‘Just help yourselves,’ Burnham said.
Before any of his team could take up the offer, Thorne raised a hand. Said, ‘Can we just get this permission business sorted out first.’
Burnham explained that the island was actually administered by a privately funded trust, dedicated to protecting its wildlife and archaeological heritage. ‘I’m just the manager really,’ he said. ‘But I’ve not been told anything about digging and obviously that’s problematic.’
‘Why?’ Thorne was making less effort to hide his irritation. ‘Why is it problematic?’
‘The island’s an area of Special Scientific Interest. It’s also a place of huge religious significance. There are rules and regulations.’
‘I was told I couldn’t bring cadaver dogs,’ Howell said. She pulled off the cap she had been wearing to reveal ash-blonde hair cut very short. She ran fingers through it.
‘That’s right.’ Burnham blanched a little at the word. ‘There are strictly no dogs allowed on the island.’ He stepped forward and laid a hand on Thorne’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s just an administrative snafu of some kind. I’m sure your boss or whoever it is will have completed the necessary paperwork.’
Thorne wasn’t so sure. He had known many investigations hamstrung by the failure to fill in a form and convictions overturned because someone forgot to dot an ‘I’ or cross a ‘T’. It was somewhat hypocritical of him to be so irritated, he knew that, because following procedure of any sort was not exactly his strong point. His strengths lay elsewhere and he left it to others to make up for his… failings in that department. After all, there were plenty paid to be little more than pen pushers, so Thorne believed he was justified in counting on them to push those pens in the right direction.
‘What do you suggest?’ he asked.
‘Well, obviously in the first instance I’ll need to speak to the trust director,’ Burnham said. ‘He’s back on the mainland.’
‘I’ll speak to my boss, too.’
‘Yes, good idea. Belt and braces is always the best approach with this kind of thing and like I said, I’m sure it’s nothing that’s going to hold you up for very long.’ Burnham paused, seeing that Thorne was already frowning at his mobile phone. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘That’s going to be tricky.’
Thorne looked at him. Waited.
‘If you’re Vodafone, you’re completely out of luck. O2 isn’t a lot better, unless you want to go to the top of the lighthouse.’
‘Seriously?’ Holland said.
‘It’s the mountain,’ Burnham said. He nodded towards the window, even though nothing could be seen through it. ‘Blocks almost everything out. Orange is the best bet, but you’ll still need to head along the track for a few minutes until you’re past the line of the peak, then you might be lucky and pick up a signal.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Thorne said. His contract was with Orange, but his phone still showed NO SERVICE.
‘What were you expecting?’ Burnham used his stick to push at the powdery edge of a loose parquet tile. ‘We’re almost completely cut off here. There’s no running water or mains power. Compost toilets…’
‘Shitting in a bucket,’ Karim said.
‘Basically.’
Thorne reached into his pocket and took out his Airwave radio. Holland and Karim both had them. ‘What about these?’
Huw Morgan stepped forward and peered over Thorne’s shoulder at the unit in his hand. ‘Yeah, those should be OK,’ he said. ‘Not to make calls, mind, and you won’t be able to reach anybody on the mainland, but should be OK for keeping in touch with each other. Switch to the main maritime frequency, you’ll be all right.’
Thorne turned to look at him. He had forgotten that the boatman was still with them.
‘We’ve got a receiver up at the lighthouse,’ Morgan said. ‘We can listen in on the boats doing illegal fishing. See, it’s only me and my dad supposed to lay the lobster and crab pots round here, but that doesn’t stop plenty of others trying to muscle in —’
Thorne had no wish to get dragged into a dispute about fishing rights. He held up a hand. Said, ‘Let’s get this done then.’
‘I’ve got a satellite phone across at the observatory office,’ Burnham said. He saw Thorne shaking his head. ‘I don’t tend to carry it around with me.’
‘Well, I’d be very grateful if you kept it with you from now on,’ Thorne said. ‘In case anyone needs to get hold of me and I don’t happen to be at the top of the lighthouse.’
‘Yes,’ Burnham said. ‘Absolutely not a problem.’
Thorne walked towards the door, still staring at his phone. Fletcher and Jenks were already making themselves tea and Karim was ripping the cling-film off the sandwiches.
‘Like I said, if you keep walking up towards the abbey… towards the ruins, you should hopefully start to get a signal in a few minutes…’
After being cut off twice and perching precariously on a low drystone wall, Thorne managed to get through to Russell Brigstocke long enough to hear the DCI swearing for almost half a minute without drawing breath, then blaming it all on the detective superintendent.
Thorne wasn’t surprised.
You didn’t get very far up the greasy pole without learning how to pass the buck. He suspected that there was a course you were encouraged to attend as soon as you were promoted beyond inspector. A weekend of seminars in buck-passing, with refresher courses in fence-sitting and advanced arse-licking thrown in for the extra-ambitious. Brigstocke promised he would get everything sorted as soon as he was off the line.
‘How’s Nicklin?’ he asked.
‘He seems fine,’ Thorne said.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘What?’
‘How’s he being with you?’
Thorne did not want to get into the letters that Nicklin’s mother had handed over, or that moment in the toilets at the service station, or the way his guts jumped whenever Nicklin smiled at him. He did not want to talk about it or think about it any more than he had to.
‘He’s enjoying it,’ he said.
‘Yeah, I bet.’
‘He likes it when we’re on the back foot.’
‘Well we need to get on the front foot again,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Get this boy’s body found and get Mr Nicklin back to Long Lartin. See how much he enjoys that.’
‘We’re not going to find anything, Russell. Not unless we’re allowed to dig.’
‘I know.’
‘This forensic archaeologist seems good, and I’m no expert but I reckon she’s definitely going to need a shovel.’
Brigstocke began to swear again, this time as much at Thorne as anybody else. ‘I’ll sort it,’ he said.
Back at the school, they sat around awkwardly, killing time.
Huw Morgan and his father had gone, presumably to begin work over at the lighthouse. A middle-aged woman, who Burnham introduced as his wife, came in to replenish the sandwiches, then left again without talking to anyone, her husband included. Burnham clutched his satellite phone as though his life depended on it, while cups of tea were drunk and small groups conducted muted conversations around the edges of the gloomy hall.
Holland, Markham and Karim. Howell and her CSI.
Thorne got up and walked towards the trestle table, past Nicklin and Batchelor, whose handcuffs had been removed for as long as it took them to eat a couple of sandwiches each and who were now sitting silently with Fletcher and Jenks, the four of them in a row beneath the line of grimy windows. Thorne helped himself to a couple of sandwiches, knowing he might not get a chance to eat anything else until they were on the road back to Long Lartin.
He did not hear Robert Burnham moving up behind him.
‘Sorry,’ the warden said.
‘It’s fine.’
‘You must think I’m a dreadful bloody jobsworth.’
‘Not dreadful,’ Thorne said.
Burnham produced a weak smile. ‘Look, I heard what that woman said a
bout… dogs, so I know what it is you’re going to be digging for.’ He glanced across at Nicklin and Batchelor. ‘How serious it is, I mean. But this place has all manner of rules and what have you and, as I’m the warden, I have to take them seriously.’
‘Because it’s special,’ Thorne said. ‘I know.’
‘You’ve heard that?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Well, only because it’s true.’
Thorne bit off half the sandwich. He chewed quickly, then pushed the other half in behind it, talked with his mouth full. ‘Sadly, if things go how I’m hoping, I won’t be here long enough to find out.’
‘You should come back,’ Burnham said. ‘Another time.’
Their exchange had barely risen above a whisper, but had clearly been audible to one person at least.
‘Tell him about the king,’ Nicklin shouted.
Thorne and Burnham turned to look.
‘Tell him…’
By now, everyone else in the hall had stopped talking and the silence was only broken by the ringing of Burnham’s phone, which appeared to startle him so much that he almost dropped the handset. He answered the call. He said, ‘Thank you,’ and nodded a good deal and told the caller that he hoped he had not been too much of a bother, but that it was important to do things properly. He began to talk about some problem with the island’s herd of Welsh Black cattle, but took a moment to look across at Thorne and give him an over-the-top thumbs-up.
‘Are we on?’ Howell asked.
Thorne nodded, looking at his watch. It was just after ten o’clock and they had wasted almost an hour. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out there and dig.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Nicklin announced. ‘Be a shame to come all this way for nothing.’
He caught Thorne’s eye and smiled.
Still enjoying it.
TWENTY
Tides House
Once the boys had eaten and done the washing-up, they were asked if they would like to gather in the communal sitting room.
‘Nice being asked to do things,’ Stuart said. ‘Instead of told.’
Simon followed him into the room. ‘What if we say no?’
‘I’m sure we’ll find out,’ Stuart said.
The woman who appeared to be in charge told them that her name was Ruth. She said that they could call her ‘Ruth’ instead of ‘miss’ and that from now on she was going to be using their first names too. It was all about respect, she said. She introduced the other members of staff who were standing behind her. She used their first names as well, but Simon forgot them all straight away. He was rubbish with names, but he thought he was a pretty good judge of character and could tell right off which ones he ought to steer clear of. The other woman who was on the staff seemed OK. The bloke with the straggly beard was nice, while a couple of the others looked like they didn’t want to be there at all and the one with the fat face and greasy hair was clearly to be avoided if at all possible.
Simon had come across plenty like him before.
Ruth definitely liked the sound of her own voice. It sounded similar to the voice of the judge Simon had been up in front of the last time he’d stolen a car. Like a newsreader or something, even though Simon thought that Ruth was trying hard not to sound like that. It was impossible though, to sound like you came from one sort of place when you came from another.
She made a long speech.
She told them she believed in fresh starts and second chances. That punishment alone was never going to work. She said they should count themselves lucky to have been sent to Tides House, but that she was lucky too, because she would have the privilege of seeing them change, of watching them blossom.
Stuart sat next to Simon, rolling a cigarette. He laughed when Ruth said blossom and handed Simon the roll-up when he’d finished it. Simon couldn’t remember anyone ever giving him a cigarette before.
Fags were like money inside.
Ruth was still blathering on. She was fifty if she was a day and skinny as a stick, but it didn’t stop some of the boys making comments, which she was close enough to hear. If the rude remarks bothered her, she didn’t show it, though a couple of the male members of staff behind her looked like they’d be more than happy to wade in and crack a few heads.
‘I’d like to make her blossom,’ Stuart said.
Simon laughed because it was way funnier than the things those other lads were saying. It was clever and dirty at the same time. When Simon looked at Ruth he could see that she had gone red, which was strange, because some of the things the other boys had said were far worse and she had just ignored them. Stuart saw it too and he nodded at Ruth as he licked a Rizla, making another roll-up for himself.
‘This is a very special place,’ Ruth said. ‘In lots of ways. You’ll already have noticed it’s a small island, so even though there’ll be times when you might want to run, the simple truth is there’s nowhere to go. Well, there is, but I don’t think any of you is that strong a swimmer.’ She waited for laughter, but there wasn’t any. ‘We may not call you prisoners here, but there are rules and we want you to follow them. The rules will make life better for all of us, because we’re all living here together. Now I know this is not what you’re used to…’
Simon saw one of the men behind her lean across to a colleague and whisper, ‘You’re telling me.’
‘… but please don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re a soft touch. If you refuse to follow what rules there are here, if you persistently disrupt the community on the island in any way, you’ll be on the next boat back. Simple as that. But… if you take this chance, if you embrace this opportunity, I promise that you’ll get a great deal out of it.’
Stuart leaned towards Simon and said, ‘What do you reckon, Si? Should we embrace it?’
Simon nodded. He liked being called ‘Si’.
‘Right, let’s embrace it, then.’
‘Yeah,’ Simon said.
‘We’ll give it a bloody big cuddle.’
‘Yeah…’
‘We’ll squeeze the bastard nice and tight, shall we, Si?’
‘Yeah!’
Simon looked over and saw that the bloke with the fat face and the greasy hair was watching them. Simon felt uncomfortable, but Stuart just lit his cigarette and returned the bloke’s stare until the bloke looked away.
Ruth asked if anyone had any questions.
A big lad with dreadlocks who was sitting at the front put his hand up and said, ‘Is it true that posh bitches make more noise in bed?’
There were actually a dozen of them by the time the boat had finished coming and going. A dozen boys and six members of staff. ‘They’re still screws, by the way, Si,’ Stuart had said. ‘Even if they’re not wearing uniforms. And they can call us “guests” all they like, but we all know that’s bollocks.’
The boys slept four to a room, with the staff divided between five more, two of which were in a converted outbuilding. Ruth had her own room in the main house, while the other female staff member and the screw with the straggly beard turned out to be a couple, so they shared one.
The screw with the straggly beard got a lot of stick from the boys once they found out about that. Stuff about his girlfriend and what she liked. The two of them must have known that would happen, but still.
Simon had no idea how it had been decided, but he was pleased when he and Stuart ended up in the same bedroom. Once in the room, they were allowed to decide which of the four beds to make up and, without Simon having to say anything, Stuart dumped his rucksack down on the bed next to his. Simon was pleased about that too.
The lights went out at ten o’clock.
That first night, one of the boys on the other side of the room just kept laughing and saying, ‘This is mental,’ over and over again. Then, once he’d quietened down, the other one kicked off; moaning and groaning and slapping his belly, pretending he was playing with himself. After a few minutes, Stuart told him to shut up and even though the other boy a
rgued about it briefly, he did shut up in the end, which was surprising because he was a fair bit bigger than Stuart, and that was what usually decided these things.
‘You all right, Si?’ Stuart asked.
‘Yeah.’ Simon had been thinking about his mum.
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’ He was wondering what she would make of this place, assuming she was ever straight long enough to have a proper conversation about it. He thought about what it would be like when she was, and he could tell her, and they could laugh about it. He was sure she’d find it funny and take the piss out of everything. The two soppy screws who were a couple. Ruth being a bit up herself, saying ‘blossom’ and all that. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Being on this island, I mean.’
‘You rather be banged up somewhere?’
‘No, course not.’
‘Just going to take some getting used to.’
‘I suppose.’
‘It won’t be for everybody. Nothing ever is.’
‘Like she said though, it’s an opportunity, isn’t it?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I don’t want to mess it up, that’s all.’
‘You won’t mess it up,’ Stuart said. ‘I’ll make sure.’
They lay there in the dark for a few minutes and listened to what sounded like a thousand babies crying out on the rocks. The spooky call of that special bird Ruth had mentioned going back to its burrow. A funny name that Simon had forgotten already.
‘It’s all right to be scared, you know, Si.’ The bed creaked as Stuart turned on to his side. ‘Everyone gets scared.’
Crying babies, or else like a load of Punch and Judy shows somewhere in the distance; that weird thing the Punch and Judy man puts in his mouth to make his voice go funny.
‘You don’t,’ Simon said.
TWENTY-ONE
It was still called Tides House.
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