TT12 The Bones Beneath

by Mark Billingham

  He turns the padded envelope over in his hands.

  Without knowing what its contents are, Thorne knows instinctively that they leave him with no choice but to do what he’s been told. He remembers the look on Nicklin’s face and knows that doing anything else will cost him in ways he is trying hard not to think about.

  Helen, Alfie…

  A seal screams from the rocks down by the quay and Thorne steps out of the tower. He turns back towards the Old House and does not stop running until he is standing at the foot of the bed to which Stuart Nicklin still lies handcuffed.

  ‘Doesn’t matter how old you are, does it?’ Nicklin says. ‘It’s always exciting when the post arrives.’

  Sweating and still breathing heavily, Thorne holds out the package, water dripping from the plastic wrapping, from his sleeve.

  Nicklin lazily raises the wrist that is handcuffed to the bed-frame and waits for it to catch. ‘I think you’ll have to open it,’ he says.

  Thorne looks down at the envelope and wipes away the moisture from the wrapping. He hesitates, dry-mouthed, his guts watery.

  ‘Any time you like,’ Nicklin says.

  Thorne rips away the plastic, turns the envelope and tears at the seal. He opens it and stares inside. He says, ‘For Christ’s sake, are you joking?’ then empties four chocolate bars on to the bed.

  ‘Those are mine,’ Nicklin says, reaching eagerly for one and nodding at the envelope. ‘I think there’s something else in there though.’

  Thorne reaches into the envelope and brings out a smaller, padded package. He quickly tears it open and removes contents which are almost weightless; something paper-thin and pressed between two sheets of kitchen towel.

  Watching, Nicklin tears with his teeth at the wrapper of his chocolate bar and takes a bite.

  Thorne lifts the top sheet of kitchen towel, which sticks to whatever is beneath it for a second or two and comes away stained. A few spots like old blood on a plaster. Something creamy, pus-coloured.

  It takes him a moment or two to understand what he’s holding.

  It’s a ragged square, pinkish-brown, maybe six inches by six and curling a little at the edges. A pattern of some sort…

  ‘I hope it’s in decent nick,’ Nicklin says. ‘I told them to take good care of it.’

  Trying and failing to swallow, Thorne continues to stare down at the piece of human skin now lying across his palm. The bile rising into his throat is beaten only by a strangled gasp when he recognises the design. The swirling letters, the fine lines in red and blue ink.

  ‘Right,’ Nicklin says, still chewing. He raises his wrist again, but this time there is no trace of humour in his voice. ‘Let’s get these fucking things off, shall we?’

  Immediately, Thorne reaches into his inside pocket for the key to the handcuffs, but he does not look up, does not take his eyes off the delicate slice of skin. His thumb moves gently across the edge of it, traces what there is of the familiar image, the fragment of a word.

  Aren’t there other people you care about more?

  He had been there when the tattoo was done.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Batchelor had been right, and had been unable to talk to his wife on the phone. As it was, Sonia had stopped answering the phone a long time ago anyway. There had been so many abusive phone calls. Not only because of what he had done to Nathan Wilson, but from sickos who just wanted to say something cruel about Jodi. The same sort of twisted individuals who had never met or even heard of his daughter before, but who seemed to take delight in leaving messages on her Facebook page, in the days following her death.

  saddo! won’t be missed

  sorry your not hanging about any more

  obvs your boyf was right to chuck a loser like u…

  He had been enraged at first, but later the anger had given way to pity.

  What on earth happened to people?

  Even now, all these months later, mail was still opened carefully and calls were screened. Calling from the prison, he would wait for the beep, then say, ‘It’s me,’ knowing she would be listening if she was there, that she would pick up. Not at this time of night though. No amount of shouting was going to wake her once those pills had kicked in.

  His wife’s anger had never given way to anything.

  He had left a message, said what he needed to.

  Up ahead, the man with the torch was waiting for him again, but this time Batchelor knew it was not because he was lagging behind. The man had not stopped to let him catch up. It was simply because there was no further he could go.

  With the man training the torch to help him, Batchelor closed the distance between them as quickly as he could. He pushed through tangles of sodden heather and clambered over a series of rocks. Huge, flat stones lying one across the other, the way he used to leave plates draining beside the sink, too lazy to dry them up.

  You wash, Dad, I’ll dry…

  Once upon a time, before it had all fallen apart, Jodi and he had done the washing-up together. Singing along with the radio and dancing like idiots, Rachel scowling at the pair of them from the other side of the kitchen.

  Do you really have to sing that loud?

  ‘Right,’ the man with the torch said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I suppose I should leave you to it.’

  Batchelor said, ‘Thanks.’ Without knowing what the etiquette for such situations was, he held out a hand.

  The man leaned in to shake it, then stepped away again. ‘OK, then. Good luck…’

  Batchelor nodded, but luck was the one thing he did not need. Gravity would certainly get the job done. He just needed to summon one final surge of courage. He turned and watched his guide – the man with the torch, the man with the knife – walk away along the cliff edge, then turned back to face the sea and the vast emptiness above it.

  It’s what I want, Jode, you know that. But now I’m actually here… you know?

  The wind had gathered strength suddenly as they’d got closer to the top. It was still no worse than heavy drizzle, but the wind was whipping the rain into his face, needle-sharp. He grimaced and tried to turn away from it, but it was impossible to avoid if he wanted to face the drop head-on.

  Obviously, I hate doing this to your mum and especially to Rachel, but it feels right, and besides, I’m fairly sure their lives will be a lot better without me dragging them down. I know you’re not alone, I know Nathan is with you, but I need to be with you too and the truth is I can’t stand feeling this any more. I don’t want to wake up every morning and have to face what I did. This feels like drawing a line under everything… if that makes any sense.

  He laughed out loud.

  Well, I’m guessing it does, because if anyone knows what that feels like it’s you. Right, love?

  He could hear gulls screeching nearby. He could see nothing looking up, so he wondered if they were nesting. Perhaps they felt threatened and were simply letting him know that they would fight to protect their young.

  I was too late for that, wasn’t I, Jode? And when I did fight, I picked the wrong target. Silly old sod…

  He bent to pick up a stone and lobbed it into the darkness, losing sight of it well before it hit the rocks a hundred feet below. He closed his eyes and asked himself which was better. Should he lean and topple or simply step out into nothingness?

  He was amazed he hadn’t thought of this until now.

  He suddenly found himself thinking about Wile E. Coyote chasing The Road Runner and running out of land. Those legs wheeling in fresh air for a few seconds before he drops, that lugubrious expression on his face when he realises what’s about to happen. Always the same, comical sound effect.

  Coming, best girl.

  Batchelor stepped out, smiling.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Thorne was sitting on his bed, watching Nicklin on the bed opposite, rubbing his wrists and polishing off his second bar of chocolate, when Holland came through on the radio.

  ‘It’s
no good,’ Holland said. He sounded frantic, exhausted. ‘I don’t want to use the torch too much because they’ll see me coming, but it’s pitch black up here, so I’ve no bloody idea where I am. Unless I’m following exactly the same route they are, I’ve got no bloody chance. Hello…?’

  Thorne looked at Nicklin, who nodded to give his permission. ‘Just keep trying, Dave.’

  ‘I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.’

  ‘Stick at it, OK?’

  ‘Where’s Karim? Did you send him?’

  ‘He’s not far behind you.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’

  Thorne saw Nicklin shake his head. ‘Don’t do that, Dave. I need to keep the channels clear.’ The lies came easily. ‘I sent him to the Warden’s to call for a helicopter. Look, as soon as I’ve heard something back from Sam, I’ll get up there myself. We clear?’

  ‘Nicely done,’ Nicklin said, when Thorne laid the radio down. He picked up a third chocolate bar then dropped it back on to the bed. ‘Best save a couple of those for later.’

  Thorne looked at the patch of skin that was now lying on the small table between the two beds. ‘Is he alive?’ The last word caught in his throat, so he swallowed and asked again.

  ‘I tell you something,’ Nicklin said. ‘It was hysterical, you barging into that cell the other night. You were so bloody cocky about my mother’s letters, thinking you knew something you didn’t.’ He lowered his voice a little, a bad imitation of Thorne’s. ‘“I’m in your head”. Not if I don’t want you to be, you’re not.’

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘I’d love to say there were clues in there, in the letters, but that might be stretching it a bit. I mean, not even I’m that good and I hadn’t planned this back then, not all of it, anyway. It’s weird though, isn’t it, some of the things that were in there, the things that you didn’t pick up on? Like I knew, but I didn’t know, like maybe there was something subconscious going on when I wrote them. You see what I’m getting at? All that stuff about you and your friends, how loyal you are.’ He smiled. ‘That line about friendship being “more than skin deep?” Classic. Something told me even then that you’d end up reading them. I knew bloody well my mother wasn’t reading them.’

  ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘Well, those who are helping me have certainly been told to keep him alive and well.’ Nicklin nodded towards the square of skin that had been cut from Phil Hendricks’ back. ‘Well, alive at any rate.’

  ‘Because, if he isn’t, or if anything else happens to him —’

  Nicklin held up a hand. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Taken as read. I won’t get away with it, blah blah blah, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. But it’s really up to you, isn’t it? How willing you are to go along with a few simple instructions.’

  Thorne waited. He suddenly remembered what Helen had told him about speaking to a man she had assumed to be Phil’s latest conquest. That had clearly been one of those helping Nicklin; someone who must also have been responsible for the text Thorne had received from Hendricks a few days earlier. It was becoming apparent that there were several of them: the man who had killed Fletcher and taken Batchelor; those who were holding Hendricks.

  Accomplices, disciples…

  Twisted and needy, fame-hungry. A certain type of killer attracted a certain breed of acolyte and there could be nobody better than Stuart Nicklin at cultivating a willing network of them.

  Something else suddenly became terribly obvious. ‘It wasn’t Huw Morgan who called and spoke to Burnham, was it?’

  ‘He’s obviously a damn good mimic though, you have to admit that.’

  ‘Are they both dead?’

  ‘You’ll need to be more specific.’

  ‘Huw Morgan and his father.’

  ‘Well, I can’t be a hundred per cent certain,’ Nicklin said. ‘I gave no specific instructions either way, but one or two of my little helpers are rather eager to please, so there’s a fair chance, yes.’ He nodded to acknowledge Thorne’s look of disgust, then raised his hands as though keen to stress the mitigating circumstances. ‘Come on, I couldn’t rely on the weather turning, could I? So, we had to make sure there was no way the boat could get back here. Actually, I’ve got no idea what the weather’s really doing over there, but obviously I’m hoping it’s not going to be too tricky to get a boat over. I mean, getting off the island is rather the point.’

  Thorne understood now that Nicklin was planning to do exactly what he had done twenty-five years earlier, the first time he had escaped from Bardsey Island. There was a boat coming, probably piloted by whoever had made sure the Morgans were unable to come. They were probably already on their way to collect Nicklin and his accomplice on the island, the man who had taken Batchelor on to the mountain.

  ‘How much did Batchelor know?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘No more than he needed to,’ Nicklin said. ‘He didn’t actually want to know any more. It was just about him getting the chance to top himself the way he wanted, that was all. I mean he knew more or less what I was planning to do, course he did.’

  ‘But he didn’t know about Hendricks.’

  ‘Oh God, no. He would never have agreed. Far too squeamish. I even offered to make sure that the kid who was really responsible for his daughter’s death was made to suffer, once I’d sorted myself out, but he wasn’t interested. He’s very forgiving.’ Nicklin glanced towards the window. ‘Actually, we should probably be talking about poor old Jeff in the past tense by now.’

  Thorne could not help wondering if the same thing would apply to Alan Jenks. He looked across and all too easily imagined flying at Stuart Nicklin, doing a lot more damage than he had done all those years before in that playground. But he remembered the feel of his friend’s dead flesh beneath his fingers and knew that, whatever else happened, he must fight the urge to hurt the man responsible.

  ‘So, what do we do now?’

  ‘Well, it must be obvious to you what’s at stake. Yes?’

  Thorne nodded.

  ‘I’m giving you my word that once I’m safely off this shitty rock and back on the mainland, I’ll make the necessary call and your friend will be released. You just need to make sure that I’m given adequate time to get there. Once that happens, obviously all bets are off and I understand that you and a lot of your colleagues will be out looking for me, but you need to make sure that doesn’t happen before I make the call.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I have to.’

  Nicklin nodded, looking pleased, then stood up and told Thorne to lie down. ‘Quick as you can.’

  Thorne did as he was told and saw Nicklin moving towards him, brandishing the handcuffs. ‘Come on, there’s no need for those.’

  ‘Best to cover all the bases,’ Nicklin said.

  ‘I’ve told you, you’ll get what you need. Why would I risk anything happening to Phil?’

  ‘Oh, if I’m being honest I know you won’t,’ Nicklin said. ‘This bit’s just for me.’ He grabbed Thorne’s wrist, dragged it across and cuffed it to the bedstead. When he was finished he stood back to admire his handiwork. He raised his hands and mimed taking a photograph. ‘It’s an image I’ll enjoy taking away with me, that’s all. Just a bit of fun.’

  ‘You know Holland will be back?’ Thorne said. ‘Maybe well before you get taken off the island?’

  ‘That’s a possibility.’

  ‘What do I tell him?’

  ‘Anything you like,’ Nicklin said. ‘You could always just tell him the truth, I’m sure he’ll understand. Come to that, you’ll need to think about what you’re going to tell everyone else who’s going to want to know what happened. You could try telling them that, while you were preoccupied with an escaped prisoner, I somehow managed to get my cuffs off and overpower you.’ He moved his head from side to side, like he was weighing the story up, how well it would play. ‘Or like I said, just tell them exactly w
hat happened, that you were trying to save a life. You might want to finesse things a little, fiddle with the timings. Leaving a prison officer to die is never going to sound good, is it, however much you tart it up?’

  Nicklin moved to the corner into which his jacket and boots had been tossed. He sat on a chair and began to put them on. He said, ‘You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself about this.’

  ‘I’ll try not to be,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Seriously. It’s worked out pretty well for Simon Milner’s mother, hasn’t it? For Eileen Bennett’s family.’

  It struck Thorne that Brigstocke had said much the same thing only a few hours earlier. ‘What about Jeff Batchelor’s family?’

  ‘That was his choice.’

  ‘Fletcher and Jenks didn’t have a lot of choice, did they?’

  ‘They chose the job, same as you did. You deal with dangerous people, there’s always going to be an element of risk.’ Nicklin finished fastening his boots, stood and walked back across to the bed.

  Thorne looked up at him and they stared at one another for a few long seconds. ‘Haven’t you gone yet?’

  ‘Come on, when a plan comes together, when you get to a moment like this, you have to enjoy it a bit, don’t you? Plus there’s one other thing.’ He took a step closer, his knees against the edge of the bed. ‘Twice now, you’ve done a good deal of damage to my face.’ He rubbed a hand across his mouth, gently dabbed at his cheeks. ‘Once in person and once in a rather more cowardly fashion by getting someone else to put broken glass into my food.’

  ‘You’d tried to hurt my friend.’

  ‘Oh I remember.’

  ‘And you’ve got your own back now, wouldn’t you say?’

  Nicklin said, ‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ and bent to punch Thorne hard in the face.