Free From the Dead by Mark Billingham

holiday.’
    The man-monkey checking her details did not so much as glance up from the paperwork. Anna turned to Thorne, rolled her eyes. She was rattled, he could see that, and overdoing the nonchalance.
    â€˜Nice to chat,’ she said, when her passport was handed back.
    She was right to be apprehensive, though. Thorne knew that better than most. The outfit she was wearing – a suitably understated dark skirt and jacket – would lead any prisoner to assume she was a copper. She would feel studied and hated, just as much as Thorne always did. But, as a woman, she would also feel things that were a damn sight more unpleasant.
    â€˜He was a cheery so-and-so,’ she said, as they moved on.
    Rattled as she might have been, Anna seemed in a better mood now than she had been two and a half hours earlier at King’s Cross, marching up to where Thorne stood slurping from a takeaway coffee at one minute before eight o’clock.
    â€˜A bit of notice would have been nice.’
    â€˜You’re very punctual,’ Thorne said. ‘I like that.’
    â€˜And I don’t like being told what to wear.’
    â€˜You should consider yourself lucky. I was dead set against you coming at all.’
    â€˜So why am I here?’
    â€˜Because I do what I’m told.’
    â€˜Why don’t I believe that?’
    Thorne blew on his coffee, began walking towards the platform.
    â€˜Coming where, anyway?’ she asked, following. ‘Do I get to find out where I’m going, or is that classified information? I’m guessing it’s not Hogwarts.’
    Thorne told her.
    â€˜Bloody hell.’
    â€˜â€œBloody hell” is right,’ Thorne said. ‘Now, here are the rules . . .’
    Once they were through security, they moved towards the Visits Area. Even though the route kept them well clear of prison landings and association areas, the atmosphere worsened. Wakefield was a high-security lifers’ prison, and the air tasted a little different when so many of those breathing it had nothing to lose and no reason to give a shit. Anna was clearly still thrown simply by being there, maintaining an all but constant stream of frivolous comments as they walked.
    â€˜You need to turn it down a bit,’ he said.
    â€˜Turn it down?’
    â€˜The volume. All of it. I know you’re nervous, but—’
    â€˜I’m fine.’
    â€˜And I certainly don’t want any chit-chat when we see Monahan. Fair enough?’
    â€˜Sorry,’ she said. ‘I talk too much, I know that. Always have. Overcompensating, I suppose.’
    â€˜For what?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜No chit-chat, like you said, but don’t we need to make him relaxed or whatever?’
    â€˜ 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,