Buried

‘Are we so sure this is the right thing?’ Porter asked. ‘We could just play safe and do what he’s asking. Would getting Mullen in here do any harm?’

‘It’s not about playing safe. It’s about refusing to be dictated to by a suspect, unless you’re certain there are no other options.’

‘So it’s about who’s in charge, is it?’

‘I don’t want Mullen in here.’

‘I’m thinking about Luke.’

‘So am I.’ Thorne tried to sound thoughtful as opposed to plain sullen, but he wasn’t certain he’d pulled it off.

‘Well, then, can we afford not to do what Freestone’s asking?’

‘Demanding.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘He’s pissing us around.’

‘Well, hopefully we’ll know soon enough.’

‘Why is he insisting that he has to talk to Mullen in private anyway? Why all the secrecy?’

‘Look, I don’t trust him any more than you do, but-’

‘I don’t trust either of them,’ Thorne said.

Porter rolled her eyes, but she obviously agreed, to some extent at least.

Thorne watched her lift up the packet, tip her head back and pour the remaining crisps into her mouth. Still chewing, she nodded towards the door and Thorne looked round to see Brigstocke and Hignett hovering, like funeral directors come to collect a body.

‘Shall we get this done?’ Brigstocke said.

The four of them took the stairs down to the ground floor, Porter and Hignett a few steps ahead of the two men from the Murder Squad. Thorne thought Brigstocke looked tired, guessed the DCI was probably getting even less sleep than he was.

As they stepped on to a small landing, with the other pair now a full flight below them, Brigstocke turned to Thorne. ‘Any thoughts on how you and Porter are going to run this?’

‘We thought we’d try to play it by ear,’ Thorne said.

A few steps on, Brigstocke shook his head, mumbled, ‘God help us…’

On the way to the custody suite, they met Yvo

‘Crowded in here today,’ he said. ‘I heard you brought your schoolboy in.’

Kitson gri

‘When either of us gets five minutes, we should drink to something.’

‘All being well.’

‘Have you had a chat with Farrell yet?’

‘Just on my way,’ Kitson said. ‘Got him in the bin.’ She brandished a sheaf of papers; passed them across for Thorne to take a look at.

Thorne studied the disclosure paperwork: a series of documents to be handed to the suspect’s legal adviser; all at once, or strategically drip-fed if it was deemed to be useful. By law, the papers had to include everything from completed custody records to copies of the ‘first description’ – in this case the statement given by Nabeel Khan at the murder scene and reproduced verbatim from the attending officer’s pocketbook. Thorne flicked through copies of the incriminating E-fit and Farrell’s arrest log, then pointed to a sheet outlining the results of the video ID parade. ‘This should do you nicely,’ he said.

‘It wasn’t very easy for the witness.’ Kitson blinked away the memory of something, but managed to crank up the smile again. ‘Should put the wind up his smartarse solicitor, though.’

‘One of those, is it?’

‘You know the firm: Smartarse, Posh and Fullovit.’

‘I know them too bloody well…’

They moved on together, laughing, towards the interview rooms; through the door that separated the rest of the prison from the custody suite.

‘Suite’ was something of a misnomer, suggesting that the area was rather more comfortable and well appointed than it was. In fact, this was where industrial grey carpet gave way to concrete floors, where panic strips ran along the walls, and where an atmosphere of heightened awareness came close to one charged with aggression.

This was where the station became a prison.

A pair of custody sergeants, or ‘skippers’, sat on a raised platform at the centre, booking people in, working at computer screens and monitoring the CCTV images fed from cells and corridors. The ‘cage’ was off to one side, through which prisoners were brought in from the backyard, and where, if necessary, UV light would show up any property-marked items that they might be carrying. Corridors in two directions led to the twenty-seven cells which ringed the suite. Each was tiled from floor to high ceiling, with a metal toilet on one side and a blue plastic mattress along the back wall. A double doorway led through to an exercise yard, to which prisoners were taken if they needed air; or, more likely, nicotine.

Kitson slowed down outside the tiny kitchen, where the jailer on shift could make tea and coffee or prepare one of five different microwaveable meals for prisoners. She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve got DNA as well, Tom.’

It took Thorne a couple of seconds. ‘When did you arrest him?’

‘I acquired a sample beforehand, got it to the lab yesterday afternoon.’

‘Right…’ He drew the word out, still thinking.

‘It’s only a preliminary result, obviously. Ninety-something per cent match so far. It doesn’t eliminate him, which is what counts.’

‘Twenty-four hours is still going some, though.’

Kitson reddened. ‘Somebody at FSS likes me. Owed me a favour.’

‘You flirted with him. I’m appalled.’

‘With her…’

‘You’re fucking shameless,’ Thorne said. He flicked quickly through the disclosure papers again. ‘I can’t see it anywhere in here.’

‘Like I said, it’s just a prelim. We’ve got two more runs before it’s definitive.’

‘You can still put it in here, though. Then you’ll really put the shits up Farrell’s brief.’ Thorne looked up, saw that the colour in Kitson’s face had deepened, and that it wasn’t through embarrassment. ‘When you say acquired?’

Kitson told him about the previous afternoon. She described her meeting with Adrian Farrell by the bus stop, the boy’s reaction to her questions, and the way she’d scraped his spit off the pavement. Thorne stared, astonished and full of admiration. Then, much as he hated to be the one to do it, he pointed out that none of her forensic evidence would stand up anywhere.

‘I’ve got a witness,’ Kitson said, and she told Thorne about the woman in the tracksuit who’d seen Farrell spitting on the pavement. The woman who’d been kind enough to provide Kitson with a cotton bud and a plastic freezer bag when she’d needed them.

‘Even so-’

‘OK, look, I know I can’t use it, and I took a kosher sample as soon as we booked him in, but I just wanted to be sure. D’you understand?’

Thorne handed back the documents. ‘Probably right to leave the DNA stuff out then,’ he said. ‘For the time being.’

‘Yeah.’ She tapped a fingertip against the side of her head and gri

‘Oh fuck, yes,’ Thorne said. ‘Every time.’

They walked round the corner to the interview room – the ‘bin’ – where Farrell was waiting. Thorne took a quick look through the small window.

Kitson nodded across to another room on the far side. ‘You think you’ve got your man in there? For the kidnap, I mean.’

Thorne considered the question. ‘I’m really not sure about anything,’ he said. ‘Right now, if you asked me what my name was, I’d only be able to give you a preliminary result.’