Mark Billingham - Buried

‘Wrong,’ Kitson said.

‘Which bit?’

‘I know I fucked it up last time.’

Kitson was wired; pacing the small office as though she couldn’t decide whether she’d prefer a shoulder to cry on or a face to punch.

‘You’ll get the other two,’ Thorne said. ‘You will. If Farrell won’t cough, you’ll just have to do it the hard way, that’s all.’

She stopped, looked hard at him, as though he hadn’t heard a word. ‘I really want these two, Tom. I know Farrell killed him, but the others just stood there and watched him do it. The DPS are telling me they can stick all three of the fuckers in the dock for murder. It might get knocked down to GBH in court, but we can have a bloody good try.’

‘So bring in Farrell’s mates, Nelson and Herbert, like you told him you would. It’s probably them anyway.’

‘I’ve had another idea,’ Kitson said.

‘If it’s early retirement, I might join you.’

‘I fancy stopping the clock, bailing Farrell to return tomorrow. We could get some surveillance organised and see if he gets in touch with anybody. He just might contact the other two to let them know he hasn’t said anything.’

Thorne thought it sounded like a reasonable enough idea and told her so. Then he repeated himself, as he wasn’t sure she’d believed him the first time. ‘You’ve done a good job on this, Yvonne.’

‘I went round to see Amin Latif’s parents,’ she said, ‘to tell them about Farrell.’

‘I bet that felt good.’

‘I didn’t tell them how we found him.’ Shame and resignation passed across her face in quick succession. ‘That we should have found him six months ago. I know it’ll come out and we’ll have to deal with it then, but sitting there with Mrs Latif in her living room, I didn’t want to spoil that moment. For them, I mean. Really, for them.’

Thorne just nodded, and straightened one or two things on his desk.

‘I’d better go and talk to Brigstocke about setting up the surveillance.’ She started towards the door. ‘Getting the bail paperwork together…’

After Kitson had gone, Thorne watched as rain fell through the darkness. He was grateful for a minute or two alone; for the chance to let what was left of his father’s performance roll around in his head for a while.

Don’t panic, Son. It’s not what it looks like.

Smoke that wasn’t smoke, and a fire alarm that was really a telephone.

Don’t jump to conclusions.

He walked to the doorway of his office, from where he could see Kitson talking to Karim and Stone in the Major Incident Room. As he watched, an idea sparked and flared, took hold as quickly as flames on polyester.

His father’s face was smothered in red and gold as Thorne stepped out into the corridor.

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say how she died, sir.’

‘Don’t you think that’s a bit ridiculous?’ Lardner asked. ‘You call to tell me a woman’s been murdered, but then I have to sit here wondering if she was shot, stabbed or drowned in the bath.’

‘It’s probably a bit ridiculous, yeah,’ Holland said. ‘But that is the procedure, so…’

‘She was a nice enough woman, as far as I can remember. Fond of sticking her nose in a bit, but I suppose that went with her job. Like journalists drinking… or coppers and probation officers being cynical.’

Holland sipped his tea and grunted.

‘Right, well, not a lot else to say, I suppose.’

‘We were just concerned that you should know about Mrs Bristow’s death.’

‘Should I be?’

‘Sorry?’

‘ Concerned . Are we being targeted, do you think?’ Lardner barked a humourless laugh. ‘Perhaps Grant Freestone’s come back out of hiding and is going to slaughter us all one by one.’

‘I don’t think you need to be concerned about that…’

With lunch having been just as piss-poor as Kitson had promised it would be, Wilson had scuttled away to dinner as soon as he was informed that Farrell was being bailed, having agreed to meet his client back at the station the following day.

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.