The Bones Beneath

‘“I am not a number!”’ Nicklin said, good and loud. He turned round and said it again for the benefit of Fletcher and the others, then turned back to look at Thorne. ‘That’s the thing though, isn’t it? For the last ten years, that’s exactly what I’ve been. Stuart Anthony Nicklin, prisoner number 5677832.’ He laughed, shook his head. ‘Between you and me, Tom, I never understood it either. That stupid white balloon bouncing along the beach…’

The sergeant glanced up from his paperwork. ‘Can you take the cuffs off now, please? The prisoners need to turn out their pockets.’

Jenks and Fletcher got up, moved to stand close to Thorne and Holland while the handcuffs were removed. Nicklin handed over his tobacco tin and wristwatch. Batchelor, just a watch.

‘Right, do we need to strip-search them?’ the sergeant asked.

Duggan stepped forward, nodding. ‘We should follow the standard procedure.’

‘They were searched at Long Lartin,’ Thorne said. He looked at Fletcher, who nodded to confirm it. ‘Neither of them has been out of our sight since we left.’

‘Comfort breaks?’ Duggan asked.

‘One each, in full view at all times.’

Duggan looked at the sergeant. The sergeant shrugged.

‘Look,’ Nicklin said. ‘It sounds like you lot really want to get your rubber gloves on and procedure’s there for a very good reason.’ He looked at Duggan, then at Batchelor. ‘We don’t want to get anyone into trouble, do we, Jeff?’

‘We can leave it,’ Thorne said.

Duggan nodded at the sergeant, who said, ‘Whatever.’

‘Shame.’ Nicklin looked across at the pair of young PCs waiting anxiously nearby. Both reddened. ‘Sorry, boys. Mind you, you’d only have made Mr Jenks and Mr Fletcher jealous.’

‘Shut it now, Stuart,’ Fletcher said.

Once Nicklin and Batchelor had signed to confirm the short inventory of their possessions, the PCs stepped across to escort them to the cells. Jenks and Fletcher followed as the prisoners were led away and both police officers kept their hands on their telescopic batons. Just before disappearing from view around a corner, Nicklin shouted back over his shoulder.

‘You should all get an early night,’ he said. ‘And try not to eat anything iffy. You’ll need strong stomachs tomorrow.’

Holland looked at Thorne. Said, ‘That’s a point, I need to get seasickness tablets.’

Nicklin had already rounded the corner, but there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice. ‘I’m talking about after we get there…’

Thorne ran through the pick-up arrangements for the following morning, quickly shutting the custody sergeant up when the man tried once again to suggest that a different station might have made his own life a little easier. He said goodbye to Duggan who promised to call him later and let him know if he would be tagging along the next day. Then, Thorne and Holland walked out into the station courtyard, Karim and Markham a few steps behind.

‘So, what is the plan for tonight?’ Holland asked.

Markham said she didn’t think they would have a great many options and Karim laughed. He said this was probably the kind of place where they still pointed at planes.

‘I need a hot shower and a cold beer,’ Thorne said. ‘In that order.’

TWELVE

Kitson looked up from the game of Candy Crush on her BlackBerry. She returned the smile of an old man who was working at a large jigsaw and figured out that by the time she got home later on, she would have driven the best part of two hundred miles for these three interviews. North London to Huntingdon, then across to Northampton and back down, finally, to Watford. Unless the woman she had left until the end had something useful to tell her, her day’s work would have generated nothing but a claim for travel expenses.

One of the care workers stopped at the table to set down a cup of tea and a plate of digestives.

Kitson thanked her.

‘She won’t be long,’ the care worker said. ‘Just doing her hair and getting some slap on. Mrs Nicklin always likes to look her best.’

Kitson stared at her, confused. She had come to see someone who – like the teacher Kitson had spoken to that morning – had been given a brand new identity. A woman whose name was not the one she had lived with up until ten years before.

The care worker shrugged, said, ‘No big mystery. She tells everyone…’

When A

The care worker brought a cup of tea across for her. A

Kitson reached for her bag. ‘Do you not want to see my ID?’

A

‘I don’t understand why you’re using your own name,’ Kitson said.

‘It’s my name.’

‘You were given witness protection.’

‘I didn’t want it,’ A

‘That’s why you’re supposed to keep it secret.’

A

Kitson laughed, reached for a biscuit.

‘So, in the end I hadn’t got a lot of choice and moved in here.’ A

Kitson could see the slightest of tremors now, the woman’s head shaking though her eyes stayed fixed on the same point. Thorne had told Kitson about talking to A

One who had come to terms with the past, perhaps. Her own and her son’s. One more at peace with everything.

‘You mentioned journalists,’ Kitson said. ‘Have they been to see you?’

‘One or two.’

‘Recently?’

‘I lose track of time, love.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘They always have the same questions,’ A