Mark Billingham won the first Theakston’s Old Peculier Award for the Best Crime Novel of the Year with Lazybones, and also won a Sherlock Award for the Best Detective created by a British writer. His series of novels featuring Detective Inspector Tom Thorne have all been Sunday Times bestsellers. He lives in north London with his wife and two children.
Praise for Buried
‘Mark Billingham is a master of a rough-and-tumble crime writing which has liberated itself from the iron hoops of sameness that confine so many . . .What is so impressive is how real his characters are’
Guardian
‘[Thorne is] the most interesting cop in British crime fiction at present’
The Times
‘Billingham is writing at the very top of his considerable game . . . Good writing, authentic police work and superb craftmanship’
Daily Mail
‘A cunning variation on the serial-murder theme’
Sunday Telegraph
‘[A] self-assured and thought-provoking thriller’
Sunday Express
‘Clever and competent’
Literary Review
Also by this author
SLEEPYHEAD
SCAREDY CAT
LAZYBONES
THE BURNING GIRL
LIFELESS
BURIED
DEATH MESSAGE
You can visit the author’s website at:
www.markbillingham.com
BURIED
Mark Billingham
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Published by Hachette Digital 2008
Copyright © Mark Billingham 2006
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 7481 0929 6
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For Sarah Lutyens.
Without whom there wouldn’t have been any at all.
PROLOGUE
You think about the kids.
First and last, in this sort of situation, in this sort of state; when you can’t decide if it’s anger or agony that’s all but doubling you up, and making it so hard for you to spit the words across the room. First and last, you think about them . . .
‘Why the hell, why the fuck, didn’t you tell me this earlier?’
‘It wasn’t the right time. It seemed best to wait.’
‘Best?’ She takes a step towards the man standing on the far side of her living room.
He moves back instinctively until his calves are squashed against the edge of the sofa and he almost topples back on to the carefully plumped cushions. ‘I think you should try to calm down,’ he says.
The room smells of pot pourri. There are lines on the carpet showing that it has recently been vacuumed, and the carriage clock that can be heard ticking loudly when the shouting stops sits on a highly polished pine mantelpiece.
‘What do you expect me to do?’ she says. ‘I’d really be interested to know.’
‘I can’t tell you what to do. It’s your decision.’
‘You think I’ve got a choice?’
‘We need to sit down and talk about the best way forward—’
‘Christ Almighty. You just march in here and tell me this. Casually, like it’s just something you forgot to mention. You walk in here and tell me all this . . . shit!’ She’s begun to cry again, but this time she does not lift a hand to her face. She shuts her eyes and waits for the moment to pass. For the fury to return, undiluted.
‘Sarah—’
‘I don’t know you. I don’t even fucking know you!’
For a few seconds there’s just the ticking, and the distant traffic, and the noise bleeding in from a radio in the kitchen, turned down low when she’d heard the doorbell. Inside, the central heating’s working overtime, but there’s still plenty of sun streaming into the room through the net at the windows.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re what?’ But she’s heard him well enough. She smiles, then laughs. She gathers the material of her dress between her fingers as her fists clench at her sides. There’s something starting to twitch in her belly now; a spasm takes hold at the top of her leg. ‘I need to get to the school.’
‘The kids’ll be fine. Honestly, love. Absolutely fine.’
She repeats his last word; and then again, in a whisper. There’s no stopping the tears this time or the scream that comes from deep inside; or the swell and the surge that take her fast across the room, her hands clawed and flying at the man’s face.
The man raises his arms to protect himself. He grabs the fingers that stab at his eyes, and, once he has them, as soon as he is in control of her, he tries to keep her still; to guide her firmly away. ‘You’ve got to stay calm.’
‘You. Rotten. Fucker.’ She snaps back her head.
‘Please listen—’ The spit hits him just above the lip and starts to run into his mouth. He swears at her; a word he rarely uses.
And he pushes her . . .
And suddenly she’s dead weight, falling back, opening her mouth to cry out, and smashing down through the glass of the coffee table.
A few seconds’ ticking. And traffic. And the buzz from the kitchen.
The man takes a step towards her, then stops dead. He can see what’s happened straight away.
Her back hurts, and her ankle, where she’s caught them on the edge of the table as she’s fallen. She tries to sit up, but her head is suddenly as heavy as a wrecking ball. The moan rattles from her chest, and her shoulders grind glass into the carpet beneath her. She lies, breathless, across the ragged jewels and slivers, recognising a song from the distant radio at the same moment that she feels the warmth and the wetness at the back of her head. Spreading at her throat, and creeping down inside the neck of her sweater.
Shard . . .
She thinks for a second or two about that word; about what a stupid word it is when you say it to yourself repeatedly. About her bad luck. How bloody unlucky can you get? Must have caught an artery, or maybe two. And, though she can hear her name being spoken, though she is well aware of the desperation, of the panic, in the voice, she is already starting to fade and to focus; concentrating only on the faces of her children.
First and last.
As her life ebbs quickly away – running red across smoked glass – her final thought is a straightforward one. Simple and tender and vicious.
If he’s touched my kids, I’ll kill him.
PART ONE
THE PUNCH
COMING
LUKE
‘I suppose all I’m really saying is try not to worry. OK, Mum? That you don’t have to, I mean. Even sitting here saying that, I know how pointless it is, because it’s something you’ve always done. J
uliet and me reckon that if you weren’t worried about something, you’d probably feel odd, or under the weather, like part of you wasn’t working properly. You’d be disconcerted. Like when you know there’s something important you’ve forgotten to do, or when you can’t remember where you’ve put your keys, you know? If you weren’t worried, we’d be worried that you weren’t!
‘It’s all right, though. I’m doing pretty well. Better than “pretty well” actually. I’m not saying it’s five-star or anything, but the food could be a damn sight worse, and they’re being fairly nice to me. And it’s only the second most uncomfortable bed I’ve ever slept in. Remember when we stayed in that shitty guest house in Eastbourne that time, when Juliet had her hockey tournament, and the bed felt like it had rocks in it? I’m even managing to get some sleep, amazingly enough.
‘I don’t really know what else to say. What else I’m supposed to say . . .
‘Except . . . If you want to video the comedy shows I like, that’d be cool. And don’t rent my room out straight away, and please tell everyone at school not to be too devastated. See? Well fed, sleeping OK, and I’ve still got my sense of humour. So, really, there’s nothing to get yourself worked up about, all right, Mum? I’m fine. Tell you what – when this is all finally sorted out, how about that PS2 game I’ve been going on about? Can’t blame a lad for trying, can you?
‘Look, there’s loads of other things to say, but I’d better not go on too long, and you know the stuff I mean anyway. Mum? You know what I’m trying to say, yeah?
‘Right. That’s it . . .’
The boy’s eyes slide away from the camera, and a man carrying a syringe steps quickly towards him. He sits up, tenses as the man reaches across, driving the bag down over the boy’s head in the few seconds before the picture disappears.
TUESDAY
ONE
There was humour, of course there was; off colour usually, and downright black when the occasion demanded it. Still, the jokes had not exactly been flying thick and fast of late, and none had flown in Tom Thorne’s direction.
But this was as good a laugh as he’d had in a while.
‘Jesmond asked for me?’ he said.
Russell Brigstocke leaned back in his chair, enjoying the surprise that his shock announcement had certainly merited. It was an uncertain world. The Metropolitan Police Service was in a permanent state of flux, and, while precious little could be relied upon, the less than harmonious relationship between DI Tom Thorne and the Chief Superintendent of the Area West Murder Squad was a reassuring constant. ‘He was very insistent.’
‘The pressure must be getting to him,’ Thorne said. ‘He’s losing the plot.’
Now it was Brigstocke’s turn to see the funny side. ‘Why am I suddenly thinking about pots and kettles?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe you’ve got a thing about kitchenware.’
‘You’ve been going on about wanting something to get stuck into. So—’
‘With bloody good reason.’
Brigstocke sighed, nudged at the frames of his thick, black glasses.
It was warm in the office, with spring kicking in but the radiators still chucking out heat at December levels. Thorne stood and slipped off his brown leather jacket. ‘Come on, Russell, you know damn well that I haven’t been given anything worth talking about for near enough six months.’
Six months since he’d worked undercover on the streets of London, trying to catch the man responsible for kicking three of the city’s homeless to death. Six months spent writing up domestics, protecting the integrity of evidence chains, and double-checking pre-trial paperwork. Six months kept out of harm’s way.
‘This is something that needs getting stuck into,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Quickly.’
Thorne sat back down and waited for the DCI to elaborate.
‘It’s a kidnapping—’ Brigstocke held up a hand as soon as Thorne began to shake his head; ploughed on over the groaning from the other side of his desk. ‘A sixteen-yearold boy, taken from outside a school in north London three days ago.’
The shake of the head became a knowing nod. ‘Jesmond doesn’t want me on this at all, does he? It’s sod all to do with what I can do, or what I might be good at. He’s just been asked to lend the Kidnap Unit a few bodies, right? So he does what he’s told like a good team player, and he gets me out of the way at the same time. Two birds with one stone.’
A spider plant stood on one corner of Brigstocke’s desk, its dead leaves drooping across a photograph of his kids. He snapped off a handful of the browned and brittle stalks and began crushing them between his hands. ‘Look, I know you’ve been pissed off and I know you’ve had good reason to be . . .’
‘Bloody good reason,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m feeling much better than I was, you know that. I’m . . . up for it.’
‘Right. But until the decision gets taken to give you a more active role on the team here, I thought you might appreciate the chance to get yourself “out of the way”. And it wouldn’t just be you, either. Holland’s been assigned to this as well . . .’
Thorne stared out of the window, across the grounds of the Peel Centre towards Hendon and the grey ribbon of the North Circular beyond. He’d seen prettier views, but not for some time.
‘Sixteen?’
‘His name’s Luke Mullen.’
‘So the kid was taken . . . Friday, right? What’s been happening for the last three days?’
‘You’ll be fully briefed at the Yard.’ Brigstocke glanced down at a sheet of paper on the desktop. ‘Your contact on the Kidnap Unit is DI Porter. Louise Porter.’
Thorne knew that Brigstocke was on his side; that he was caught between a loyalty to his team and a responsibility to the brass above him. These days, anyone of his rank was one part copper to nine parts politician. Many at Thorne’s own level worked in much the same way, and Thorne would fight tooth and nail to avoid going down the same dreary route . . .
‘Tom?’
Brigstocke had certainly said the right things. The boy’s age in itself was enough to spark Thorne’s interest. The victims of those who preyed on children for sexual gratification were usually far younger. It wasn’t that older children were not targeted, of course, but such abuse was often institutionalised or, most tragically of all, took place within the home itself. For a sixteen-year-old to be taken off the street was unusual.
‘Trevor Jesmond getting involved means there’s pressure to get a result,’ Thorne said. If a shrug and a half smile could be signs of enthusiasm, then he looked mustard-keen. ‘I reckon I could do with a bit of pressure at the minute.’
‘You haven’t heard all of it yet.’
‘I’m listening.’
So Brigstocke enlightened him, and when it was finished and Thorne got up to leave, he looked out of the window one last time. The buildings sat opposite, brown and black and dirty-white; office blocks and warehouses, with pools of dark water gathered on their flat roofs. Thorne thought they looked like the teeth in an old man’s mouth.
Before the car had reached the gates on its way out of the car park, Thorne had slotted a Bobby Bare CD into the player, taken one look at Holland’s face and swiftly ejected it again. ‘I should make sure there’s always a Simply Red album in the car,’ Thorne said. ‘So as not to offend your sensibilities.’
‘I don’t like Simply Red.’
‘Whoever.’
Holland gestured towards the CD panel on the dash. ‘I don’t mind some of your stuff. It’s just all that twangy guitar shit . . .’
Thorne turned the car on to Aerodrome Road and accelerated towards Colindale tube. Once they hit the A5 it would be a straight run through Cricklewood, Kilburn and south into town.
Having criticised Thorne’s choice of music, Holland proceeded to score two out of two by turning his sarcastic attentions to the car itself. The yellow BMW – a 1971 three-litre CS – gave Thorne a good deal of pride and pleasure, but to DS Dave Holland it was little more than the starting point fo
r an endless series of ‘old banger’ jokes.
For once, though, Thorne did not rise to the bait. There was little anyone could have done to make his mood much worse. ‘The boy’s old man is an ex-copper,’ he said. He jabbed at the horn as a scooter swerved in front of him, spoke as if he were describing something extremely distasteful. ‘Ex-Detective Chief Superintendent Anthony Mullen.’
Holland’s dirty-blond hair was longer than it had been for a while. He pushed it back from his forehead. ‘So?’
‘So, it’s a bloody secret-handshake job, isn’t it? He’s calling in favours from his old mates. Next thing you know, we’re getting shunted across to another unit.’
‘It’s not like there was anything better to do, though, is it?’ Holland said.
The look from Thorne was momentary, but it made its point firmly enough.
‘For either of us, I mean. Not a lot of bodies on the books at the moment.’
‘Right. At the moment. You never know when something major’s going to come in though.’
‘Sounds almost like you’re hoping.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Like you don’t want to miss out . . .’
Thorne said nothing. His eyes drifted to the wing mirror, stayed there as he flicked up the indicator and waited to pull out.
Neither spoke again for several minutes. Rain had begun to streak the windows, through which Kilburn was giving way to the rather more gentrified environment of Maida Vale.
‘Did you get any more from the DCI?’ Holland asked.
Thorne shook his head. ‘He knows as much as we do. We find out the rest when we get there.’
‘You had much to do with SO7 before?’
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