Buried

by Buried (epub)

  Ten minutes later, standing just inside the cage, Kitson saw Farrell’s solicitor in the backyard, enjoying a cigarette. She walked out to join him.

  He offered her the packet but she shook her head: ‘Got anything stronger?’

  ‘You seemed a little wound up in there,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Well, he’s quite a lad, isn’t he?’

  The solicitor didn’t bite. He took one last, deep drag, then flicked the butt towards a pair of police motorbikes. ‘Any thoughts on when you might be bringing him up again?’

  ‘Not specifically, but I wouldn’t go too far away.’

  ‘I was wondering if that pub up the road does a traditional Sunday lunch later.’

  ‘The Oak? It does lunch, but I’m not sure their definition of “traditional” is the same as yours.’

  She walked back inside, deciding that once she’d sorted out the paperwork with the custody skipper, she’d grab some breakfast. Then she’d try to track down Tom Thorne. Everyone had heard about the overnight development on the Mullen case, and Kitson could only guess that Thorne had not yet had a chance to pick up the memo she’d left in his pigeonhole, or return the message she’d left on his mobile.

  Compared to the discovery of a body, what she had to tell him was hardly particularly urgent.

  NINETEEN

  That was why people stopped to look at accidents: the vicarious thrill without the inconvenience of being doused in blood or dressed in twisted metal. It was almost certainly the same principle that made watching three senior officers arguing with one another so exhilarating.

  It was the row that Hignett had predicted, and it was only surprising that Graham Hoolihan had taken as long as he had before coming down and throwing around some of his considerable weight.

  ‘I was cooperative when DI Thorne first contacted me. I was more than helpful. And, unlike anyone on this case, I showed a bit of common fucking courtesy.’

  ‘There’s no point chucking insults at people.’

  ‘Why not? You clearly don’t understand how the proper channels work.’

  Thorne had decided not to get involved, but just to stand there at the back of Brigstocke’s office and watch. Maybe chip in every now and again.

  ‘I found out about this in the pub, for crying out loud,’ Hoolihan said. ‘Because your chief superintendent was at some function or other with mine, and just happened to mention it over the gin and tonics.’

  Thorne pictured Trevor Jesmond with one trouser-leg rolled up, clutching a tumbler and talking shop over the clinking of ice cubes.

  ‘Look,’ Hignett said, ‘we’d certainly have been making contact with you today. But then we picked up a murder in the early hours and other things became somewhat more important.’

  It sounded convincing enough. Brigstocke picked up the baton. ‘As it was, we’d only had Freestone in custody a little over twelve hours anyway.’

  ‘And there was every reason to believe he could help us with an ongoing enquiry into a kidnap and double murder. So . . .’

  ‘So it wasn’t as though we were trying to keep the fact that we had him a secret.’

  Brigstocke and Hignett were making a decent job of putting on a united front. Thorne was impressed by Hignett’s stance in particular. Under the circumstances, the DCI from the Kidnap Unit could have been forgiven for jumping up and down, pointing the finger elsewhere and telling everyone that he’d wanted to hand Grant Freestone over straight away.

  ‘Why didn’t anyone call me when he was brought in?’ Hoolihan asked. ‘Just as a common courtesy.’

  Brigstocke and Hignett looked at one another, each trying to formulate a nice, polite answer.

  It had all kicked off towards the end of the morning’s briefing, which had naturally concentrated on the discovery of the body in Shepherd’s Bush. As ever, the first twenty-four hours were the most crucial, so all efforts would now be channelled into investigating the murder of Kathleen Bristow. Though this was clearly the best chance they had of making progress on the main case, too, the kidnap itself had barely been talked about.

  It had not escaped Thorne’s attention that Luke Mullen’s name was being mentioned less and less as the days went by. Spoken more quietly, when it was. There were the murders to work on now, he understood that; other angles that might prove more productive. But Thorne knew that wasn’t the only reason.

  As the briefing had broken up, Graham Hoolihan had appeared, and a heated discussion had rapidly reached boiling point, until a sergeant from another squad had ushered them all towards Brigstocke’s office, like an irate landlord escorting drunks from the premises.

  ‘You should know that I’ve got written authority to take Freestone back with me to Lewisham.’

  Lewisham, Sutton, Earlsfield. The three places Homicide South were based on the other side of the river.

  Hoolihan reached down for a briefcase, then swung it on to Brigstocke’s desk. ‘My guvnor got it signed by Commander Walker first thing this morning.’

  From where Thorne was standing, it looked as though Hignett and Brigstocke couldn’t quite decide whether to bristle or shudder. Clive Walker was head of Homicide Command, London-wide. He was one of the few men who could make Trevor Jesmond seem like one of the lads.

  ‘So let’s not waste any more time,’ Hoolihan said. ‘Do you still have every reason to believe Freestone can assist with your enquiries?’

  There seemed little point pretending there was any reason whatsoever. Freestone had been questioned earlier that morning, and had claimed to have been tucked up in bed at his sister’s flat when Kathleen Bristow was having a pillow put across her face. Predictably, Jane Freestone had confirmed her brother’s story, and, though she was hardly the world’s most reliable witness, the alibi would be tough to dispute.

  Not that Thorne could see any reason to even bother trying. He knew that Freestone had no more murdered Kathleen Bristow than he had Amanda Tickell or Conrad Allen; any more than he was behind the kidnapping of Luke Mullen. He thought back to when he and Porter had nicked Freestone in the park the morning before. He hadn’t looked happy, of course, why would he? But he certainly hadn’t looked like a man being arrested for a murder he’d committed only a few hours earlier.

  The hesitation that followed his question seemed to give Hoolihan the answer he desired. ‘Right, well, let’s get a move on, then.’ He tapped the lid of his briefcase. ‘We’ll have plenty of paperwork to push at each other.’

  Thorne felt himself stepping forward, then heard himself speaking. ‘For someone who obviously sets so much store by courtesy, I was thinking that maybe a “thank you” might be in order.’ Brigstocke threw him a look, but Thorne ploughed on, making a mental note to adjust his definition of ‘chipping in’. ‘OK, we may not have handled things exactly as you’d have liked them, but the fact remains we did you a bloody big favour.’

  Hoolihan pulled his briefcase to his chest, folded his arms around it and waited for Thorne to continue.

  ‘You’d taken your eye off the ball as far as Grant Freestone was concerned, or given it up as not being worth the effort. Somebody rubber-stamped the review paperwork once a year, but you weren’t doing much of anything, as far as I can make out. The fact that you’re going to get a nice, fat feather in your cap is down to us. We may not have been as courteous as we should have been, but I still think you should be fucking grateful.’

  It was the F-word that did it; that caused the colour to rise to Hoolihan’s face. Though he pointedly refused to respond to what had been said, it was clear that Thorne would no longer be getting any favours from anyone at Homicide South.

  After losing what was only a half-arsed staring contest, Hoolihan turned back to Brigstocke and Hignett. ‘It’s not like I’ll be taking Freestone very far,’ he said. ‘We’ll get him up in front of a magistrate within a day or two, so he’ll be on remand somewhere, if you need to speak to him after that.’

  There was some shouting once Hoolihan had left, but not to
o much. Hignett once again showed restraint in his decision not to gloat or say, ‘I told you so.’

  There were more important things to be discussed.

  ‘We got a preliminary PM report from Phil Hendricks,’ Brigstocke said. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk, and read: ‘Asphyxia due to suffocation, obviously . . . three broken ribs . . . a broken nose. That’s from where he’s put his weight on the pillow, Phil reckons . . .’

  A second or two of looking at feet, and walls, and a sky that couldn’t make its mind up.

  ‘You still think he was after something?’ Hignett asked.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Thorne said. ‘Porter’s going to have a good look through those filing cabinets later. I think she’ll be at the mortuary for a while yet.’

  ‘Whatever it was, he obviously wanted it badly.’ Brigstocke took a last look at the PM report. ‘Or else he’s just rattled.’

  ‘Not too rattled, I hope,’ Hignett said.

  Thorne knew what Hignett was saying, the dreadful possibility it would be stupid to ignore. He noted that, yet again, the point had been made without any mention of the boy’s name.

  The Major Incident Room seemed just a little busier than it had the day before. Conversations were less likely to go round the houses. People moved from desk to desk, from phone to fax machine, with greater urgency. It was not even twelve hours since Kathleen Bristow’s body had been discovered, but Thorne knew that unless those doing the chasing were quick enough, murder cases could be away and out of sight long before that. He exchanged quick words with Andy Stone and a couple of the Kidnap boys, then spent a few unwelcome, but necessary, minutes talking admin with DS Samir Karim, who was also office manager. Thorne liked Karim, an overweight, gregarious Asian with a shock of prematurely greying hair and a thick London accent. But the smile that was normally hard to shift was not much in evidence this morning.

  ‘Everything’s fucked up,’ he said.

  Thorne nodded, without really needing to know exactly what Karim was talking about.

  Dave Holland seemed as focused as anyone, but up close his eyes betrayed a man who hadn’t slept the night before.

  ‘Pissholes in the snow,’ he said, ‘I know, but still slightly bigger pissholes than yours.’

  Thorne looked down at Holland’s computer screen: a page from the Borough of Bromley website displaying various contact telephone numbers and email addresses.

  ‘There’s an out-of-hours contact service,’ Holland said, ‘which is fine if a water main bursts or you see someone fly-tipping, but not much use for anything else. I’ve spoken to a couple of people at home, but I’m not getting anywhere. As far as any records Kathleen Bristow might have kept, I think we’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning, talk to someone at social services who’s got access to the files. Even then, I’m not sure it’ll be a five-minute job.’

  ‘Get hold of the other people who were on the panel with her,’ Thorne said. ‘Roper and the rest of them . . .’

  Holland left the website and quickly accessed the Crime Reporting Information System. CRIS was updated constantly, with every detail of the case to that point logged and catalogued for the entire team. He entered the case number, searched the files, then called up the names and contact details of those on Grant Freestone’s MAPPA panel:

  Roper, Warren, Lardner, Stringer, Bristow.

  Holland tapped a finger against the screen. ‘I never managed to track Stringer down first time round.’

  ‘See what you can do,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Right. It’ll be interesting to see how they react to the news about Kathleen Bristow. Maybe one of them can confirm she had the records.’

  ‘Roper thought she probably did,’ Thorne said. ‘But that’s not why I was suggesting it.’ He looked at the list on Holland’s screen, the cursor blinking beneath the final name. ‘While we’re still not sure exactly why Kathleen Bristow was killed, it can’t hurt to make sure each of the other people on that panel is still walking around.’

  Thorne had been in the backyard when they’d eventually brought out the prisoner. He’d been leaning against the van that was waiting to take Freestone south, talking about a recent Spurs–Crystal Palace game to one of the DCs sent to fetch him.

  Hoolihan had walked past Thorne without a word and climbed into an unmarked BMW, ready to follow the van down to Lewisham.

  Freestone himself had been considerably keener to chat.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘It’s time to answer for Sarah Hanley, Grant.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Keep telling them that,’ Thorne said.

  ‘You’re a fucking genius . . .’

  Freestone was cuffed, an officer on each side marching him purposefully towards the open doors at the back of the van.

  Thorne ambled after them. ‘I’ll give your best to Tony Mullen.’

  ‘You should get him down here,’ Freestone said.

  ‘Can’t see any point now,’ Thorne said. ‘He’s got nothing to do with the Hanley case.’

  ‘I saw him.’

  ‘What?’ Thorne picked up his pace. ‘When did you see him?’

  But Freestone was already being bundled into the back of the van, and pushed on to a bench between his two escorts. He turned to look at Thorne, but there was no time to register the expression before the doors were slammed shut. The Crystal Palace fan shrugged an apology and walked round to the driver’s side.

  Thorne took a step back as the van started up. Parked alongside it, Hoolihan raced the BMW’s engine; impatient probably, but perhaps also hoping to send a fatal dose of carbon monoxide Thorne’s way.

  As he walked back in through the cage, Thorne saw Danny Donovan loitering near the custody skipper’s platform. A uniformed PC was leading a young woman by the arm. As Thorne approached, he watched Donovan engage the woman in conversation, then hand her something just before she was led towards the cells.

  ‘Still here, Danny?’

  ‘Can’t seem to tear myself away.’

  ‘Someone else going to be looking after Freestone now, then? One of those people with qualifications?’ Thorne held out a hand. Waited until Donovan handed over one of the business cards he was cradling in his fist. ‘Touting for business? You cheeky fucker.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem for you is that you’ve run into me. And that this’ – he held up the thin, cheaply produced card – ‘really pisses me off.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Away you go . . .’

  Thorne was already moving towards the exit, arms wide, shepherding Donovan in the direction of the metal doorway.

  ‘You want to get out of this game sharpish, Thorne.’ Donovan stepped backwards into the cage, half turned as if to leave. ‘It’s sending you a bit mental.’

  Thorne approached Donovan fast, backed him against the side of the cage. ‘You really should fuck off now,’ he said. ‘And next time you’re in here, if I so much as see you helping yourself to a teabag, I’ll nick you for theft.’

  Donovan waited for Thorne to step back. ‘Things carry on as they have been, you’ll probably be desperate for any sort of result by then.’

  When the ex-copper moved to walk past him, Thorne reached out both arms and pushed him hard against the wall. Donovan slammed into the metal, which gave a little, then bounced back, dropping the handful of business cards as he reached out to retain his balance.

  There was a shout from inside the custody suite and Thorne yelled back that everything was fine. Donovan squatted and tried to pick up the cards, but Thorne was quicker. Breathing heavily, he slapped away the other man’s hand, grabbed as many cards as he could, and threw them, fluttering out into the backyard.

  A pair of uniformed beat officers appeared at the doorway on their way into the station. They watched for a few seconds, then stepped around the two men scrabbling around on the floor.

  Thorne’s heart was still be
ating faster than normal when Kitson found him in one of the CID offices on the first floor.

  ‘Did you not get my message?’ she asked.

  Thorne gulped down his tea. It wasn’t quite twelve yet, and he was wondering if it was too early to get some lunch. ‘Sorry, it’s been a pig of a morning.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Actually, the murder scene was a doddle,’ Thorne said. ‘There wasn’t any blood spilled until we got back here.’

  Kitson’s shoes were new. She kicked them off when she sat down next to Thorne. Began to rub at tender heels and toes through her tights. ‘Listen, I’ve got Adrian Farrell’s phone records.’

  ‘Any help?’

  ‘Not yet. But there are plenty of numbers to check out, so we might get lucky. There was something, though. Remember I said I’d look for any connection to Luke Mullen . . .?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘There was nothing on Farrell’s mobile, but when I checked the landline the Mullen number came up. More than once.’

  Thorne’s heartbeat accelerated even more. ‘Why not the mobile? I thought these kids were never off their bloody phones, sending text messages or whatever.’

  ‘He’s got a pay-as-you-go, right? But he’s also got a phone in his bedroom. I reckon he was just trying to save money. He can use the landline from his room and make private calls whenever he likes on Mum and Dad’s bill.’

  ‘When you say more than once . . .?’

  ‘Half a dozen calls in the three weeks before Luke was taken. More before that.’

  Thorne sat back, trying to take in what Kitson was saying. ‘When Dave talked to the kids at the school, Farrell told him he hardly knew Luke Mullen. He knew he’d gone missing, but that was about it, right?’

  ‘Right, but I don’t have to tell you that he’s a very good liar.’