TT12 The Bones Beneath

by Mark Billingham

  Batchelor sits and does what he has to, a long way past caring.

  Now, it’s almost time and he still can’t put them together in any way that sounds acceptable. The things he wants to say to his wife. He’s presuming that it’s all going to go the way he’s been promised, that he’ll get his chance. He looks at his watch. Sonia will almost certainly be in bed by now, dead to the world on all those pills she’s been gulping down every night since Jodi died. It might end up being no more than a message in the end, a few stammered words after the beep.

  Just as well, probably, he thinks.

  Hearing her voice would only make it harder.

  Make it impossible…

  Outside the door, Jenks laughs and Fletcher says, ‘Yeah, well it’s what they do, isn’t it? The French. Basically, they just shit in a hole in the floor. Like the bog seat hasn’t been invented or they can’t afford one because they’ve spent all their money on garlic, or whatever.’

  Batchelor hears Jenks say something and laugh again. Then there are footsteps and a third voice outside the door.

  A London accent, a chuckle in it.

  ‘Bloody hell, don’t tell me you’re the queue.’

  ‘No, mate,’ Fletcher says. ‘You’ll have to jog on though.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We’re prison officers and we’re working. One of our prisoners is in there.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Come on, mate, don’t be a twat about it. Just use the shitter in the next cottage along, there’s a good lad.’

  Batchelor sits and sweats and pushes back tears with the heels of his hands. He knows what’s coming, so after a few seconds he moves his hands from his eyes to his ears because nobody says he has to listen to it, and then, with the noise from outside deadened by the thrum of his rushing pulse, the stench and the dread yield one glorious moment of revelation and he finally realises what he needs to say to Sonia.

  That there’s only ever been one thing he’s wanted to tell her.

  Nicklin says, ‘I don’t see what you’re so worried about, Tom.’

  Thorne turns from the window. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I think Fletcher and Jenks can handle one prisoner using the toilet.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, what was all that about Holland going with them? Taking a radio.’

  ‘Since when do I answer to you?’

  ‘Just making conversation.’

  ‘Did I miss the bit where you became a detective chief inspector?’

  Nicklin laughs and shifts back on the mattress, the bed-springs groaning beneath him, until he is sitting up. The hand that is cuffed to the frame is now twisted behind his back. ‘Actually, I think I’d make a pretty good copper,’ he says. ‘A DI at least, I reckon… Murder Squad, obviously.’ He looks at Thorne, scratches at his chest with his free hand. ‘You know, takes one to know one and all that.’

  Thorne steps back across to the window. He can see a single torch beam below in the rear garden, the small circle of light fixed against the bottom of the toilet door, as though the torch is on the ground. He can just make out shapes in the rain and the rhythm of a conversation.

  ‘Maybe that’s why you’re so good at it,’ Nicklin says.

  Batchelor is trying not to listen, but in the end he cannot help himself and he knows the sounds, because he recognises them.

  He has heard them before.

  He cannot be certain of the method, though the speed of what happens coupled with the fact that there is not that much noise means that he can hazard a guess. Surprise is an important weapon, of course, but with one man against two, something rather more tangible was always going to be required. So, not identical, these terrible sounds on the other side of the door, but close enough.

  Panic and terror, then realisation.

  They were the sounds Nathan Wilson had made, his face a mask of blood by then and something that was not blood leaking from the back of his skull on to the pavement. The sounds of someone fighting for their life. Moans and gasps as Batchelor had smashed the boy’s head down again and again and half-spluttered pleas that went unheeded until they became drooled and fractured mumblings.

  The ragged fall of that last breath.

  Now, a few feet away from him, there are other noises, a little more prosaic, that tell Batchelor the situation outside has changed, is moving forward. The soft thump of a body as it hits the ground, an arm flailing through long grass, and slowing. The clatter as someone slumps against the side of the outhouse and slides down.

  Then nothing. Half a minute when it’s just the rain and the wind and the gurgling in his gut, until he hears the heavy steps flattening the wet grass and sees the door give a little as someone leans against it.

  Hears the voice, the mouth up close to the wood, the London accent with a chuckle in it.

  The man outside the door says, ‘Time to go, Jeff.’

  Thorne bangs on the window, the glass rattling in the frame, but he sees no movement below him, no reaction of any kind. He tries to open it, but it’s been painted shut and refuses to budge.

  He turns and walks back to the doorway. He leans out and shouts along the corridor.

  ‘Dave…’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up,’ Nicklin says. ‘It’s not been that long.’

  Thorne shouts again.

  ‘Maybe Jeff’s having a little trouble.’ Nicklin pulls a face. ‘I mean, it’s hardly surprising, is it? It’s not as if anyone’s been eating very healthily the last few days.’

  Holland shouts back. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘I need you.’ Thorne steps back into the room and goes back to the window.

  ‘Maybe you should go down there yourself,’ Nicklin says.

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘Just saying, if you’re really worried.’

  Holland appears, blinking in the doorway, pulling a sweater on over a T-shirt. He yawns and says, ‘What?’

  ‘I need you to go downstairs and check on Laurel and Hardy,’ Thorne says. ‘They took Batchelor out to use the toilet and that was about twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘It was ten minutes, tops,’ Nicklin says.

  ‘I know how long it was.’

  Nicklin looks at Holland, rolls his eyes. ‘He’s panicking.’

  ‘Take your radio,’ Thorne says.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s in the bedroom.’

  ‘Well go back and get it and get down there.’

  Thorne and Nicklin watch Holland turn and walk quickly back towards his bedroom. Thorne moves back into the room and resumes his position at the window.

  ‘You can go with him if you want,’ Nicklin says. He rattles his cuffs against the bedstead. ‘It’s not like I’m going anywhere, is it? Well, not yet anyway.’

  Thorne turns from the window and looks at him. He feels a flicker of something in his gut, there for a second, then gone.

  The cuffs are rattled again. ‘Something tells me you’ll be taking these off in a minute.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Thorne says.

  Nicklin leans back and closes his eyes. Says, ‘We’ll see.’

  Holland sees the two bodies as soon as he pushes open the back door and sweeps the torch beam across the garden. Jenks is lying on his belly in the grass. Fletcher is sitting with his back against the toilet wall, as though it’s a balmy summer’s evening and he’s catching forty winks. There is blood pooled between his legs and the rain has begun to take it, running in stringy rivulets and dripping off the edge of the concrete platform on which the toilet has been built.

  Holland keys his radio. He squeezes hard to control the tremor in his fingers. He says, ‘Fletcher and Jenks are down. Stabbed, looks like. They’re both down.’

  He waits, stepping towards the toilet door, which is closed.

  Thorne’s voice crackles back at him. ‘Say again, Dave.’

  ‘Shit… there’s so much fucking
blood.’

  ‘Whose blood, Dave? Where’s Batchelor?’

  Holland yells out as he kicks the door open. It clatters against the wall and swings back again, but Holland can see that the stall is empty. ‘Batchelor’s gone,’ he says. ‘Fletcher and Jenks are down and Batchelor’s gone.’ He turns on the spot and swings his torch around wildly, in case Batchelor is still somewhere nearby, but there’s only rain and the dark wall at the end of the garden. The mountain rising up on the other side.

  ‘What about signs of life, Dave?’ Thorne is not shouting, but his voice is raised and he is speaking slowly. ‘Have you checked for signs of life?’

  Holland is panting by now. He wipes the rain from his eyes, lays his torch on the grass and kneels down next to Fletcher. He grabs a wrist and presses his ear to the officer’s chest. It comes away wet, and the radio is slick with blood when he brings it to his mouth.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He crawls across to where Jenks is lying and turns him over, grunting with the effort. The man’s chest is sodden, the stain on his jacket black in the half-light from the open doorway behind them.

  ‘Dave?’

  He checks for a pulse. He leans close to the man’s face and waits for a breath, holding his own while he listens.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Talk to me, Dave.’

  ‘Shit… there’s nothing,’ Holland says. ‘Just blood…’

  Thorne is still at the bedroom window, the radio pressed to his ear, listening to Holland gasp and curse, when he spots the torch beam moving on the mountainside. The light skitters, perhaps five hundred yards away and fifty feet up, briefly illuminating rocky outcrops and grey clumps of heather and gorse as it climbs upwards.

  He keys the transmit button.

  ‘Batchelor’s on the mountain,’ he says. ‘Him and whoever killed Fletcher and Jenks. You need to get after him, Dave.’

  ‘You don’t think Batchelor killed them?’

  ‘No chance,’ Thorne says. ‘Somebody came for him.’ He looks again, but he can’t see the torchlight any longer. ‘Quick as you can, Dave. I’ll radio Karim and get him to follow you.’

  Holland tells Thorne that he’s on his way.

  It’s still dark on the mountainside and Thorne guesses that whoever is using the torch knows very well that there’s a chance he will be seen and is choosing to use it only when necessary. He looks down into the garden and sees the beam of light swing as Holland picks his own torch up.

  He turns to Nicklin. ‘This was never about you, was it? It was always about Batchelor escaping.’

  ‘Well, it’s an escape of a sort, I suppose,’ Nicklin says.

  Thorne sees Nicklin smile, waiting for the penny to drop and when it does Thorne understands what Batchelor is doing, what he’s being led away to do.

  ‘This is the perfect place for him to do it,’ Nicklin says. ‘Very peaceful very… spiritual. Besides, you’d be amazed how hard it is to get it done in prison. They’ve been watching him anyway, you know, since he had his wobble when he got that boy’s letter. But even if they weren’t, it’s never very easy. Trust me, if it was, people inside would be topping themselves every day of the week.’

  Suddenly Holland’s voice cuts in, hoarse, urgent. ‘I was wrong. Jenks is still breathing. Jesus…’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘He’s alive, but only just.’ Holland sounds close to tears. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’

  ‘I’ll sort it, Dave.’

  ‘We need to get him to hospital… get a helicopter or something.’

  ‘I said, I’ll sort it. I can get a phone signal at the abbey ruins.’ Thorne is already moving across to the bed. He drops down on to the edge and reaches for his boots. ‘You get after Batchelor, all right?’

  ‘Shouldn’t I wait with Jenks?’

  ‘Listen, if you don’t get to Batchelor before he reaches the top of that mountain, there’s going to be another body to worry about.’

  ‘OK…’

  ‘Be careful, all right, Dave? Whoever’s up there with him is obviously dangerous. As soon as I’ve made the call I’ll join you.’

  Holland tells Thorne that he’s on the move. He says, ‘Don’t forget to call Karim.’

  Thorne ends the transmission, punches the button again and says, ‘Sam, are you awake? We’ve got an emergency up here. Sam…?’ He struggles to pull his boots on, cursing as he waits for a response.

  ‘I don’t want you to tell Karim what’s happening,’ Nicklin says.

  Thorne looks up. ‘What?’

  ‘Tell him to relax. Tell him there’s nothing to worry about.’

  Thorne freezes, fingers tight around his bootlaces.

  ‘Yes,’ Nicklin says, ‘you are going to the abbey ruins, but I’d prefer it if you left your phone here, along with your radio.’

  Thorne gets slowly to his feet. That lurching in his belly is back suddenly and it stays there, like speeding across an endless series of humpbacked bridges. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Remember the letters?’ Nicklin asks. ‘The ones I wrote to my mother?’

  Suddenly, Thorne cannot think straight. He shakes his head, struggling to understand. ‘Yes… what?’

  Nicklin’s expression makes it perfectly clear that he’s enjoying Thorne’s confusion, the delay before he puts him out of his misery. ‘Look, I know what you think you’re supposed to do, what the procedure is, and so on. The thing is, I’m not really sure you can save Alan Jenks anyway and, more to the point, aren’t there other people you care about more?’ Nicklin waits, cocks his head. ‘People that need you?’

  Thorne stares at his prisoner for no more than a second or two, but he sees a confidence borne out of craft and careful planning; of complete certainty that Nicklin is going to get what he wants, because he knows Thorne too well.

  When the radio crackles into life and Samir Karim says, ‘I’m here, guv. What’s the problem?’ Thorne raises the radio slowly to his mouth.

  He says, ‘Relax, Sam, it’s nothing to worry about.’

  Across from him, Nicklin nods his approval.

  ‘False alarm.’

  Batchelor stumbles again in his effort to keep up and cries out as his palm is scraped by the edge of a low rock.

  ‘You all right?’

  Batchelor nods, too out of breath to shout.

  The man who stabbed Fletcher and Jenks is perhaps twenty feet ahead of him and has not lost his footing once. Batchelor has still not got a good look at him, but the man seems young, certainly younger than he had been expecting. Not that he had known what to expect, not really. It was just that, despite some of the events he had witnessed in prison, the people he had encountered, it still seemed strange to him that someone so young could do such things so easily.

  Every couple of minutes, the man turns the torch on for a few seconds, scans the terrain up ahead, then turns it off again. He clearly knows where he’s going, has already worked out the quickest route to the top and the cliffs on the other side.

  Batchelor watches the man stop, waiting for him to catch up.

  ‘Come on,’ the man says. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

  He tries to move faster, but it feels as though there are weights attached to his boots and despite the water that has soaked through his trousers, his legs feel like they’re burning with the effort of lifting them.

  ‘This is for you, you know,’ the man says.

  Batchelor knows that it is, but finds it hard to feel anything like gratitude when other, stronger feelings are crowding in, demanding space. He’d heard those noises and seen the blood. He had been made to step over the body lying in the grass.

  ‘Besides which, there are other things we’ve got to do tonight.’

  Batchelor is well aware of that, of course. The plans made for him are no more than the start of it. A distraction.

  When he gets to within a few feet of his guide, Batchelor says, ‘What about the phon
e?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I was promised that I could make a call. I need to make a call.’

  ‘No signal yet,’ the man says.

  ‘You get one on the mountain.’ Batchelor steps closer to the man. ‘That’s what I was told.’

  ‘Not until we’re nearer the top.’

  ‘How do you know? You haven’t even looked.’

  The man ignores him. He turns away and flicks the torch on. For a few seconds, Batchelor can see raindrops falling from the bushes and splashing on to black earth and glistening slabs of rock. Looking up through the drizzle, he can see a sky decorated with more stars than he even knew existed.

  He decides that these are the things he’ll try and hold on to for what’s left of his climb. What’s left of everything. He resolves to push away all those other images, the memories that remain washed in innocent blood, and to try and remember the good things instead.

  The things for which he counts himself blessed.

  Up ahead, the man turns the torch off. He says, ‘Onwards and upwards.’

  The instructions he has been given are all about where to look and what to look for. Nicklin has said nothing specific about timing, but Thorne knows very well that he needs to run. In daylight and good weather, it would be just a short walk back down to the chapel, but the track has grown more treacherous and even with a torch to light the ground ahead, it takes him five minutes to reach the ruins at the end of the graveyard.

  He is out of breath by the time he gets to the bell tower, but it’s panic as much as exhaustion. He steps inside and walks towards the arrangement of large, flat stones at the far end.

  ‘It’s not really an altar,’ Nicklin had said. ‘Just looks like one, but whatever it is, there’s an offering waiting for you. There’s a small space underneath the stones. You just need to reach inside…’

  Thorne kneels down and does what Nicklin has asked.

  His fingers close around something and he pulls out a brown, A4-sized Jiffy bag wrapped in clear plastic. He stands up and uses his torch to examine it, but there’s no writing, no postmark. Nothing. Just a sealed envelope.

  Thorne turns and looks across the graveyard to the chapel, huddled against the foot of the mountain, the lights burning inside. He could be there in less than a minute and briefing Sam Karim. Sending him after Holland or down to the observatory to rouse the warden and use his satellite phone to call the mainland. If Alan Jenks is not dead already, Thorne could be making an effort to save his life.