‘So, what do you reckon, Dave?’

Holland stabbed at a chip with a wooden fork. ‘Should have got some curry sauce.’

‘About Nicklin.’

Holland popped the chip into his mouth and ate slowly, but the muscles continued to tense in his jaw for several seconds after he’d swallowed. ‘He was right about one thing.’

‘What?’

‘Some of us haven’t forgotten what happened in that playground.’

‘None of us have,’ Thorne said.

‘Sarah, I mean.’

‘I know…’

‘She died because of him and he never answered for it. Not the way he should have done, anyway.’ Holland slowed his pace a little and glanced at Thorne. ‘You knew about me and her, right?’

‘Yeah, I knew.’ Thorne sensed there was guilt lurking just behind the anger. He sensed too that Holland wanted to get stuff off his chest and he was not altogether sure he wanted to hear it. ‘Listen, you don’t need to explain anything to me.’

‘Nothing to explain,’ Holland said. ‘I was stupid, McEvoy was stupid and who the hell knows how much more stupid the pair of us would have got if she hadn’t been killed? But she died, so maybe that… got me off the hook.’ He poked at his dinner, lips pulled back across his teeth. ‘I mean, look at me now, happy family man and all that. Happy as fucking Larry. So, maybe Nicklin did me a favour, you know?’

Thorne looked at him. ‘You’re talking shit, Dave. You do know that, don’t you? People mess up.’

‘I know that I can still remember what Sarah smelled like, and I think about it sometimes, when I’m in bed with Sophie. When I look at Nicklin, I feel like he knows that, like it gives him a thrill or something, and I want to rip his head off.’

They said nothing for a minute or more, walking a little quicker once they were past the terrace that backed on to the beach and provided a barrier between the street and the sea. The temperature was dropping quickly and the wind had started to pick up.

‘So, what do you reckon to this latest bombshell then?’ Thorne asked. ‘This other body.’

Holland shrugged. ‘Haven’t got a clue, if I’m honest. You?’

Thorne shook his head. ‘I can’t read him and the problem is I don’t know if that should be telling me anything or not. Sometimes terrible poker players are just as hard to play against as good ones. They don’t know what the hell they’re doing, so there’s no way you can.’ He shovelled some more chips into his mouth; they were soggy and tasteless, but he was hungry. ‘Maybe he’s just making it all up as he goes along.’

‘It’s all possible though, isn’t it? What he’s telling us.’

‘Yeah, it’s possible.’

‘Killing that kid just because he feels like it, then killing the old woman whose shovel he nicked. It would all sound bloody ridiculous if it was anyone else. Him though…’

‘I know,’ Thorne said.

‘Someone like him doesn’t need a reason to do these things, so you never know if he’s really got a reason for doing anything.’

Thorne grunted, chewed.

‘That stuff he said to Howell before, about getting off on the bodies. Was that real, or was he just trying to wind her up?’

‘Who knows?’ Thorne said.

They dumped the remains of their dinners into a bin outside the Black Horse and wandered inside. As far as Thorne could tell, the same people were drinking at the bar as had been propping it up the night before. They did appear to have softened somewhat towards the newcomers though, the hostility of the previous evening having now been replaced by complete indifference.

Holland stepped towards the bar. ‘Pint?’

Thorne hesitated, shaking his head. He was thinking about something Duggan had said back at the station.

‘Later, maybe…’

While Holland ordered himself a drink and fell into conversation with Pritchard, Thorne walked across and spoke briefly to a man at the bar. When he had been given the information he was looking for, he left the hotel, climbed into one of the Galaxys and drove the dozen or so miles to Aberdaron.

THIRTY-TWO

It was what Duggan had said to him about a ‘few knocking about’. The superintendent had been talking about police officers who might still be on the force, but Thorne realised there were others who might be able to help and to do so a damn sight quicker.

Others who had been there.

He rang the bell, stepped back and looked up at a house that was a long way removed from what he had been expecting. It was a modern two-up-two down, red brick with UPVC windows. A simple rectangle of grass at the front. A satellite dish.

When Huw Morgan opened the door, he looked confused to see Thorne standing there.

‘Have you got five minutes?’ Thorne asked.

Walking past the living room, Thorne could see Morgan’s father watching TV. Some American drama, cops or lawyers, where everyone was a bit too good-looking to be taken seriously. The old man turned to look and Thorne nodded a hello. ‘We’ve just eaten,’ Morgan said, leading Thorne into the kitchen. ‘But I think there might be some left.’ He turned and shouted back down the hall. ‘Dad, we got any of that stew left?’

‘It’s fine,’ Thorne said. ‘I had chips.’

‘What about a beer then?’

‘Beer would be great.’

Morgan produced three cans of supermarket lager from the fridge and they carried them to the living room. Huw handed a can to his father and said, ‘Turn that down, we’ve got the police here.’

Bernard sighed and reached for the remote.

‘So, is this police business or are you just going a bit bonkers in Abersoch?’ Huw sat down, nodded Thorne towards the sofa. ‘Can’t say I blame you, there’s not a lot going on. Mind you, it’s a teeming bloody metropolis compared with what’s going on here.’

‘Bit of both,’ Thorne said.

‘What?’ Bernard said.

‘It’s a bit of police business. Just a chat, really.’ Thorne took a swig of his lager, which was surprisingly good. ‘I got your address from your cousin,’ he said. ‘He was in the bar at the Black Horse.’

‘Arsehole,’ Huw said.

Bernard shook his head and glanced at Thorne. ‘Long story…’

Thorne looked around. The inside of the house was as modern as the exterior. A big-screen TV, leather sofa and armchairs. There were black and white photos in frames on the wall; sea views and boats in the harbour, an island that Thorne guessed was Bardsey.

Huw saw Thorne looking. Said, ‘What?’

‘I was expecting you might live somewhere a bit more traditional.’

‘What, a fisherman’s cottage kind of thing?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Peat fires and ancient slates and a weathervane shaped like a whale?’

Bernard laughed.

‘Listen, mate,’ Huw said. ‘After a long day out there with the lobster pots or whatever, I want to come home to central heating and Sky. Dad had somewhere a bit more traditional, didn’t you? One of the old cottages up on the front.’ Bernard nodded, drank. ‘When my mum died a couple of years back though, we thought it was a good idea for Dad to sell up and move in with me. His place was on its last legs and I was on my own anyway…’

Thorne waited in case there was more coming. It became clear that there wasn’t and he was left watching Huw take a long drink and wondering if there had ever been a wife and kids, if the youngest Morgan had always been on his own.

When Huw finally put his can down, he said, ‘So, this chat then…?’

‘It was actually your father I wanted to speak to,’ Thorne said. He turned to Bernard. ‘I was just wondering if I could ask you about something that happened a long time ago. See what you remember.’

‘You might be in luck,’ Huw said. ‘He tends to have a good memory for things that happened years back, even if he can’t remember what bloody day it is sometimes.’

‘Cheeky beggar,’ Bernard said.

Thorne said, ‘Twenty-five years ago. Back when the young offenders were staying on the island.’ He reached into his pocket and produced the photograph of Tides House that he was still carrying around. He stood up, stepped across and laid it down on the small table next to Bernard’s chair.