Buried

SIXTEEN

‘This room is different,’ Freestone said.

Thorne nodded, as though he were impressed. ‘Can’t fool you for a second, can we, Grant?’ He pointed to a red light on the far wall, informed Freestone that whenever it was lit the interview was being viewed remotely by other officers. ‘You’re very popular,’ he said. ‘Lots of people are keen to say hello, but we don’t want to start cramming them into a small room like this, do we?’

Donovan was obviously eager to make his presence felt early. He leaned towards his client. ‘And they don’t want me claiming that you were intimidated by a gang of hulking great coppers.’

‘Can’t fool you, either,’ Thorne said. He looked at Freestone for a second or two without speaking. ‘Not that you look as though you’d be easily intimidated.’

‘You can’t afford to be, can you?’ Freestone said.

Thorne understood perfectly well. He knew that Freestone had spent a long time on the receiving end of far harsher intimidation than anything he could dish out. ‘You certainly can’t,’ he agreed.

Porter had been staring hard at Freestone across the table. ‘You don’t look too good,’ she said. Then, to Donovan: ‘Are you sure your client’s well enough?’

Thorne glanced up at the camera through which he knew Hignett and Brigstocke were watching. He guessed they’d have approved of the question. Porter was right to allow for any eventuality at this stage.

‘No, as it goes, he’s far from well,’ Donovan said.

Freestone began to nod quickly. ‘I just need a bit of something. I’ll be fine.’

It was obvious to all concerned what Freestone needed. Thorne did not know how serious the habit was, whether he was doing coke, heroin or both, but at best it would have been seven or eight hours since he’d taken anything. If the turkey wasn’t yet cold, it was already tepid. ‘We’ll be as quick as we can, then we’ll get a doctor in to sort you out. It’s really up to you how soon that’ll be.’

‘This is the fourth interview with my client in as many hours,’ Donovan said. ‘And I still haven’t seen much to justify a single one of them.’

‘You were obviously asleep when he threatened a child’s life.’

‘He threatened no such thing-’

‘When he confessed to holding a child against his will, then. That do you?’

Freestone, who didn’t appear to be listening, pointed at the glowing red light. ‘People are watching this, correct?’

‘Correct,’ Thorne said.

‘Well, we can’t meet in here, then. When Mullen comes in.’

‘I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.’

‘When’s he coming? Is he on his way yet?’

‘You have to talk to us first,’ Porter said.

Thorne was shaking his head. ‘There are no guarantees here.’ He leaned his head close to Porter’s. ‘We’re making no promises at all. We need to be agreed on that. Yes?’

Porter’s expression made it clear that she understood. She turned slowly from Thorne to Freestone. ‘We need assurances,’ she said.

Freestone nodded again, like it was a reasonable request. One that he’d be happy to meet.

‘We need to know about Luke.’

‘What about him?’

‘Christ!’ Thorne said. ‘Take a guess.’ He raised his hands in apology at the sharp look from Porter.

‘He’s fine,’ Freestone said.

‘What about all that stuff you came out with before?’ Porter’s voice was low, not much above a whisper. ‘You made it very clear that if we didn’t find him quickly…’

‘I was talking about a long time: months, whatever.’

‘Is he somewhere with plenty of air?’

‘What? I don’t-’

‘Does he have anything to eat? Is he tied up?’

‘He’s got food. I left him enough food.’

‘What kind of food?’

‘Burgers, that kind of thing. You know – stuff kids like.’

‘You know all about what kids like.’ Thorne leaned forward. ‘Don’t you, Grant?’

Freestone opened his mouth. Closed it again.

‘Hang on,’ Donovan said. ‘There’s never been any suggestion-’

Thorne pointed a finger and left it there. ‘He tied two kids up in a garage. That’s not a suggestion. How the hell do we know he hasn’t stuffed Luke Mullen in a cupboard with gardening twine round his neck?’

‘He’s fine, I swear.’ Freestone closed his eyes, rubbed the back of a hand across his forehead. ‘When’s Tony Mullen getting here? I need to see him.’

‘Why did you take him, Grant?’ Thorne waited until it was clear there was nothing coming back. ‘Why no ransom demand? Do you just not need the money? Or did you miss the last bit of the kidnapping correspondence course?’

Freestone sucked his teeth, thought about it. ‘I’ll talk to Mullen,’ he said.

Nobody said anything for a few moments after that, but when Porter started to speak, Thorne raised a hand to cut her off. ‘How old is Luke Mullen?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know exactly.’ Freestone blinked. ‘Fifteen? Sixteen?’

‘Dark hair? Blond?’

‘It’s… dark.’

‘What was he wearing when you took him?’

Freestone was growing increasingly flustered with each question Thorne fired at him, looking at Donovan more than once, and increasingly to Porter. ‘School clothes…’

‘Can we stop asking quiz questions?’ Porter snapped. ‘We need to move forward here.’

Thorne’s smile was ugly. ‘It’s all stuff he could have got from that newspaper story, anyway. He had a paper with him in the park.’

‘We have to make sure Luke is safe and unharmed,’ Porter said. ‘That’s the priority here.’ She looked back at Freestone, making sure that he understood what was important as well.

‘He’s safe. I haven’t laid a finger on him.’

‘Luke’s not the strongest of kids,’ Porter said. ‘We have to check.’

‘I’ve been looking after him.’

‘That’s good. That helps.’

‘You should really get Mullen now.’

‘What about the asthma?’ she asked. ‘Has he had any attacks?’

Freestone shook his head, kept on shaking it.

‘Shortness of breath? It’s why I was asking about the air.’

‘No, he’s fine.’

‘The family are worried because they’re not sure if Luke had his inhaler with him, but it sounds like he wouldn’t have needed it, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you know if he has it? So I could at least tell them.’

Freestone closed his eyes again. Let the answer come to him. ‘I think he said something about it.’

‘Do you know what an inhaler looks like?’ Porter started to mime it, pushing down on the imaginary pump.

‘Of course I do. Jesus…’

‘This is important, Grant. We need to know. Has he got one with him?’

A nod, small and fast, but frozen the second Thorne began to shout: ‘Have you seen Luke Mullen’s inhaler?’

‘Yes, I said so! I’ve seen the fucking thing.’ The intense agitation on Freestone’s face turned quickly to alarm when he saw Porter and Thorne relax. When the questions stopped. He turned to Donovan. ‘What’s going on?’

Donovan’s former career gave him rather more insight than someone in his position might otherwise have had. ‘I think you just gave them the wrong answer,’ he said. ‘Or the right one.’

Thorne looked at Porter, then up at the camera to share a small moment of success with the two watching DCIs.

Then he leaned back. Job done.

After Freestone had been taken back to the cells, they sat for a few seconds, relishing their newly acquired certainty. But each was aware that this feeling of having got something right would soon be replaced with a more familiar one. That of having nowhere else to go.

It was Thorne who broke the silence. ‘Asthma? That’s fucking genius.’

‘We both did a pretty good job,’ Porter said.

They congratulated each other for a few minutes more on how well they’d played the nice-and-nasty routine. On how they’d let Freestone believe there was tension between them; that he was far better off answering Porter’s questions than Thorne’s. Making him think it was simple confirmation they wanted, rather than proof.