‘What?’
He raised his hands and pointed. ‘In what’s all over your face. Must be at least a few remnants of flesh and gristle mixed into the dirt. Powdered blood…’
Holland quickly touched a finger to his face, then turned away and stepped across to where Wendy Markham was brandishing a fistful of tissues. He took several and stood watching the exchange between Nicklin and Thorne as he wiped his face good and hard.
‘Why did you do it like that?’ Thorne asked.
‘Like what?’
‘You could just have thrown the two bodies in together. Simon and Eileen. That would have been the quickest thing to do, surely.’
‘Probably,’ Nicklin said.
‘But you buried Eileen first. You covered her up and then you buried Simon on top. You separated them.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Nicklin looked genuinely shocked that anyone might not understand his actions. ‘They weren’t family, they hadn’t even met as far as I was aware. I had no way of knowing what they believed, what their wishes might be. To have done it any other way would have been… disrespectful.’
Thorne barked out a dry laugh. ‘So, you murder them both for no good reason and then you’re worried about being disrespectful afterwards?’
‘Absolutely.’
Thorne shook his head and looked across at Howell, who was climbing into a body suit, snapping on plastic gloves. ‘God, listen to me. Like I’m talking to someone normal.’ He looked at Fletcher. ‘Why am I even surprised?’
‘Some of us have to deal with this shit every day,’ Fletcher said.
Nicklin said, ‘It’s good that I can still surprise you, Tom. It shows that our relationship isn’t going stale.’ He grinned, then shivered; looked up at the darkening sky. ‘So, what do you think? Any chance of going back and getting inside for a while? I’m soaked, and I’m sure you are, and there’s probably some fresh tea and coffee up there by now.’
‘Yeah, let’s get you and Mr Batchelor out of the rain, shall we?’ Thorne said. ‘You might not have a lot of time to dry off, mind you. Apart from Professor Howell and her team, we’re about done here, so I’m going to try and get the boat back to fetch us a bit earlier. See if we can get on the road.’ He looked across at Fletcher and Jenks. ‘Get you all back to the prison in time for dinner.’
Fletcher said, ‘Great,’ though he clearly did not mean it.
‘That’s a shame,’ Nicklin said.
‘Not from where I’m standing,’ Thorne said. He was enjoying the disappointment on Nicklin’s face, in his body language. ‘I’m very happy to get away early.’
‘Can’t we at least wait until the poor old dear’s been taken out of there?’
‘She wasn’t a poor old dear,’ Thorne said. ‘She was fifty-three and she had a name.’
Nicklin acknowledged the perceived lack of sensitivity with a small bow of the head. ‘OK, can we wait until Eileen’s out of there?’
‘Afraid not,’ Thorne said. ‘The governor’s very keen to have you back as soon as possible and, seeing as you’ve done your bit, we can leave it to others to finish the job.’ He glanced across at the grave. ‘Not that you did a lot this time round.’
‘I knew you’d enjoy working it out,’ Nicklin said. ‘That’s why.’ He looked at Bethan Howell and shook his head. ‘I’m very surprised she beat you to it, frankly.’
But Thorne was only half listening, having spotted the warden marching purposefully down towards him from the track. Burnham was waving, with what looked like his satellite phone in his hand.
Thorne walked up to meet him.
‘I was on my way to see you.’ Burnham was a little breathless. ‘I’ve just been talking to Huw Morgan.’
‘Perfect timing,’ Thorne said. ‘Can you call him back? I need to see if he can get over here to pick us up any earlier.’
Burnham said, ‘Ah,’ and Thorne knew that there was a problem.
‘What?’
‘Well, that’s why he was calling. I’m afraid that Bernard has been taken into hospital.’ He mistook the expression on Thorne’s face for concern. ‘It’s nothing serious. I think he just took a bit of a turn.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘It does give you a problem though.’
‘Can’t Huw do it on his own?’
‘It’s a two-man job, I’m afraid,’ Burnham said. ‘You remember how the boat gets brought out of the water?’
Thorne lifted his hands and laced them through his hair. He could feel a headache starting to gather behind his eyes. ‘Can anyone else do it? There must be somebody he can ask.’
‘Not that I know of,’ Burnham said, ‘and I’m sure he’d rather be with his father anyway. But even if there was someone to do it, you’d still be in trouble.’
‘Why?’
‘Because finding someone to make the trip’s neither here nor there. It’s the weather that’s buggering everything up. Huw says it’s not looking too clever.’
‘Yeah, he told me it might be iffy,’ Thorne said, ‘but look.’ He held his arms out, as though Burnham were somehow unaware of the weather conditions around them. ‘It’s only a bit of rain, for God’s sake.’
‘It’s a bit of rain here, but it’s what it’s like on the other side of the mountain that Huw’s worried about. He must have told you that the weather here can be totally different from what it’s like over there, and right now he reckons it’s too dangerous.’
‘Jesus…’
‘Huw knows what he’s talking about, I’m afraid.’ Burnham shook his head, stared down towards the sea. ‘Bardsey Sound is treacherous at the best of times. Well, it’s how the island got its name, of course…’
Once again, Thorne had stopped listening.
He turned round and looked back across the field at the men and women clustered around the freshly dug grave. Whatever anybody else in the group was doing, he knew that Stuart Nicklin was looking right at him. He watched him step across to Batchelor and say something.
Two murderers, one of whom would always be highly dangerous and unpredictable. Two men, who, despite the presence of well-trained prison officers, were his responsibility.
Thorne turned back in time to hear the warden saying something about food from the farm. He nodded, said, ‘Right…’
‘So, fingers crossed Huw can get back for you all first thing in the morning.’
‘Everything crossed,’ Thorne said.
‘We’ll be all right until then, don’t you worry about that.’ Burnham sounded cheery, almost excited. He was clearly someone who relished a crisis and was confident in his own ability to cope with one when it came. ‘There’s plenty of space and I’m sure some of those who stayed on the island last night have told you that it wasn’t quite the end of the world.’
‘They said it was fine, yes.’ Thorne pointed to the phone in Burnham’s hand. ‘I need to make a call. Do you mind?’
‘No, of course not.’ Burnham thrust the phone at him.
Thorne took it and immediately began walking away, dialling as he went.
Behind him, Burnham said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll all muck in, we’re used to it.’ He raised his voice as Thorne got further away from him. ‘Trust me, if you’ve got an emergency on, you really couldn’t wish to be anywhere better…’
FORTY-TWO
‘I said, didn’t I?’ Brigstocke had been pulled out of a meeting and something in his tone – a disconnect, a hesitance – told Thorne that he was not getting the DCI’s full attention. ‘Six weeks ago. I told you there might need to be a certain amount of thinking on your feet.’
‘Come again?’
‘A bit of improvising.’
Thorne was walking slowly round in a wide circle at the top edge of the field, his view changing every half a minute or so. Looking back at Burnham, then down towards the crowded graveside; across at the lighthouse, then straight out to sea. ‘It’s a nightmare,’ he said.
‘Come on, it’s not that bad.’
‘I want to get him back to Long Lartin.’
‘Course you do, but one more night isn’t going to hurt.’
‘We’re pushing our luck already.’
‘Meaning…?’
‘Meaning I don’t like to improvise when you’re talking about someone like Stuart Nicklin. It’s hard enough to predict how he’s going to behave at the best of times. We need to do things the right way.’
‘Fine, so what do you suggest?’
‘What about a chopper?’
‘Seriously?’ Brigstocke laughed. ‘I know it’s a bit rough and ready over there, but do you really have to cut your own wood?’
‘I’m not joking,’ Thorne said.
‘You might as well be, Tom, because it’s not going to happen. Look, if there was any kind of danger, any threat to life and limb, then maybe. But what have you got over there? One body, another one in the process of being recovered and two prisoners being very well monitored by multiple police and prison officers. You’ve got no chance, mate.’
‘I want to get off this island.’
‘Understood, but I’m not sure what you want me to do.’
‘Some support would be nice for a kick-off,’ Thorne said. ‘Any support, come to that.’
Brigstocke sighed. ‘If it makes you happy, I’ll make a call, OK? But don’t hold your breath.’
Thorne began walking back across the field towards Holland, Howell and the others. He guessed that by now it would be obvious to most of them that there was a problem. The man who had dug that grave twenty-five years earlier, who stood watching the same piece of ground being opened for a third time, would certainly know.
‘Listen though,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Well done, all right. I know you weren’t very happy about that whole good news, bad news thing. I know we didn’t give you a lot of choice.’
‘No, and I’m really pissed off about it now.’
‘Yeah, well it’s good news for Eileen Bennett’s family, isn’t it? It’s good news for Simon Milner’s mum.’
‘Don’t do that, Russell,’ Thorne said. ‘Don’t pull that sentimental crap because it won’t work.’
‘Jesus, what’s it been, three days?’ That edge had crept into Brigstocke’s voice again, friendship giving ground to rank. ‘You could have spent that time sitting outside some scrote’s house or filling in paperwork for CCTV footage. Waiting for some jobsworth at a mobile phone company to return your call. At least you’ve achieved something.’ There were voices in the background, laughter. ‘I’ve spent the last three days in meetings, playing bullshit bingo.’
‘You want me to feel sorry for you?’ Thorne said. ‘Sleeping in your own bed every night and not getting pissed on in the arse-end of nowhere. Not having to play nursemaid to a nutter like Stuart Nicklin. Christ, it must be awful for you.’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘I want him locked up again, Russell.’
‘One more night, all right?’ Brigstocke waited, took Thorne’s silence as acceptance, grudging though it may have been. ‘Oh, and don’t pretend the sentimental thing doesn’t work with you. I’ve seen you cry at cowboy music. That one where he only stops loving her because he’s dead.’
‘Sorry, mate, I’m not really in the mood to joke about this.’
‘Listen, I’ve got to get back,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Eyes down for more bullshit bingo. Let’s talk later, OK?’
‘Remember to make that call,’ Thorne said.
‘You’re breaking up…’
‘Don’t give me that.’ Thorne took the phone from his ear and shouted at it. ‘Get me a helicopter, Russell…’
He hung up, slowed his pace a little and, once he had his breath back, he dialled Helen’s number. The connection seemed to take ages, though it was probably no more than fifteen or twenty seconds of clicks and ominous silences.
The call went straight to her voicemail, so he left a message.
He said, ‘It’s me,’ and turned his face away from the wind. ‘Everything’s gone tits up here and it looks like I’m not going to make it back tonight, so I just wanted to let you know that.’ He was trying to sound a little less miserable than he felt, but it was an effort. ‘Call me later when you get a chance… actually, I’m only getting a signal in one place, so it’s probably better if I try and call you. Not sure what time, but I’ll try not to make it too late.
‘Anyway… hope your day’s not too shitty and talk to you later on.’ He looked across and saw Holland waiting, his arms outstretched, asking. ‘Give Alfie a squeeze…’
All of them except Howell and Barber who were working in and around the grave, drifted across to join Thorne as soon as he was back. As he had suspected, his agitation – in the conversation with Burnham and the phone call with Brigstocke – had been clear enough from half a field away. Everyone was understandably eager to know what was happening.
Thorne could see little point in sugaring the pill.
The weather was unlikely to change, the boatman’s father had been taken into hospital and there was no chance of hearing the whump-whump of helicopter blades any time soon.
He said, ‘We’re all staying here tonight.’
Several people started talking at once; asking questions, then taking an unhelpful stab at answering those of others. Thorne raised his hand and kept it there until the last person had shut up. He told them exactly what the warden had told him.
‘I don’t like it any better than you do,’ he said. Fletcher, Jenks and Holland certainly looked every bit as miserable as Thorne felt at the prospect of spending the night on the island. ‘But there’s not a fat lot we can do about the weather, is there?’ Even as he said it, he realised it was much the same thing Brigstocke had said to him and he began to wonder if he’d given the DCI too tough a time on the phone. Then he saw the look on Nicklin’s face and decided that he had not been nearly tough enough.
Standing between Fletcher and Jenks, Nicklin was shifting his weight slowly from foot to foot. For a few seconds he looked as concerned, as apprehensive as everyone else, until the temptation to smirk became too strong to resist.
‘The best laid plans of mice and men,’ he said. ‘And coppers.’
FORTY-THREE
It was one of the few perks that came with knocking on a bit, with being as old as he was, at any rate. There wasn’t a great deal to celebrate, what with hearing in one ear all but gone, the need to sit down to put trousers on and a tendency to forget what he’d walked into a room for. Still, there were one or two things that came in fairly useful now and again, and being able to play the ‘doddery old git’ card when it suited him was one of them.
It was funny really, because of the two of them he was the one with the knack for it. The one who had taken to technology almost as fast as the kids did these days.
They’d been late getting it, computers and what have you, but he’d figured out the basics quickly enough. Emails, websites, all that. When it came to using it for things he didn’t fancy though, it was usually easier just to plead ignorance. To make out like it was all mumbo-jumbo, like he was far too long in the tooth to be bothering with any of that, thank you very much.
Oh no, that wasn’t for him…
Course, he was happy enough being a ‘silver surfer’ if and when it suited him – like sending emails on the sly to that saucy old mare who ran the newsagent’s – but not when something like a tax return came along. So, he’d happily left the boy to it all morning and had a few hours to himself.
Bloody lovely!
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone fishing for pleasure, so he’d grabbed his rod and tackle box, filled up a Thermos and walked down to a spot he hadn’t used in years. Those few hours had flown by and it hardly mattered that he hadn’t caught much. A couple of nice whiting for the freezer was more than enough, anyway. It had just been nice to do something he loved without the pressure they were under most other days, when they were out there in all weathers trying to pay the bill
s and keep a roof over their heads. Sitting there with your line in the water for no other reason than the fun of it, with time to think and enjoy the day was not the same thing at all. God, no…
Brilliant, it was, and now, walking back to the house with those whiting heavy and swinging in a plastic bag, he almost felt bad about the subterfuge. The playing stupid. He might tell the boy tomorrow, once the tax stuff was done with. He’d shout and sulk for a bit, but they’d laugh about it later on, out on the boat where there wasn’t the time or space for stupid grudges.
They’d open a few cans of beer and maybe he’d fry them up one of those whiting for their tea, once they’d been across to the island and back.
He dropped his stuff in the hall, called the boy’s name out as he carried the fish through to the kitchen. He put the bag down on the draining board and picked out the knife he would use to gut them. He flicked the kettle on, took the milk from the fridge, then walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to the living room.
The computer was still humming. The screen still filled with columns of figures, the cursor flashing.
He stepped out into the hall and shouted up the stairs. ‘Given up, have you, you lazy bugger?’ He listened, but could hear nothing but the tick and grumble of the kettle growing louder.
He walked up the stairs, the pain in his right knee a sharp reminder of one other thing that was horrible about getting old. It was odd, he thought, how he hadn’t felt any of the usual aches and pains sitting there on the beach, listening to the gulls scream over his head and sipping tea from a flask. That was the way of it, though. He could feel like a teenager out there on the boat all day, pulling in lobster pots or scrubbing the deck. Then, he’d sit at home all evening, groaning in agony like he was barely ten minutes from popping his clogs.
He stuck his head round the door of the boy’s room.
He wandered into his own, though he’d no expectation of finding him in there.
TT12 The Bones Beneath Page 23
