Buried

Thorne watched the four small wheels moving round on the twin cassette decks. The tiny, spi

‘I want to see Tony Mullen,’ Freestone said.

Thorne and Porter said nothing. Exchanged a glance and tried to look as though Freestone had asked for no more than a cigarette, or a Kit Kat with his tea.

Freestone looked from one to the other, then spoke again, in case he hadn’t made himself clear enough. ‘Luke Mullen’s father.’

Thorne nodded to indicate they knew exactly who Tony Mullen was. ‘And I want to win the Lottery,’ he said. ‘But I’m not holding my breath.’

‘That’s it,’ Freestone said.

‘That’s what?’

Porter looked tense, but her tone stayed reasonable, while Thorne’s had become jagged at the edges. ‘That’s it, as in you have no further requests? Or that’s the end of the discussion?’

Freestone shook his head quickly, and waved his hands. ‘That’s all there is to it, that’s the deal, if you want to look at it like that. I want him to come down here and I want to speak to him privately. Just him and me. No tapes, and not in here, either.’ He looked up at the camera in the corner of the room. ‘No video, nothing like that. So…’

Porter opened her mouth, but Thorne was quicker. ‘Here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘The only dealing that’s going to be happening round here is in the office upstairs, where there’s usually a game of three-card brag going on at the end of a shift, so fuck knows where you got that idea from. Second, and more importantly, if you have anything at all to say about Luke Mullen, you’re going to say it to us. Now. On tape. On camera. Broadcast live to the nation if the fancy takes us.’ He stopped and smiled. ‘So…’

Even Donovan was sitting up straight and paying attention.

‘Mr Mullen is no longer a police officer,’ Porter said. ‘Obviously, he’s not investigating this case.’

‘He’s the kid’s father though, isn’t he? That’s more important, surely.’

‘It’s not happening,’ Thorne said.

‘Why not?’

‘We don’t have to give reasons.’

‘Well, then, I don’t have to tell you anything.’

‘For someone who’s so keen to avoid going back to prison, you’re not doing yourself any favours.’

‘There won’t be any favours, whatever I say.’

‘You might be right,’ Thorne said, starting to lose it. ‘But here’s something else to think about. If you’ve got information about Luke Mullen, and you keep it to yourself, I’ll personally make sure that when you do go back to prison, every nutter in there with an axe to grind will know you’re coming.’

Freestone shrugged, looked to Donovan and back to Thorne, but he was thinking about it. It was almost a minute before he spoke again. ‘I need to see Mullen.’

Thorne lifted his jacket from the back of the chair as he stood. He spoke to Porter, then to the cassette recorder. ‘I’m going to finish my lunch. This interview is suspended at-’

‘Just let me talk to him.’

‘Tell us about Luke,’ Porter said.

‘Let me talk to his father first.’

‘No.’

‘I’m not asking for a fucking helicopter. I just want five minutes-’

‘Give me one good reason,’ Thorne said. ‘Any reason at all why we should even think about arranging this.’

‘Because it’s going to get serious if you don’t do what I want. If you don’t start taking what I want seriously.’

Freestone’s voice had changed now, and nobody around the table could fail to be shocked by the range and power of it. They’d listened to the voice that could cajole, that could charm children into garages. Now they were being treated to a voice they could only pray those children had never heard.

‘Because, I’m the only person who knows where Luke Mullen is, and if you don’t do what I’m asking, if you don’t get it arranged, I’ll just sit here like Mr fucking Bean and say nothing. I’ll turn to stone, I swear to God, and you’re going to have to carry the can for that. Fair enough? I’ll sit here and say nothing for as long as it takes and you’ll never find him. Not while it’ll do any good, anyway.’ He pushed himself away from the table, raised an arm to scratch at a shoulder-blade. ‘If you don’t do what I’m asking, Luke Mullen’s going to die.’

FIFTEEN

DI Chris Wilmot surveyed the footage of the suspect one final time, then went to work. The movements of the mouse around the mat were small, precise, but the cursor flew around the screen as he shifted and clicked, cutting and pasting using the specially developed software to call up, then select, subjects that would be a close enough match for the parade.

The traditional method, whereby an eyewitness might identify a suspect in the flesh, was rapidly becoming a thing of the past. It was time-consuming and expensive, with only a handful of stations capable of setting up and ru

Wilmot drew from a database of several thousand individuals on video, using half a dozen different search criteria to narrow them down to those of a similar age and ethnic background; those whose height, weight and colouring were within acceptable parameters. After half an hour, he’d assembled the eight fifteen-second clips he would be using alongside the footage he’d already shot of the suspect. Now, it was simply a question of editing them all together into a sequence for the witness to watch. With random selection of the chosen extracts built into the software, Wilmot did not even have to think about it, and would not be aware of the ru

Wishing all elements of the job were as straightforward, as foolproof, Wilmot pushed a button and let the computer do it all for him…

Yvo

She wanted so badly to enjoy the reaction when she told Amin Latif’s family that she’d found their son’s killer; to see his mother’s face when the right verdict was reached and a suitable sentence handed down. But she knew she’d have to wait a while, that she should assume nothing. And all the time, the very possibility that such things might not happen tied those knots a little tighter.

Despite the news she’d been given that afternoon by a contact at the Forensic Science Service…

She’d arrested Farrell at the parental home at 4 p.m., an hour after the call from the FSS. While Adrian was being taken to Colindale, she’d stayed on to speak to the parents. The encounter had been characterised by a great deal of shouting and crying; by the suggestion that Kitson was not up to her job; by patronising speeches and veiled threats from Farrell’s father, which Kitson ignored, despite the huge temptation to stick him in the back of the car as well and do two for the price of one. When she’d finally been allowed to speak, Kitson had informed the Farrells that, aside from the solicitor they had already a