Buried

by Buried (epub)

  ‘That is so rude.’

  ‘What is?’ Victor asked.

  ‘Fancy not turning off your mobile phone during a show!’

  Thorne’s hands were over his ears. He couldn’t hear himself screaming at his father to shut up and get out, or begging Victor for help.

  ‘Bloody funny-sounding ice-cream van,’ Jim Thorne said.

  ‘It’s a fire alarm, you stupid old bastard.’

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘We need to leave now. It’s a fire alarm.’

  His father’s smile was visible in flashes through the crown of flames. The mischief in his voice was clearly audible above the spatter, and the crackle of burning hair.

  ‘Is it, Tom? Are you sure?’

  Thorne lifted his head and reached for the phone, wiped away the string of drool that hung between his cheek and the desktop.

  ‘Were you asleep?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘You’re such a shit liar,’ Hendricks said. He recognised something in Thorne’s tone, or in the silence. ‘Same dream?’

  Thorne sat up straight, then rose slowly to his feet. ‘More or less,’ he said. He groaned, rolling his head around. His back was complaining and he felt as if someone had been standing on his neck.

  ‘I wish I had time to take naps,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘It’s been a very long day.’

  ‘For you and me both, mate.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I almost forgot you were there this morning.’

  ‘Trust me, I’d rather not have been. There’s times I wish I’d never gone into medicine. When I think I should have listened to my parents and studied hard to be a ballerina, like they wanted.’

  Spoken in Hendricks’ flat, Mancunian accent, such comments rarely failed to improve Thorne’s mood. The dream was already fading, though the smell was still strong enough . . .

  ‘No surprises on the PM?’

  ‘None at all in terms of cause of death. I found a large tumour in Kathleen Bristow’s stomach, though. I’ve no idea if she even knew about it.’

  The woman was dead, so there was no real reason for Thorne to find this as depressing as he did.

  ‘What time d’you think you might be getting away?’ Hendricks asked.

  Thorne looked at his watch. It was nearly half past seven. He’d slept for around half an hour, but it had been light outside when he’d closed his eyes and now it was starting to get dark. He’d check with Brigstocke, but bearing in mind he’d racked up back-to-back eighteen-hour shifts, he didn’t think there’d be much objection to him heading off. ‘I’ve got to shoot up to Arkley, but that shouldn’t take too long. Home by nine-thirty, ten o’clock, I would have thought.’

  ‘Fancy a late one in the Prince? Couple of games of pool?’

  Thorne still didn’t know if he’d be seeing Porter later, but he reckoned Hendricks wouldn’t mind being stood up if it came to it. ‘Yeah, why not? I won’t sleep much anyway . . .’

  ‘As long as you don’t use the bad back as an excuse when I thrash you. Fiver a frame?’

  The door opened, and Yvonne Kitson marched across to her desk with a face that said she was an inch from chucking it all in. She dropped her bag, switched on the light, then walked over and leaned against the wall. She looked like she wanted to talk; like she wanted Thorne to know about it.

  ‘I’d better go, Phil. I’ll call when I’m nearly home.’

  ‘Right. See you later.’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m great,’ Hendricks said.

  As a liar, he was no better than Thorne.

  ‘You’re getting far too worked up about this whole case, because you think you fucked it up last time,’ Thorne said as he replaced the receiver.

  ‘Wrong,’ Kitson said.

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘I know I fucked it up last time.’

  Kitson was wired; pacing the small office as though she couldn’t decide whether she’d prefer a shoulder to cry on or a face to punch.

  ‘You’ll get the other two,’ Thorne said. ‘You will. If Farrell won’t cough, you’ll just have to do it the hard way, that’s all.’

  She stopped, looked hard at him, as though he hadn’t heard a word. ‘I really want these two, Tom. I know Farrell killed him, but the others just stood there and watched him do it. The DPS are telling me they can stick all three of the fuckers in the dock for murder. It might get knocked down to GBH in court, but we can have a bloody good try.’

  ‘So bring in Farrell’s mates, Nelson and Herbert, like you told him you would. It’s probably them anyway.’

  ‘I’ve had another idea,’ Kitson said.

  ‘If it’s early retirement, I might join you.’

  ‘I fancy stopping the clock, bailing Farrell to return tomorrow. We could get some surveillance organised and see if he gets in touch with anybody. He just might contact the other two to let them know he hasn’t said anything.’

  Thorne thought it sounded like a reasonable enough idea and told her so. Then he repeated himself, as he wasn’t sure she’d believed him the first time. ‘You’ve done a good job on this, Yvonne.’

  ‘I went round to see Amin Latif’s parents,’ she said, ‘to tell them about Farrell.’

  ‘I bet that felt good.’

  ‘I didn’t tell them how we found him.’ Shame and resignation passed across her face in quick succession. ‘That we should have found him six months ago. I know it’ll come out and we’ll have to deal with it then, but sitting there with Mrs Latif in her living room, I didn’t want to spoil that moment. For them, I mean. Really, for them.’

  Thorne just nodded, and straightened one or two things on his desk.

  ‘I’d better go and talk to Brigstocke about setting up the surveillance.’ She started towards the door. ‘Getting the bail paperwork together . . .’

  After Kitson had gone, Thorne watched as rain fell through the darkness. He was grateful for a minute or two alone; for the chance to let what was left of his father’s performance roll around in his head for a while.

  Don’t panic, Son. It’s not what it looks like.

  Smoke that wasn’t smoke, and a fire alarm that was really a telephone.

  Don’t jump to conclusions.

  He walked to the doorway of his office, from where he could see Kitson talking to Karim and Stone in the Major Incident Room. As he watched, an idea sparked and flared, took hold as quickly as flames on polyester.

  His father’s face was smothered in red and gold as Thorne stepped out into the corridor.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say how she died, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit ridiculous?’ Lardner asked. ‘You call to tell me a woman’s been murdered, but then I have to sit here wondering if she was shot, stabbed or drowned in the bath.’

  ‘It’s probably a bit ridiculous, yeah,’ Holland said. ‘But that is the procedure, so . . .’

  ‘She was a nice enough woman, as far as I can remember. Fond of sticking her nose in a bit, but I suppose that went with her job. Like journalists drinking . . . or coppers and probation officers being cynical.’

  Holland sipped his tea and grunted.

  ‘Right, well, not a lot else to say, I suppose.’

  ‘We were just concerned that you should know about Mrs Bristow’s death.’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Concerned. Are we being targeted, do you think?’ Lardner barked a humourless laugh. ‘Perhaps Grant Freestone’s come back out of hiding and is going to slaughter us all one by one.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to be concerned about that . . .’

  With lunch having been just as piss-poor as Kitson had promised it would be, Wilson had scuttled away to dinner as soon as he was informed that Farrell was being bailed, having agreed to meet his client back at the station the following day.

  Kitson stood with Farrell in front of the platform as the custody skip
per took him through the release procedure. The sergeant was a wily old sod, and he’d looked sideways at Kitson when she’d presented herself and Farrell, being well aware that she’d been ready to charge the boy a few hours earlier. He knew she was up to something, but knew enough to keep it to himself.

  After first checking the next day’s ‘Bailed to Return’ schedule, Farrell was informed that bail had been authorised conditional upon his return at four o’clock the next afternoon. That he was being released into the custody of his parents.

  Farrell seemed to have recovered himself, to have put what happened in the interview room behind him. He just nodded each time he was asked if he understood what was being said to him. Then he asked again when they were going to return his three-figure Nikes.

  ‘You should shut your mouth before we change our minds,’ the custody sergeant said.

  Farrell signed for the return of the property that was handed back to him. He made a great deal of slipping on his designer watch and checking there was nothing missing from his wallet. Then he signed to confirm that he’d been shown his custody record and that it was complete and accurate. He signed the release form and the declaration that he fully intended to return at the specified time.

  ‘I presume you’ll be keeping an eye on me,’ Farrell said.

  Kitson said nothing, just glanced up from her paperwork.

  ‘You must think I’m stupid.’

  ‘I know you’re not,’ Kitson said.

  ‘You know nothing about me.’ Farrell turned his face from hers, concentrated on finishing the procedure.

  ‘These copies are for you to keep.’

  Farrell took a sheaf of papers from the custody sergeant.

  ‘Shall we phone your mum and dad? Get them to come and fetch you?’

  Farrell looked away and shook his head, snorted like it was a ridiculous idea.

  ‘Right, I’ll call you a cab. Be a couple of minutes. If you haven’t got enough cash, they can take it from your parents at the other end. Will that be a problem?’

  ‘I think they’ll manage . . .’

  As the sergeant picked up the phone, Kitson thanked him for his help. He nodded, a look on his face like he hoped she knew what she was doing. Kitson escorted Farrell out of the custody suite, and led him through the station towards the main entrance.

  She briefed the officer on the front desk before she left Farrell to wait for his taxi. She swiped her pass and yanked open the door to go back in. Then she turned back to Farrell. ‘You’re sure there isn’t anything you’d like to tell me before you leave?’

  Farrell’s smile was still engaging enough, but his eyes were slits. ‘Nothing you’d want to hear,’ he said.

  When Kitson had gone, Farrell took a step towards the automatic doors, which opened as he approached. The desk officer suggested that he should wait inside. Pointed out that it was pissing down. Told him he could suit his fucking self when Farrell said he’d rather get wet.

  Outside, Farrell stood beneath the overhang and stared out at the road.

  It hadn’t been much more than a day, but it felt like a lot longer: like ten years’ worth of change, of major fucking upheaval. And he knew that it hadn’t really started yet.

  His mind and his heart were racing, but he knew he needed to stay calm, that he should breeze back through the door as though nothing had happened. Despite the way he’d played it with the twat on the custody desk, he wanted to get home and see his mum and dad more than anything. He wanted to be back where it was warm and safe, and where he knew that, whatever happened, there was only ever one side they were going to be on.

  He stared through the rain. Still able to recall the taste of it as he and the others had walked towards that bus stop six months before. It had been a little colder than this, maybe, but otherwise exactly the same sort of night . . .

  A dark Cavalier drew up and a thickset Asian man climbed out, leaving the engine running.

  ‘Minicab?’ Farrell shouted.

  The man turned back towards the car.

  Adrian Farrell pulled up his hood and jogged after him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Sunday’s a pretty busy day round here,’ Neil Warren said. ‘It’s changeover day, so it’s always a bit bloody frantic if there are new tenants coming in or anyone going out. Plus I’ve got family business and church stuff, and I organise a small service here in the house for anyone who’s interested . . .’

  ‘It’s really not a problem,’ Holland said. There was a block of multicoloured Post-its on his desk. He scratched a tick next to Neil Warren’s name.

  ‘I just wanted to explain why I hadn’t returned your call sooner.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Now, of course, I feel fucking dreadful.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Holland said.

  ‘You meet people, they drift into your orbit, and then . . . life moves on, you know? You go in different directions or whatever, and most of the time you never give them another thought. Kathleen Bristow hadn’t crossed my mind in five years until you came round here talking about Grant Freestone, and now she’s dead. And I think I should probably feel more upset than I do . . .’

  ‘Like you said, you hadn’t thought about her in a long time.’

  ‘I’ll ask people here to remember her in their prayers.’

  Holland looked at his watch: it was five past nine. Once this was done with, he’d see about getting away. Chloe would be in bed, but it would be good to have an hour or so with Sophie before one or both of them flaked out.

  ‘I take it you don’t think it’s a coincidence,’ Warren said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘That you start asking people about what happened back then, about Freestone and all that, and someone on the panel gets killed.’

  ‘I think it’s probably unlikely.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the others?’

  ‘Most of them, yes.’

  Warren said nothing for ten or fifteen seconds. When Holland heard the click of a lighter, he guessed that Warren had been rolling a cigarette. There was a long exhalation, another pause. Then Warren said, ‘Did she suffer very much?’

  Holland would normally have said something pat, something reassuring, at this point. Beyond knowing that Warren was plain-speaking himself, that he didn’t seem enamoured of bullshit, Holland couldn’t really say where his answer came from.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think she probably did.’

  It was only twenty minutes from Hendon to Arkley. Half a dozen Gram and Emmylou tracks had done wonders for Thorne’s mood, but all their sterling work was undone with one glance at Tony Mullen’s face.

  After their last encounter, Thorne hadn’t been anticipating the warmest of welcomes, but there was more to this than a predictable antipathy. There was resignation in the man’s expression, and in his posture as he stood aside to let Thorne in without a word. Tony Mullen looked like a man who was no longer expecting good news.

  As a parent, there would always be hope until there was a body to bury, but as an ex-police officer, Thorne knew that Mullen would be painfully aware of how the timescales worked. How quickly realistic chances became slim ones. How quickly they faded away to nothing.

  It was now nine days since Luke had first gone missing; almost five since the video had been sent; seventy-two hours since Luke had been taken a second time, without word of any kind from whoever was holding him.

  Thorne could still see rage in Mullen’s eyes, but there was next to no fight left in him.

  ‘Whatever you want, I hope it’s quick,’ Mullen said. ‘We’re all tired.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve come to have a word with Juliet.’

  ‘Why?’

  Thorne took a second and decided it couldn’t hurt; that it might even build a bridge or two. ‘We’ve been talking to a boy from Butler’s Hall about a completely different case. It’s almost certainly unconnected with this one. With Luke . . .’

  ‘Almost certainly?’

&nbs
p; ‘We think he’s lying about knowing Luke, for some reason. We know he phoned here on several occasions and we want to make doubly sure it was Luke he was calling. I just came to check that he wasn’t calling your daughter. I don’t think I’ll be more than ten minutes.’

  ‘What’s this boy’s name?’

  Thorne took a little longer this time. ‘Farrell.’

  There was no obvious reaction, but Thorne wondered if he’d seen a flicker of something before Mullen turned his head, looked away and spoke to his wife.

  Thorne hadn’t noticed Maggie Mullen. She was sitting ten or so feet above them at the top of the stairs, on a small landing before further flights curved up to the second and third floors. She was wearing dark tracksuit bottoms and a brown sweater. Her hair was tied back, much of it the same grey as her face, and as the cigarette ash that Thorne presumed filled the saucer between her feet.

  ‘You’d better give Jules a call,’ Mullen said.

  His wife stared, as though she hadn’t heard him, then glanced at Thorne. He smiled and nodded. Both gestures were small and both felt slightly patronising even as he made them; as though he were reassuring someone very old or very sick.

  ‘Has she done something wrong?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Thorne said. ‘It’ll just be a couple of questions.’

  Mullen stepped past Thorne, leaned against the banister at the foot of the stairs. ‘Just give her a shout, will you, love?’

  Maggie Mullen picked up the saucer and got to her feet. She brushed a few stray ashes from her lap, turned and walked up and out of sight towards Juliet’s room. After half a minute, Thorne heard the faintest of knocks, then a muffled exchange, one voice raised above the other. He heard a door shut and the tread of four feet moving down the stairs.

  As he waited in the hall, Thorne studied the family photographs on a table by the front door, then looked at the wallpaper instead when he became uncomfortable. Next to him, he heard Mullen’s head bump gently against the wall as he let his head drop back; heard him say, ‘fuck’ quietly, to no one in particular.