Mark Billingham - Buried

Holland left the website and quickly accessed the Crime Reporting Information System. CRIS was updated constantly, with every detail of the case to that point logged and catalogued for the entire team. He entered the case number, searched the files, then called up the names and contact details of those on Grant Freestone’s MAPPA panel:

Roper, Warren, Lardner, Stringer, Bristow.

Holland tapped a finger against the screen. ‘I never managed to track Stringer down first time round.’

‘See what you can do,’ Thorne said.

‘Right. It’ll be interesting to see how they react to the news about Kathleen Bristow. Maybe one of them can confirm she had the records.’

‘Roper thought she probably did,’ Thorne said. ‘But that’s not why I was suggesting it.’ He looked at the list on Holland’s screen, the cursor blinking beneath the final name. ‘While we’re still not sure exactly why Kathleen Bristow was killed, it can’t hurt to make sure each of the other people on that panel is still walking around.’

Thorne had been in the backyard when they’d eventually brought out the prisoner. He’d been leaning against the van that was waiting to take Freestone south, talking about a recent Spurs-Crystal Palace game to one of the DCs sent to fetch him.

Hoolihan had walked past Thorne without a word and climbed into an unmarked BMW, ready to follow the van down to Lewisham.

Freestone himself had been considerably keener to chat.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’

‘It’s time to answer for Sarah Hanley, Grant.’

‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘Keep telling them that,’ Thorne said.

‘You’re a fucking genius…’

Freestone was cuffed, an officer on each side marching him purposefully towards the open doors at the back of the van.

Thorne ambled after them. ‘I’ll give your best to Tony Mullen.’

‘You should get him down here,’ Freestone said.

‘Can’t see any point now,’ Thorne said. ‘He’s got nothing to do with the Hanley case.’

‘I saw him.’

‘ What? ’ Thorne picked up his pace. ‘ When did you see him?’

But Freestone was already being bundled into the back of the van, and pushed on to a bench between his two escorts. He turned to look at Thorne, but there was no time to register the expression before the doors were slammed shut. The Crystal Palace fan shrugged an apology and walked round to the driver’s side.

Thorne took a step back as the van started up. Parked alongside it, Hoolihan raced the BMW’s engine; impatient probably, but perhaps also hoping to send a fatal dose of carbon monoxide Thorne’s way.

As he walked back in through the cage, Thorne saw Danny Donovan loitering near the custody skipper’s platform. A uniformed PC was leading a young woman by the arm. As Thorne approached, he watched Donovan engage the woman in conversation, then hand her something just before she was led towards the cells.

‘Still here, Danny?’

‘Can’t seem to tear myself away.’

‘Someone else going to be looking after Freestone now, then? One of those people with qualifications?’ Thorne held out a hand. Waited until Donovan handed over one of the business cards he was cradling in his fist. ‘Touting for business? You cheeky fucker.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘The problem for you is that you’ve run into me. And that this ’ – he held up the thin, cheaply produced card – ‘really pisses me off.’

‘Fuck’s sake.’

‘Away you go…’

Thorne was already moving towards the exit, arms wide, shepherding Donovan in the direction of the metal doorway.

‘You want to get out of this game sharpish, Thorne.’ Donovan stepped backwards into the cage, half turned as if to leave. ‘It’s sending you a bit mental.’

Thorne approached Donovan fast, backed him against the side of the cage. ‘You really should fuck off now,’ he said. ‘And next time you’re in here, if I so much as see you helping yourself to a teabag, I’ll nick you for theft.’

Donovan waited for Thorne to step back. ‘Things carry on as they have been, you’ll probably be desperate for any sort of result by then.’

When the ex-copper moved to walk past him, Thorne reached out both arms and pushed him hard against the wall. Donovan slammed into the metal, which gave a little, then bounced back, dropping the handful of business cards as he reached out to retain his balance.

There was a shout from inside the custody suite and Thorne yelled back that everything was fine. Donovan squatted and tried to pick up the cards, but Thorne was quicker. Breathing heavily, he slapped away the other man’s hand, grabbed as many cards as he could, and threw them, fluttering out into the backyard.

A pair of uniformed beat officers appeared at the doorway on their way into the station. They watched for a few seconds, then stepped around the two men scrabbling around on the floor.

Thorne’s heart was still beating faster than normal when Kitson found him in one of the CID offices on the first floor.

‘Did you not get my message?’ she asked.

Thorne gulped down his tea. It wasn’t quite twelve yet, and he was wondering if it was too early to get some lunch. ‘Sorry, it’s been a pig of a morning.’

‘I heard.’

‘Actually, the murder scene was a doddle,’ Thorne said. ‘There wasn’t any blood spilled until we got back here.’

Kitson’s shoes were new. She kicked them off when she sat down next to Thorne. Began to rub at tender heels and toes through her tights. ‘Listen, I’ve got Adrian Farrell’s phone records.’

‘Any help?’

‘Not yet. But there are plenty of numbers to check out, so we might get lucky. There was something, though. Remember I said I’d look for any connection to Luke Mullen…?’

‘What have you got?’

‘There was nothing on Farrell’s mobile, but when I checked the landline the Mullen number came up. More than once.’

Thorne’s heartbeat accelerated even more. ‘Why not the mobile? I thought these kids were never off their bloody phones, sending text messages or whatever.’

‘He’s got a pay-as-you-go, right? But he’s also got a phone in his bedroom. I reckon he was just trying to save money. He can use the landline from his room and make private calls whenever he likes on Mum and Dad’s bill.’

‘When you say more than once…?’

‘Half a dozen calls in the three weeks before Luke was taken. More before that.’

Thorne sat back, trying to take in what Kitson was saying. ‘When Dave talked to the kids at the school, Farrell told him he hardly knew Luke Mullen. He knew he’d gone missing, but that was about it, right?’

‘Right, but I don’t have to tell you that he’s a very good liar.’

‘Hang on. Are we sure this was Adrian Farrell making the calls? Maybe Mrs Farrell and Luke Mullen’s mum both work on the PTA committee or something.’

Kitson shook her head. ‘I checked with his mother, and the parents hardly know each other. A few words over coffee at a school concert, nods at the school gates, no more than that.’

‘OK…’

Thorne’s mind, dulled by fatigue and hunger, tossed around possibilities like a tumble dryer on its last legs. Could Luke Mullen’s kidnapping be connected with Farrell, or some of Farrell’s friends? Was he taken because of something he knew about them? If that were the case, why was the video sent to Luke’s parents? And what the hell could any of it have to do with the murder of Kathleen Bristow?

‘These are not quick calls either, Tom,’ Kitson said. ‘Ten, fifteen minutes.’

‘What does Farrell say?’

‘I haven’t gone at him with any of this yet. I wondered if you fancied coming into the bin with me and having a bash yourself.’