral spire just visible in the distance. ‘Longer than most of the bastards in there. So, do you think I’m going to let you pair of clowns get away with this?’
‘You’re finished,’ Holland said. ‘Next time you set foot in a prison, you won’t be coming home for your tea.’
‘I’m saying nothing else, so you might as well save your breath.’
‘We all know what happens to the likes of you inside.’
Cook shook his head like they were simply being silly. He reached down to a pot near the front door and
The taxi slowed as it drove into Kirkthorpe, a village four miles west of the city.
‘Reckon you could live out here?’ Holland asked.
Thorne looked out of the window again and shook his head. ‘A bit too
Last of the Summer Wine
for my liking,’ he said.
Holland laughed.
‘Not nearly dirty and noisy enough.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Holland said. ‘I can just see you coming down one of those hills in an old bathtub on wheels.’
Thorne looked at him. ‘Sophie still trying to get you out of London, is she?’
‘We’re still . . . talking about it.’
As ever, Thorne could see that Holland was uncomfortable discussing his girlfriend. They both knew that she was not Thorne’s greatest fan, and that she wanted to get Holland and their daughter Chloe away from more than just the city.
‘As long as it’s just talk,’ Thorne said.
The driver found the address Thorne had given him quickly enough and pulled over. Holland paid the fare and hurried after Thorne to the door of a modern terraced house. Thorne rang the bell and stepped back, thinking: One of these buggers has got to give us
something
.
Howard Cook was older than they had been expecting. Thorne guessed that the man who eventually answered the door, bald and blinking, was only a few years away from retirement.
A nice, cosy one.
Thorne and Holland showed the prison officer their warrant cards.
‘I hope we’re not disturbing you,’ Holland said.
‘This’ll be about what happened last night, I suppose.’
Thorne said that it was.
‘You’d best come in then,’ Cook said. ‘I’ve not long boiled the kettle.’
Thorne stayed where he was. ‘I’ll keep this quick if it’s all the same to you, Howard. I just want to know where the knife is.’
‘Sorry?’
The sounds of a TV show were coming from inside the house. A lot of shouting, gunshots.
‘Knife, sharpened toothbrush . . . whatever Grover used. I just want to know where you put it once he’d passed it to you.’
Cook was shocked, or else did an amazing job of looking it. Thorne guessed it was more at the manner in which he had been confronted than the accusation itself.
‘How dare you?’ Cook said. ‘How bloody
dare
you?’
‘I know you’ve been through a trauma,’ Holland said. ‘So you might want to think about calming down.’
‘I’m perfectly calm.’ Cook folded his arms across his chest and swallowed. His lips were dry and white. ‘And I’m
thinking
about how many shades of shit my solicitor is going to knock out of you two smartarses.’
‘That’ll be pricey,’ Holland said. ‘Hope you’ve got a bit of cash tucked away.’
A woman appeared behind Cook, asked if everything was all right. He didn’t turn round; just said that he was dealing with something and told her to go back into the living room.
‘If we dig hard enough, we’ll find something,’ Thorne said. ‘You need to know that.’
‘Have you any idea how long I’ve served as a prison officer?’
Thorne ignored him. ‘We’ll find the weapon. We’ll find someone who saw you dump it or saw you turn off the security camera. We’ll find someone willing to turn you over—’
‘Thirty years.’ He pointed back towards the city, the tip of the cathedral spire just visible in the distance. ‘Longer than most of the bastards in there. So, do you think I’m going to let you pair of clowns get away with this?’
‘You’re finished,’ Holland said. ‘Next time you set foot in a prison, you won’t be coming home for your tea.’
‘I’m saying nothing else, so you might as well save your breath.’
‘We all know what happens to the likes of you inside.’
Cook shook his head like they were simply being silly. He reached down to a pot near the front door and
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