TT12 The Bones Beneath

by Mark Billingham

  Burnham looked horrified. ‘What, he’ll be sleeping in there with…?’

  ‘Has to,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Can’t be helped, Sam.’ Holland was trying to sound serious, but failed to hide his grin from Karim, who was suddenly looking even less happy about staying on than he had before.

  ‘All the bedding gets wrapped in plastic at the end of the summer,’ Burnham said. ‘So it should all be perfectly dry. As for food… I’m sure we can rustle you up some soup or something. We weren’t expecting that any of you would be staying over.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Howell said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’d have a spare bottle of something?’ Karim asked.

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ Thorne said. ‘Not sure being pissed in charge of the body is a great idea.’

  ‘Just thinking about keeping warm,’ Karim said.

  ‘We’ll find you a hot water bottle.’ Thorne turned to Howell. ‘How long are we looking at?’

  ‘Another five or six hours,’ she said. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll be done down there by midnight.’

  ‘Sorry it’s worked out like this,’ Thorne said. ‘I sounded out the Morgans about hanging on a bit, but there’s no way they’ll wait until after dark.’

  Howell shrugged. ‘I’ve stayed in worse places.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ Burnham said, a little offended. ‘It just might be a little more rough and ready than you’re used to. I’m sure you can make it nice and cosy… get the lanterns lit. I think there’s some books to read in there, puzzles and what have you.’

  Markham looked at Thorne. ‘No reason we can’t have a bottle or two of something, is there?’

  ‘None at all,’ Thorne said. ‘Almost compulsory, I would have thought.’

  She smiled nicely at the warden. ‘Any chance of scrounging something?’

  ‘Wine all right?’

  ‘God, yes,’ Markham said. ‘Actually, this might be quite an adventure.’ She looked at Thorne. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  ‘You could always keep me company,’ Karim said. ‘Freezing my tits off in the chapel with nothing but a bag of old bones…’

  Thorne told them that, weather permitting, the boat would be returning to pick them up first thing in the morning, and that once he was back on the mainland he would make arrangements to have the body of Simon Milner transported back to London. He thanked the warden for his help and Burnham said that it was not a problem. Thorne wondered if the warden was feeling slightly guilty for the earlier delay, even if the hour he had cost them had made little difference in the end.

  Burnham held up his satellite phone. ‘Well, you’ve got my number if you think of anything else after you leave. Or if you’d like to come back some time for a break.’

  Thorne told Markham and Karim that he would see them both back in London and thanked Bethan Howell for everything she’d done.

  She said, ‘The trial then, I suppose.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘See you at the trial.’ She nodded at Markham and Karim. ‘We’ll all be there, I imagine.’

  ‘Sounds like it’ll be quite a reunion,’ Nicklin said. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’

  They all turned to look at him.

  ‘Maybe we should set up a Facebook event or something. I’m happy to do it all… I mean I know you’re all a lot busier than I am.’

  Thorne looked at Jenks and Fletcher, but they just seemed bored. He glanced at Batchelor who was sitting next to Nicklin. Batchelor would not meet Thorne’s eye and stared at his feet, like someone keen to avoid any association with an acquaintance who was doing something embarrassing.

  Howell said, ‘He’s full of himself, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’m just happy that everything went well,’ Nicklin said. ‘I’m pleased that you’re pleased, that’s all.’ When he saw Howell’s smile, his own quickly vanished. He sat back, took a few seconds. ‘For obvious reasons, I’ve been up close and personal with a body or two in my time. I’ve got nice and comfy with bones and blood and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t quite like it. As a matter of fact, there’s been more than a few shrinks over the years who’ve listened and scribbled a bit and decided that actually I must be getting off on it. Getting some kind of sexual kick out of it.’ He raised his handcuffed hands, waggled a finger at Howell. ‘So what’s your excuse?’

  Thorne saw the colour come into Howell’s face. He inched into her line of vision and shook his head.

  Fletcher suppressed a yawn. Said, ‘He won’t be quite this cocky when he’s back on the wing tonight.’

  As bags were gathered and Howell, Markham and Karim prepared to head back down to the crime scene, Burnham pressed a blister pack into Thorne’s hand. ‘Those travel sickness pills you asked me about,’ he said. ‘I swear by these and they work fast.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Thorne snapped a couple out into his palm. As if on cue, a horn sounded from down by the boathouse, low and mournful. Huw Morgan letting them know that the Benlli III was ready to leave.

  Halfway back and Thorne was relieved that the pills Burnham had given him seemed to be doing the trick. Not that it was particularly rough, but Thorne had become convinced that much of the problem was psychological; that just the sight of water was now enough to bring on that prickle of sweat, the first waves of sickness.

  Helen had suggested going to see a hypnotherapist.

  ‘What, you fancy a cruise or something?’

  ‘I just thought if you saw someone about the heights thing, they might be able to do something about the seasickness at the same time.’

  When Thorne had mentioned this to Hendricks, on the off-chance that he might be able to recommend someone, his friend had seized the opportunity to take the piss with both hands.

  ‘I think it’s a top idea,’ Hendricks had said. ‘Why don’t you see if you can do some kind of a special deal for a job lot? See if they can change your shit taste in music while they’re at it and maybe cure your tragic devotion to Spurs…?’

  ‘It’s good that Simon’s going home,’ Nicklin said.

  Thorne looked up and across at Nicklin, who was sitting with Batchelor and the two prison officers on the other side of the deck. Thorne was sitting next to Holland, their bags at their feet.

  Holland said, ‘What?’

  ‘It’s good that his mum’s finally going to get him back.’

  ‘You could have made that happen sooner,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I’m making it happen now.’

  ‘It hardly makes you Mother Teresa.’

  They were leaning towards one another, voices raised just enough to be heard above the engines.

  ‘She must have cleaned herself up,’ Nicklin said, nodding. ‘Certainly sounds like she has, anyway. Simon always wanted that.’ He looked back. They had lost sight of Bardsey by now and the sun had all but slipped beneath the horizon. ‘I reckon that her being a junkie was probably why Simon got into trouble in the first place. I mean, it wasn’t like she was ever really there to stop him, was it? Off her tits while he was running around nicking cars. Funny thing is, it was probably losing him that made her snap out of it.’

  ‘So, you did her a favour, did you?’

  ‘A favour?’

  ‘Killing him.’

  ‘Just saying, it’s strange how things turn out.’

  Thorne stood up, unable to look at him any more. ‘Sorry if I’ve never associated you with happy endings.’

  A few minutes later the boat was chugging across Aberdaron Bay and shortly after that the landing site came into view; a ragged line of lights on the shore.

  Thorne checked his phone and saw that he finally had a signal again. As the boat slowed, he called Russell Brigstocke. He told him where he was, who was with him and that, all being well, they should be on the road within half an hour. Brigstocke sounded relieved and as the boat drifted in towards the slipway, Thorne took him through the chronology of th
e day.

  ‘We found the body just after lunch,’ he said.

  He was distracted by something Nicklin was mouthing at him and missed whatever Brigstocke had said. Nicklin waved to get his attention, so Thorne took a step towards him, told Brigstocke to hold on.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  Nicklin smiled. Said, ‘You found one of them.’

  THIRTY

  ‘It’s rubbish,’ Thorne said. ‘He’s pissing us around, same as always. We don’t want to get hung up about this, Russell. I really don’t think we should change our plans.’

  ‘You need to calm down,’ Brigstocke said.

  ‘It’s shit.’

  ‘We should at least talk about it.’

  Thorne was pacing up and down a short section of unlit muddy track, fifty yards from the slipway. Behind him, Huw Morgan had a hose trained on the keel of the Benlli III while between Thorne and the boat, Fletcher, Jenks, Holland and the two prisoners waited in the Galaxy. Thorne turned and saw Nicklin staring at him through the side window. He watched him shrug as though asking a question.

  How are you getting on, Tom?

  Thorne tried to control his breathing, to keep the anger from his voice as he told Brigstocke; passing on the story Nicklin had told him as the boat was being hauled back on to the mainland.

  ‘Well, I needed a shovel, obviously, to get rid of Simon, but rather than go back to Tides House for one, I tried one of the smaller cottages in the other direction. The ones they rented out. I just strolled into the back garden, pinched a shovel out of the shed and came back to start digging, piece of piss. Trouble was, the old bird who was staying there must have heard something and came marching down about ten minutes later. Waving a torch about and demanding to know what I was up to. It wasn’t like I had a lot of choice, was it?’ He’d smiled then, enjoying telling his tale, or simply enjoying the memory. ‘I knew who she was. I knew she was some kind of amateur poet, because she’d been in to read some of her poems a couple of times. Usual shit that didn’t rhyme. I think they brought her in to try and encourage some of us to write poetry ourselves. To share our feelings.’ He’d rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the suggestion. ‘Anyway, so there I am digging a grave for poor old Simon and she comes beetling along, sticking her nose in. What am I supposed to do? Not a lot I can do at the end of the day, is there? There’s a boat waiting for me. I’ve not got a lot of time to decide.’ He smiled at Thorne, rocking slightly as the boat was winched from the water on to the trailer.

  ‘Think of it as a bonus…’

  ‘A fucking bonus,’ Thorne said now. ‘I’m telling you, Russell, it’s a wind-up.’

  ‘That’s what you thought about Simon Milner,’ Brigstocke said. ‘You thought he was having us over about that.’

  ‘OK, fair enough. But this time I really think he is. Why wait until now, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Control —’

  ‘Why wait until we’re almost back?’

  ‘Control, Tom. You said it yourself. Back foot, remember?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘We at least have to look into this.’

  ‘And what do we do while that’s happening?’

  ‘What difference is one more night going to make? I’ll clear it with the governor at Long Lartin.’

  ‘How exactly are we going to check this out? He doesn’t have a name for this woman. He can’t even remember what month it was, for God’s sake.’

  ‘How many people can have gone missing on that island?’

  ‘It was twenty-five years ago,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Even so, it’s not the Bermuda triangle, is it? Somebody will have missed her.’

  ‘I still don’t think it’s going to be easy.’

  ‘Just get him back in a cell for tonight,’ Brigstocke said. ‘I’ll make some calls, get everything arranged.’

  ‘What if it’s just a game?’ Thorne remembered Nicklin’s demeanour just an hour earlier in the school hall, his irritation with Batchelor in the car on the drive up. ‘What if it’s all about attention? How stupid are we going to look?’

  ‘Not as stupid as we’ll look if there’s another body over there that we fail to find, even when he’s offered to show us where it is.’

  ‘Well, he’s still being a bit vague about that.’

  ‘A perfect exercise in how to turn a positive result for us into a PR disaster,’ Brigstocke said. ‘If we get this wrong. And before you say anything, it’s my job to think about crap like that.’

  Thorne looked back at the car again and saw that Nicklin was still watching. He wondered what his job was?

  Nursemaid? Straight man? Fall guy?

  At that moment, it certainly didn’t feel like he was much of a policeman.

  Brigstocke had clearly pulled out all the stops quickly. Half an hour later, Chief Superintendent Robin Duggan was waiting at an otherwise deserted Abersoch police station to greet them, along with a handful of PCs and the same custody sergeant Thorne had been shouting at twenty-four hours earlier. The man did not look overly pleased to be renewing their acquaintance.

  While Nicklin and Batchelor were being processed for a second time, Duggan led Thorne to one side.

  ‘So not finished on Bardsey yet then?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It’s all going OK, though?’

  ‘You know how it is,’ Thorne said. ‘Sometimes these things take a lot longer than you expect.’

  ‘It’s best to be thorough.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Nothing I should know, though?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as a second body.’

  ‘Right,’ Thorne said, quietly. He could have done with a nice grave-shaped hole opening up to swallow him. It made perfect sense, of course, that Brigstocke would have told him; that as a senior officer on the force concerned, Duggan would be the most obvious port of call in terms of getting the story of the murdered woman checked out. Thorne’s decision to keep Nicklin’s latest confession to himself had made him look self-serving and duplicitous. As it was, Duggan seemed content, for the time being at least, with having made Thorne look stupid.

  ‘A second murder’s going to make things a lot more complicated,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think anyone wants that.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Thorne guessed it was time to show a little deference.

  ‘So, fingers crossed it’s all bull.’

  Thorne nodded.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do about confirming things one way or another, checking missing persons records from back then.’ Duggan straightened his cap. ‘Long before my time, of course, but there’s still a few knocking about who might be able to help.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  Duggan nodded towards Nicklin, who was being walked back to the desk from one of the rooms off the custody suite. ‘Let’s hope it’s just mind-games, eh? You look anxious to get home.’

  The custody sergeant waved a couple of PCs over to the desk then shouted across to let Duggan know that both prisoners had been searched and were ready to be escorted to the cells. Thorne asked the PCs to hold on and walked across.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ He looked at Nicklin and Batchelor. ‘But let’s take one at a time.’ He thought about it, then pointed. ‘Him first…’

  As soon as they were on the other side of the door and in the corridor leading down to the cells, Thorne moved up close to Batchelor. He nodded to the PC to let him know it was all right to step back a little. He put a hand on Batchelor’s arm.

  ‘Anything you want to tell me, Jeff?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About this. About the latest revelation from your pal, Stuart.’

  ‘He’s not my pal.’

  ‘Whatever. Your travelling companion. Anything at all you might be able to help us with here?’

  With his handcuffs removed, Batchelor was rubbing at his wrists. He blinked, closing his eyes for a second or more each time. ‘I’d like to speak to my wife,’ he
said. ‘Can you arrange that?’

  ‘Well, there are plenty of phones here.’ Thorne nodded. ‘I can ask.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be a problem, but you’ll have to help me first.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘This cock and bull about a second body… all of us going back to the island tomorrow to find this woman he killed. You sure there isn’t anything you can tell me about that?’

  Batchelor tensed and seemed almost to shrink a little. He looked like he was in physical pain, as though his face were a smooth plaster mask that was cracking with it, and Thorne saw the face of the man who had discovered his daughter’s body. He watched Batchelor’s Adam’s apple move in his neck as he swallowed hard.

  ‘Is Nicklin threatening you?’ Thorne looked for a reaction. ‘Is that what this is about? Are you afraid he’s going to hurt you?’ Thorne felt the need to ask, but was well aware how stupid the question was. Anyone who knew Stuart Nicklin and was not afraid of him had as many screws loose as he did.

  Batchelor looked away from him, shaking his head.

  Thorne turned to the PC, said, ‘He’s all yours,’ and went back to fetch Nicklin.

  Halfway along the corridor, Nicklin looked at him and said, ‘Nice to get the personal touch. Very much appreciated.’

  Thorne did not answer. He said nothing until Nicklin had been shown to his cell. Then, just before the door was locked, Thorne stepped in after him. Nicklin looked momentarily thrown, his eyes darting to the PC by the door, as if he thought that Thorne were about to attack him. Nicklin could see by the look on the PC’s face that the officer had similar concerns.

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time, would it, Tom?’

  Five years before, after Nicklin had got a little over-involved in a case Thorne was working and with people Thorne was close to, a message had been sent via one of Nicklin’s fellow inmates. A message in broken glass, delivered at dinner time.

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Thorne said. He took another step into the cell. Pushed the door shut on the confused PC. ‘I just wanted you to know that I’ve been reading the letters you wrote to your mother, OK, Stuart?’ He studied Nicklin’s face, looking for a reaction. ‘Really interesting stuff, seriously. So, there’s not very much I don’t know when it comes to what’s going on inside your big, bald head. I know all about your mummy issues, not that they were much of a surprise. I know what it’s like for you inside… Professor. So, whatever the hell this stupid game is you think you’re playing now, you need to remember that I know far more about you than you do about me. I don’t care what you think you know or what you think you’re capable of doing with that information.’