Mark Billingham - Buried

Kitson didn’t answer. Just continued to stare down at the spit. Shiny, grey-green against the concrete.

The security light above the garage came on, and Maggie Mullen answered the front door as though she had been waiting on the other side of it. Her eyes moved quickly from Thorne to Porter. Seeing little need for concern, or relief, she waved them inside, through a curtain of cigarette smoke, then stared into the darkness that squatted beyond the bleed of yellow light, as if she were waiting for stragglers.

On their way along the hall, Thorne and Porter exchanged a word with Kenny Parsons, who emerged from the kitchen clutching a tabloid and a ballpoint pen. Their visit was unexpected and he searched their faces for news much as Maggie Mullen had done; and much as her husband did when they walked into the living room.

Mullen tossed a paperback on to the chair behind him. ‘Do you want coffee or something?’

Thorne shook his head. Porter said no, that it was fine.

‘Been a long day.’

Thorne wasn’t sure if Mullen was referring to the day that had crawled past for himself and his family or to the one that the officers on the case had endured. Either way, there was little reason to argue.

Mullen sat down on the arm of the sofa. His wife came back into the room, walked past him to an armchair, grabbing cigarettes and ashtray from the mantelpiece as she went. ‘I hope you’re finishing better than you started,’ Mullen said. ‘That certain people have taken their heads from out their arses.’

‘Sir?’ Porter lowered her bag to the floor.

‘I’m presuming the idea that my son’s murdered anybody has been kicked into fucking touch where it belongs. Yes?’

Now it was clear to Thorne that Mullen knew exactly how long a day it had been for everybody. He was plugged into the investigation just as much as the officers working it. Thorne wondered how many times a day he spoke to Jesmond, or called one of his other old mates, to get the inside track.

‘There was evidence which had to be looked at seriously,’ Porter said.

‘Prints on a knife?’

Thorne decided that people were probably calling Mullen. He was being updated as comprehensively as if he were the SIO.

‘That’s enough to make you seriously believe that my son has gone from kidnap victim to some kind of killer on the run, is it? If that’s what you’re telling me, I’m seriously starting to doubt that the right people are on this.’

There was something like a sigh, something like a sob, from the armchair. Mrs Mullen was staring at the Chinese rug, as if she were mesmerised by the dragons and the bridges. Her hands were clasped in front of her and cigarette smoke rose straight up into her face.

‘It’s not what we think,’ Thorne said. He spoke towards Mrs Mullen, the ‘we’ used as though he were talking about everyone on the case; though, in truth, he could vouch only for those in the room at that moment.

‘Thank Christ for that.’ Mullen walked across to Thorne, dropped a heavy hand on to his shoulder and let it rest. Both Thorne and Porter were given the benefit of a thin and not entirely convincing smile, before Mullen turned and went back to his perch on the arm of the sofa. It had been a strange moment: a gesture of solidarity perhaps, or gratitude, or something else entirely. All Thorne had understood was the booze he could smell on the man, and he began to hear the faintest trace of it, when Mullen spoke again.

‘We need to move forward,’ he said. ‘Work out who contracted Allen and his girlfriend to do this. Why Luke was taken. We’ve got bodies now, and you can always get something from bodies, right?’

‘We’ve been talking to people who knew Grant Freestone today,’ Thorne said.

Mullen blinked.

Thorne spotted the movement and turned to see Maggie Mullen’s arm move towards the ashtray; watched as an inch or more of ash dropped on to the rug. She didn’t bend to brush it up.

‘Well, some heads are obviously still up arses,’ Mullen said. He was smiling but angry. ‘A long way up.’

‘Why didn’t you give us Freestone’s name when we asked you for the “grudge” list?’ Porter said.

‘God knows. I probably should have done, thinking about it. But I was hardly thinking straight, was I?’

‘What kind of threats did he make against you?’ Thorne walked across the rug and sat on the sofa.

‘The usual. He was “going to get me”. I was “going to be sorry”. Stuff you’ve heard a dozen times. I was certainly no more worried about him than I was about the others on that list.’

‘No?’

‘What about them? Cotterill and Quinn? Have you eliminated them?’

Thorne and Porter had not heard back from Holland and his partner, nor from Heeney and Stone. ‘Not as yet.’

‘There you are, then. So why are you wasting so much time and energy on a pointless prick like Freestone?’

‘Just trying to move forward,’ Thorne said.

‘ Jesus…’

Porter opened her mouth to speak.

‘Do you think this man kidnapped Luke?’ The question came from Maggie Mullen.

All heads turned towards her.

‘No, of course he doesn’t.’ Mullen stood and moved behind the sofa, looked hard at Thorne. ‘Not unless he’s one chromosome short of a special parking permit.’

Porter cleared her throat, but again failed to follow it up with anything. Thorne could feel Mullen’s fingers digging into the back of the sofa behind him.

Mrs Mullen leaned down to stub out her cigarette, then looked up, smiling. ‘Let’s have some coffee,’ she said. ‘Who wants one?’

‘I already offered,’ Mullen snapped.

‘Well, what about a glass of wine, then? Have you finished that bottle you opened when we had dinner?’

The colour was rising in Mullen’s face. ‘For God’s sake, don’t be so stupid. I put it back in the-’

‘ Don’t talk to me like that.’ Her voice was jagged, but her expression, and the finger she pointed, were fixed and severe. ‘Like I’m a piece of shit.’

A few moments later, when Maggie Mullen flipped open the top of the cigarette packet again, Thorne dragged his eyes away and tried to find Porter’s, but she was concentrating hard on those dragons and bridges.

More like embarrassment…

The privileged few taking advantage of the Friday night lock-in at the Royal Oak were much the same as any other gathering of social, semi-serious or hardcore drinkers, save for there being one or two more women, fewer black and Asian faces, and the fact that the vast majority were carrying warrant cards.The Oak was an unofficial social club for anyone working at Colindale Station, or up the road at the Peel Centre, and though not a particularly attractive or friendly boozer, it had the advantage of being close , which was deemed more important than smiles or quiz nights. It also happened to be among those pubs less likely than some to be raided for after-hours drinking.

Thorne and Porter stared briefly into their own bit of space over pints of Guinness and lager-top. Letting the beer work at some of the rougher edges. Giving the tiredness elbow room.

‘You reckon Mullen drinks that much normally?’ Porter asked.

Thorne shook his head and swallowed. ‘No idea. Same with her and the fags. Can’t blame either of them for needing a bit of help, though, considering.’

By the time they had got back to Becke House from the Mullens’ place, written up the work, been taken through a debrief and discussed the following day, it was after midnight. It was shaping up into an eighteen- or nineteen-hour tour, door to door, and though most of the team would be on again before the sun was up, the majority had decided that unwinding over a beer or two was worth an hour’s sleep.