Buried

Kitson stood with Farrell in front of the platform as the custody skipper took him through the release procedure. The sergeant was a wily old sod, and he’d looked sideways at Kitson when she’d presented herself and Farrell, being well aware that she’d been ready to charge the boy a few hours earlier. He knew she was up to something, but knew enough to keep it to himself.

After first checking the next day’s ‘Bailed to Return’ schedule, Farrell was informed that bail had been authorised conditional upon his return at four o’clock the next afternoon. That he was being released into the custody of his parents.

Farrell seemed to have recovered himself, to have put what happened in the interview room behind him. He just nodded each time he was asked if he understood what was being said to him. Then he asked again when they were going to return his three-figure Nikes.

‘You should shut your mouth before we change our minds,’ the custody sergeant said.

Farrell signed for the return of the property that was handed back to him. He made a great deal of slipping on his designer watch and checking there was nothing missing from his wallet. Then he signed to confirm that he’d been shown his custody record and that it was complete and accurate. He signed the release form and the declaration that he fully intended to return at the specified time.

‘I presume you’ll be keeping an eye on me,’ Farrell said.

Kitson said nothing, just glanced up from her paperwork.

‘You must think I’m stupid.’

‘I know you’re not,’ Kitson said.

‘You know nothing about me.’ Farrell turned his face from hers, concentrated on finishing the procedure.

‘These copies are for you to keep.’

Farrell took a sheaf of papers from the custody sergeant.

‘Shall we phone your mum and dad? Get them to come and fetch you?’

Farrell looked away and shook his head, snorted like it was a ridiculous idea.

‘Right, I’ll call you a cab. Be a couple of minutes. If you haven’t got enough cash, they can take it from your parents at the other end. Will that be a problem?’

‘I think they’ll manage…’

As the sergeant picked up the phone, Kitson thanked him for his help. He nodded, a look on his face like he hoped she knew what she was doing. Kitson escorted Farrell out of the custody suite, and led him through the station towards the main entrance.

She briefed the officer on the front desk before she left Farrell to wait for his taxi. She swiped her pass and yanked open the door to go back in. Then she turned back to Farrell. ‘You’re sure there isn’t anything you’d like to tell me before you leave?’

Farrell’s smile was still engaging enough, but his eyes were slits. ‘Nothing you’d want to hear,’ he said.

When Kitson had gone, Farrell took a step towards the automatic doors, which opened as he approached. The desk officer suggested that he should wait inside. Pointed out that it was pissing down. Told him he could suit his fucking self when Farrell said he’d rather get wet.

Outside, Farrell stood beneath the overhang and stared out at the road.

It hadn’t been much more than a day, but it felt like a lot longer: like ten years’ worth of change, of major fucking upheaval. And he knew that it hadn’t really started yet.

His mind and his heart were racing, but he knew he needed to stay calm, that he should breeze back through the door as though nothing had happened. Despite the way he’d played it with the twat on the custody desk, he wanted to get home and see his mum and dad more than anything. He wanted to be back where it was warm and safe, and where he knew that, whatever happened, there was only ever one side they were going to be on.

He stared through the rain. Still able to recall the taste of it as he and the others had walked towards that bus stop six months before. It had been a little colder than this, maybe, but otherwise exactly the same sort of night…

A dark Cavalier drew up and a thickset Asian man climbed out, leaving the engine ru

‘Minicab?’ Farrell shouted.

The man turned back towards the car.

Adrian Farrell pulled up his hood and jogged after him.

TWENTY-TWO

‘Sunday’s a pretty busy day round here,’ Neil Warren said. ‘It’s changeover day, so it’s always a bit bloody frantic if there are new tenants coming in or anyone going out. Plus I’ve got family business and church stuff, and I organise a small service here in the house for anyone who’s interested…’

‘It’s really not a problem,’ Holland said. There was a block of multicoloured Post-its on his desk. He scratched a tick next to Neil Warren’s name.

‘I just wanted to explain why I hadn’t returned your call sooner.’

‘I understand.’

‘Now, of course, I feel fucking dreadful.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Holland said.

‘You meet people, they drift into your orbit, and then… life moves on, you know? You go in different directions or whatever, and most of the time you never give them another thought. Kathleen Bristow hadn’t crossed my mind in five years until you came round here talking about Grant Freestone, and now she’s dead. And I think I should probably feel more upset than I do…’

‘Like you said, you hadn’t thought about her in a long time.’

‘I’ll ask people here to remember her in their prayers.’

Holland looked at his watch: it was five past nine. Once this was done with, he’d see about getting away. Chloe would be in bed, but it would be good to have an hour or so with Sophie before one or both of them flaked out.

‘I take it you don’t think it’s a coincidence,’ Warren said.

‘Sir?’

‘That you start asking people about what happened back then, about Freestone and all that, and someone on the panel gets killed.’

‘I think it’s probably unlikely.’

‘Have you spoken to the others?’

‘Most of them, yes.’

Warren said nothing for ten or fifteen seconds. When Holland heard the click of a lighter, he guessed that Warren had been rolling a cigarette. There was a long exhalation, another pause. Then Warren said, ‘Did she suffer very much?’

Holland would normally have said something pat, something reassuring, at this point. Beyond knowing that Warren was plain-speaking himself, that he didn’t seem enamoured of bullshit, Holland couldn’t really say where his answer came from.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think she probably did.’

It was only twenty minutes from Hendon to Arkley. Half a dozen Gram and Emmylou tracks had done wonders for Thorne’s mood, but all their sterling work was undone with one glance at Tony Mullen’s face.

After their last encounter, Thorne hadn’t been anticipating the warmest of welcomes, but there was more to this than a predictable antipathy. There was resignation in the man’s expression, and in his posture as he stood aside to let Thorne in without a word. Tony Mullen looked like a man who was no longer expecting good news.

As a parent, there would always be hope until there was a body to bury, but as an ex-police officer, Thorne knew that Mullen would be painfully aware of how the timescales worked. How quickly realistic chances became slim ones. How quickly they faded away to nothing.

It was now nine days since Luke had first gone missing; almost five since the video had been sent; seventy-two hours since Luke had been taken a second time, without word of any kind from whoever was holding him.

Thorne could still see rage in Mullen’s eyes, but there was next to no fight left in him.

‘Whatever you want, I hope it’s quick,’ Mullen said. ‘We’re all tired.’

‘Actually, I’ve come to have a word with Juliet.’

‘Why?’

Thorne took a second and decided it couldn’t hurt; that it might even build a bridge or two. ‘We’ve been talking to a boy from Butler’s Hall about a completely different case. It’s almost certainly unco