He started the car and reached for a packet of mints in the door. Then he took out his phone and called Robert Burnham. He apologised for calling so late, and asked the warden if he would mind taking the satellite phone down to the dig and telling the exhibits officer to give him a call.
He was halfway back to the Black Horse when Karim rang back.
The forensic team were still hard at it, Karim told him. Looking forward to a well-earned drink and a good night’s sleep while some people would be bedding down next to a body in some spooky chapel. Thorne told him about Nicklin’s bombshell and asked him to let Howell and the others know that they would be doing it all again tomorrow.
‘You might be spending two nights in that spooky chapel,’ he said.
‘You’re kidding right?’
‘Some poor bugger’s got to do it, haven’t they?’ Thorne said.
THIRTY-THREE
Holland was still drinking when Thorne got back to the hotel. Proving definitively what an effective social lubricant alcohol could be, he was deep in conversation with a couple of the formerly surly locals at a table near the bar. Seeing Thorne in the doorway, they beckoned him across and demanded to know what he was drinking. Thorne told them that he was tired, that he had a stupidly early start in the morning, but they would not listen, pushing a chair towards him and insisting that he join them for a nightcap.
Holland went to get a round in and Thorne joined him at the bar. ‘We’ve all got an early start,’ he said. He told Holland they were going back to Bardsey and filled him in on the conversation with Bernard Morgan.
‘Nicklin was telling the truth then,’ Holland said.
Thorne was slowly and systematically tearing a beer mat into small pieces, laying them one on top of the other. He said, ‘Best way to make a lie convincing is to chuck a bit of truth in.’
‘So, what’s he lying about?’
‘No idea,’ Thorne said. He tore the final fragment of the beer mat into two and added the pieces to the pile. ‘I’m too bloody tired to think straight.’
Pritchard set the drinks down. He scribbled down the charges on a scrap of paper with Holland’s room number on it, then swept the pieces of the beer mat off the bar into his hand. Holland picked up two of the glasses, drank the top from one of them.
‘One more won’t hurt…’
They carried the drinks across to the table and the two local lads immediately began urging Holland to carry on with his story. Holland looked a little embarrassed, more so as they pressed him.
‘Come on, how many more did he kill, like?’
‘Was he the worst one you ever had?’
‘What happened when you got him into the interview room…?’
They hung on Holland’s every word as he described what could have been almost any interview, deliberately making the whole thing sound a lot less interesting than he might have done had Thorne not been sitting there. As he doubtless had been doing before. One of the lads nudged Thorne and said, ‘You heard this one? Bloke who cut his victims’ tongues out and kept each one as a souvenir in a different matchbox.’
Thorne nodded.
‘In a bloody matchbox.’
‘I know…’
As far as war stories went, he’d heard them all, told them all. The bare bones or a heavily embellished version, depending on his audience and the reaction he was looking for.
Kudos, when he craved it, or maybe just a free drink. Sex, occasionally.
‘I’d bloody love your job,’ one of the lads said. ‘Sounds fantastic.’
Holland tried to demur, but the man would not listen.
‘I got no problem with the blood and the bodies, nothing like that, and I mean, how good is it to actually have a chance to hurt some of these bastards? I know you’re not supposed to, there’s laws and all that, but I bet you still have the chance to get a dig in every now and again, right?’ He went to take a drink, but lost interest in it before the glass reached his mouth, so fired up was he about the job of his dreams. ‘It’s got the lot, hasn’t it?’ He looked at his mate, who nodded, excitedly. ‘Blood and gore and all the sick stuff, if that’s what you want… the chance to solve crime and put people away or whatever, and I bet you’re beating the birds away with a shitty stick, aren’t you?’ He looked at Holland, who could do no more than shrug and stare into his beer.
It was a very different assessment of the job than the one Thorne had been given half an hour before by Bernard Morgan. While it was hard to take the opinions of two beered-up idiots seriously, Thorne could not help wishing that their ill-informed enthusiasm was in some way justified.
That the old man had been wrong.
‘You all right?’ Holland asked.
‘Just knackered, like I said.’ He pushed his chair away from the table and told Holland he’d see him in the morning. He had not taken more than a couple of sips of his beer and asked Holland’s drinking companions if they fancied helping him out with it. They had divided up what was left between them before Thorne was on his feet.
Tonight, there was no boo-hooing coming from the adjacent cell and, though Nicklin guessed that Batchelor was only pretending to be asleep, he was grateful for the peace and quiet nonetheless.
He had thinking to do.
It was not the reason for doing it, not the main one at any rate, but he’d really enjoyed the reaction he’d got on the boat, when he’d casually told Thorne about the second body. He’d enjoyed the way they’d been with him ever since too. Solicitous and wary, both at the same time.
It was like telling a joke, wasn’t it?
It was all about the timing, and he’d got it, bang on.
It had been so great afterwards, sitting in the car and watching Thorne on the phone to his boss, stomping about in the mud; shouting and screaming and waving his arms around like a madman. It was obvious that they hadn’t got the first idea whether he was telling the truth or not. Thorne had been studying his face ever since they’d got off the boat, staring at him, looking for some hint. Why was he so suspicious, for heaven’s sake?
He wasn’t much of a copper, not if he couldn’t recognise an honest-to-goodness confession when he heard one.
Nicklin guessed that, by now, the decision had been taken to go back the next day. They might not have found out who the woman was yet, but it hardly mattered. They might not have been able to confirm anything he’d told them, but the simple fact was that they couldn’t afford to take the risk, could they?
That looming spectre of bad press…
They knew very well that Nicklin would find a way to get to the papers and tell them the same thing he’d told Thorne on the boat. This was a red-top’s dream after all. A story that wrote itself:
I OFFERED TO SHOW THEM HER BODY
BUT THEY DIDN’T WANT TO KNOW!
We can reveal that the grave of a long-missing poet will remain hidden, despite her killer offering the police chapter and verse…
He got up and took the two steps across to the far wall. He leaned the side of his face against the cold brick.
‘Jeff… what did Thorne talk to you about?’
There was no answer, but he didn’t feel any need to push it. He would ask again in the morning and besides, he knew that Batchelor would not have said anything he had not been given permission to say. He walked slowly back to his bunk and lay down. His feet were sore and he could feel himself starting to stiffen, his back and his thighs. It certainly knocked you for six, being out and about all day. Marching backwards and forwards across those fields.
He thought about Thorne barging into his cell after him and shouting the odds, all fired up and full of himself. The stuff about his mum’s letters, the things he knew, who was in whose head, all that.
Nicklin had felt like the straight man in a freakish double act.
God, it had been so hard to keep a straight face.
THIRTY-FOUR
Thorne was staying in the same room he’d been given the night before and, with no
further guests expected, he had more than a vague suspicion that they had not bothered to change the bed. He wondered if that was why he had been allocated the same room. Perhaps Pritchard thought a customer was less likely to make a fuss if it was only himself he could catch a whiff of on the sheets.
That aside, Thorne found the rust-spotted bathroom mirror and the cracked handle on the wardrobe door as oddly comforting as the curly wire on the TV remote. He lay on the bed in his underpants and a faded Willie Nelson T-shirt. The phone was pressed to his ear. Though the sound of the television was muted, he continued to flick back and forth between the channels.
‘At least it sounds like there’s something in what Nicklin’s telling you,’ Helen said.
‘Yeah. I’m sure there’s something.’ Thorne stopped at a channel showing some arty-looking film with subtitles. He wondered idly if there might be any dirty bits. ‘It’s just about trying to work out what that is.’
‘Shame. We were looking forward to having you back.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Thorne said. ‘I don’t care if he tells me he’s buried another twenty on that sodding island. I’m coming back tomorrow.’
‘Well, I know one little lad who’s going to be happy,’ Helen said.
‘You reckon?’
‘He saw a Woodentop on the street today and pointed and said “Tom”.’
‘That’s funny,’ Thorne said. It had only been a few months since Alfie had begun to say Thorne’s name, back when he was working in south London and still wearing uniform. ‘He’s asleep, is he?’
‘Well away,’ Helen said. ‘I’m not far behind him, either.’
‘Yeah, sorry for calling so late.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You going to be happy too?’
‘What do you think? It’s been a bit shitty at work, last couple of days, and with you not around it’s just been… shittier.’
Thorne was happy to hear it, but knew it was not just because she missed his sunny personality or red-hot body. It was clear that there were things she needed to talk about and Thorne would have to put in some time as an emotional punchbag when he got home. ‘Tell me tomorrow,’ he said. He hoped he hadn’t sounded dismissive, or uninterested.
‘You sound a bit down,’ Helen said.
‘Well, it’s hardly surprising, is it?’
‘No, apart from the business with Nicklin, I mean. Everything OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ Thorne had managed to find a football match showing on one of the Eurosport channels. He watched, struggling to work out who the two teams were without any sound. He could hear Helen taking a drink of something. The absence of that punchbag when it was needed often meant an extra glass or two of wine. ‘I was just thinking about my dad a bit,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
Helen said, ‘OK…’
‘Sitting there with those two tonight, Huw, and his dad. You should have seen the pair of them. They were like a team, you know? Taking the piss, pretending to get annoyed with each other… I just miss that.’
‘Course you do.’
‘Never really like that with me and my old man, but I miss it anyway. I was thinking about going fishing with him this morning, for God’s sake. I haven’t thought about that in donkey’s years.’
‘It’s only natural.’
‘I miss how it was before the Alzheimer’s. No… I miss that too.’
‘Tom —’
‘He was funny with it, sometimes. When he got worked up. Swearing like a docker in the supermarket…’
Neither of them spoke for a long few seconds. Thorne stared at the TV, struggling to get comfortable on the bed. He could hear Helen taking another drink.
‘I’d better get some sleep,’ he said. ‘Sorry…’
‘Call me tomorrow when you’re on the way back and I can get some dinner on. Or maybe we could just get a takeaway.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Chinese?’ Helen suggested. ‘Without the added seagull…’
It was after midnight and Thorne had an early start in the morning, but once he’d finished talking to Helen and established that Frankfurt were a goal down to Bayer Leverkusen, he still felt the need to have a shower. It was as much about the day he’d had, the company he’d been keeping, as it was about the fact that he could skip having one in the morning and give himself an extra half-hour in bed.
When he’d dried himself off, he lay down on the bed with the damp, thin towel around his waist.
Come on, how many more did he kill?
Was he the worst one you ever had?
I’d bloody love your job…
He lay there for another few minutes, then he turned the television off and called Helen back.
‘Sorry, were you in bed?’
‘Almost,’ she said.
‘I can’t sleep…’
There were a few seconds of crackle on the line, a siren somewhere and the fierce breathing of the sea outside his window.
‘I’d better get another glass of wine,’ Helen said.
THE THIRD DAY
DEADLY WEATHER
He’s not taking the painkillers any more.
He’d begun leaving them on the tray, so the man doling them out has stopped bothering, which is fine. The pain has eased a little anyway, it’s not stopping him from sleeping any longer. But the fact is that he wants it, wants whatever is left of it. Not taking the painkillers means that his head isn’t fuzzy all the time, which is good, because it means he can focus.
And the pain lets him hold on to his anger.
He’s got no idea what the man’s name is of course, just as he had no idea what the couple’s names were, so he’s made one up. He calls him Adrian. It’s the name of someone he works with, a weaselly little tosser who gets on his nerves. It’s a little bit nerdish too, which he thinks suits the man with his thick glasses and ratty ponytail and his hairless, white belly which is now on display again. Just an inch or two of it, sagging beneath the bottom of his black T-shirt.
Adrian sits on a chair in the middle of the room, reading a comic of some sort. He studies him from the edge of the bed. He sits close to the metal bedstead, so he doesn’t have to stretch his arm out. He’d asked for some ointment for the welts where the cuffs had rubbed, but Adrian wasn’t having any of it. He said much the same thing as when he’d been asked for the antibiotics. He wasn’t a bloody chemist, something like that.
He watches Adrian read, the lips pursed in concentration. Adrian glances up for a second as he turns the page. He sees that he’s being watched but it doesn’t appear to bother him, and he quickly goes back to his comic.
‘Is that any good?’
Adrian looks up again, says nothing.
‘They’ve made a film of it, haven’t they? You’ve probably seen it, but reading’s always better, I reckon.’ He swings his legs up and eases gently back towards the bedstead. He reaches round with his free hand and props up a pillow behind him, then leans slowly back against it. He winces, but grits his teeth until the urge to cry out has passed. It hurts like hell, but at least the grubby pillowcase isn’t sticking to his wound, which means it’s starting to scab over. ‘I have this running argument with a mate of mine,’ he says. ‘He says they’re comics. Gets really annoyed when I tell him they’re graphic novels, try and explain how dark they are, how brilliant the artwork is. He doesn’t listen. His loss though, right?’
Adrian looks up again and now he shuts what is undoubtedly just a comic with a glossy cover and lays it down gently by the side of the chair. He leans back and says, ‘I don’t want to be your friend. So you’re wasting your time trying to crawl up my arse.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Yeah,’ Adrian says. ‘You were.’ He nods down to the comic. ‘I don’t give a toss what you or anyone else calls them, but I’m bloody sure you’ve never read one in your life.’
‘Are they your friends?’ he asks. ‘The other two.’
‘Never met them before.’ Adrian says this almost
proudly. ‘We share an interest, that’s all.’
‘What about whoever’s organised this? Whoever’s in charge.’
‘What about them?’
‘Are they your friend?’
‘How do you know I’m not in charge?’
‘You said you were here to do certain things, so I’m guessing someone put you here. Put you together with the other two.’
‘You’re such a smartarse,’ Adrian says.
‘So people tell me.’
‘Yeah, well look where it’s got you.’
‘I can hear you on the phone, you know.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Outside.’
‘So?’
‘I can’t hear what you’re saying, not really, but I recognise the tone. It’s funny you should talk about crawling up arses, because that’s exactly what I’m hearing when you’re on the phone talking to whoever it is. Is it the boy or the girl? Looked to me like the girl was the one calling the shots.’ He waits, but Adrian says nothing. ‘Yeah, definitely her, I reckon. Even if she wasn’t a nutter, she’d scare the crap out of you, wouldn’t she? She’s got tits and everything. Probably makes you feel a bit funny in your downstairs special place, doesn’t it?’
Adrian gets to his feet. He walks over to the wall and leans against it. He licks his lips and plasters on a smile. ‘Obviously, there’s certain things I’m supposed to do,’ he says. ‘But now I’m the only one here, so there’s nothing to stop me pissing all over your food if I feel like it. Nothing to stop me doing all sorts of things.’ There’s a sheen of sweat on Adrian’s face and, standing there scratching his belly, he resembles nothing so much as the creepy, friendless twerp he has clearly been made to feel like too many times. But the sickly smile is still terrifying.
Adrian pushes himself away from the wall, moves towards the bed.
TT12 The Bones Beneath Page 19
