Buried

Thorne, still sleepy, closed his eyes and conjured a wonderful picture of a jury consisting of an Eskimo, a Kalahari Bushman, one of those African tribesmen with a saucer in his bottom lip…

Assumptions.

Boys and girls from nice homes and good schools don’t become racist murderers. Don’t grow up and snatch kids.

The ex-copper must be the parent being targeted when his child is kidnapped.

Children are safe with those closest to them.

He knew that everyone had prejudices and preconceptions. That they made fucking idiots out of good people as well as bad. That most of them were based on simple experience. But still…

When it came to matters of guilt and i

It was stinking thinking.

The door opened at the far end of the room and Hendricks stepped out of the bathroom, wiping his hands.

‘Nice facilities.’

Hedley Grange was a private hospital and convalescent home on the banks of the Thames, near Kingston. It was where the Met sent all officers injured in the line of duty; where Thorne would be recovering from an operation on the ‘back injury’ he’d received when rescuing Luke Mullen from the cottage in St Paul’s Walden.

‘Might as well get something out of it,’ Holland had said.

Hendricks came around the side of the bed. ‘Let’s have a look at the mess they’ve made.’

Thorne eased himself on to his left-hand side. He moved gingerly so as not to disturb the stitches, or the tangle of tubes by which he was wired up to a saline drip and a syringe-driver delivering welcome shots of morphine whenever they were needed.

It was too early to tell if the operation to sort out the herniated disc had been a success. It was still very sore, though the surgeon had suggested that the pain might just have been post-operative. Either way, Thorne had hit the button on his syringe-driver several times in the three hours since he’d come round.

Hendricks lifted the sheet, drew in a sharp breath.

‘What?’

‘I’m kidding,’ Hendricks said. ‘It all looks fine. The plastic pants and DVT stockings look pretty sexy as well.’

‘Piss off.’

Hendricks walked back to his chair at the end of the bed. He examined the floral tributes on the table: the customary small bouquet from the Commander; the slightly bigger one, with a printed card that said, ‘Get Well Soon’. That was signed, with kisses, from ‘Louise’.

‘You were going to tell me what happened with her,’ Hendricks said.

‘Nothing, as yet,’ Thorne said. ‘Hopefully, if the back’s sorted out…’

‘Easy, tiger. I wouldn’t start swinging from the chandelier just yet.’

Thorne smiled. ‘I’d settle for a cuddle, tell you the truth.’ The smile widened. ‘Maybe a handjob.’

‘You reckon it might work out?’

‘It’d be good, wouldn’t it?’

‘She’s nice,’ Hendricks said. ‘Doesn’t take any shit.’

They could hear voices from the corridor. The clatter of a trolley. Tea or medication.

‘What about you and Brendan?’

Hendricks leaned back on the chair; held it balanced on two legs. ‘We’re getting on fine.’ He looked out of the window. ‘He hasn’t said anything, but I think he’s got someone else knocking around.’

‘You OK with that?’

Hendricks said he was, and looked as though he meant it. ‘I’m going to find someone who wants the same as I do. It can’t be that hard.’

‘Kids, you mean?’

The chair dropped back on to four legs. ‘What about it?’ Hendricks said. ‘You and me. Why fight it any more? Let’s adopt.’

‘I’m not sure I’d make a very good father,’ Thorne said.

Hendricks didn’t miss a beat. ‘You mean “mother”. I’m the butch one.’

Thorne laughed, then wished he hadn’t. He pressed the syringe-driver a couple of times until he floated away from the pain and couldn’t remember what it was he’d found so fu

Until he couldn’t remember much of anything.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For very good reasons, much of the procedure involved in the investigation of a kidnap is, and must remain, highly sensitive. As a result, I had to dig deeper than usual for any information I could get, and had little choice but to employ a good deal of licence in fictionalising it. Such things as I was able to find out have left me in no doubt that those who investigate kidnapping – in all its many forms – in the UK, are kept extremely busy.

The i

I apologise in advance for having plenty more…

I am consistently grateful to a number of fellow writers both at home and in the US for their support and friendship, and on this occasion would like to say a particular ‘thank you’ to Linda Fairstein, whose expertise in the workings of Deoxyribonucleic acid rescued a particular strand of this novel’s plot from an early grave.

I want to thank Filomena Wood and Cecilia Duraes for their hard work when I’m not doing any two-fingered typing, Yaron for his mastery of the Web, and Hilary Hale for making the entire process – from line one to launch – so hugely enjoyable.

And of course: Mike; Alice; Wendy; Michael; and the real Mr Thorne.

And Claire, Katharine and Jack, for so much.

Mark Billingham

Mark Billingham was born and brought up in Birmingham. Having worked for some years as an actor and more recently as a TV writer and stand-up comedian his first crime novel was published in 2001.

Sleepyhead was an instant bestseller in the UK. It has been sold widely throughout the world and will be published in the USA in the Summer of 2002.

Though still occasionally working as a stand-up comic, Mark now concentrates on writing the series of crime novels featuring London-based detective Tom Thorne. The second novel, Scaredy Cat is published in July 2002 and will be followed in 2003 by Lazybones…

Mark lives in North London with his wife and two children.