‘At least it sounds like there’s something in what Nicklin’s telling you,’ Helen said.

‘Yeah. I’m sure there’s something.’ Thorne stopped at a channel showing some arty-looking film with subtitles. He wondered idly if there might be any dirty bits. ‘It’s just about trying to work out what that is.’

‘Shame. We were looking forward to having you back.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Thorne said. ‘I don’t care if he tells me he’s buried another twenty on that sodding island. I’m coming back tomorrow.’

‘Well, I know one little lad who’s going to be happy,’ Helen said.

‘You reckon?’

‘He saw a Woodentop on the street today and pointed and said “Tom”.’

‘That’s funny,’ Thorne said. It had only been a few months since Alfie had begun to say Thorne’s name, back when he was working in south London and still wearing uniform. ‘He’s asleep, is he?’

‘Well away,’ Helen said. ‘I’m not far behind him, either.’

‘Yeah, sorry for calling so late.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘You going to be happy too?’

‘What do you think? It’s been a bit shitty at work, last couple of days, and with you not around it’s just been… shittier.’

Thorne was happy to hear it, but knew it was not just because she missed his sunny personality or red-hot body. It was clear that there were things she needed to talk about and Thorne would have to put in some time as an emotional punchbag when he got home. ‘Tell me tomorrow,’ he said. He hoped he hadn’t sounded dismissive, or uninterested.

‘You sound a bit down,’ Helen said.

‘Well, it’s hardly surprising, is it?’

‘No, apart from the business with Nicklin, I mean. Everything OK?’

‘I’m fine.’ Thorne had managed to find a football match showing on one of the Eurosport channels. He watched, struggling to work out who the two teams were without any sound. He could hear Helen taking a drink of something. The absence of that punchbag when it was needed often meant an extra glass or two of wine. ‘I was just thinking about my dad a bit,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

Helen said, ‘OK…’

‘Sitting there with those two tonight, Huw, and his dad. You should have seen the pair of them. They were like a team, you know? Taking the piss, pretending to get annoyed with each other… I just miss that.’

‘Course you do.’

‘Never really like that with me and my old man, but I miss it anyway. I was thinking about going fishing with him this morning, for God’s sake. I haven’t thought about that in donkey’s years.’

‘It’s only natural.’

‘I miss how it was before the Alzheimer’s. No… I miss that too.’

‘Tom —’

‘He was funny with it, sometimes. When he got worked up. Swearing like a docker in the supermarket…’

Neither of them spoke for a long few seconds. Thorne stared at the TV, struggling to get comfortable on the bed. He could hear Helen taking another drink.

‘I’d better get some sleep,’ he said. ‘Sorry…’

‘Call me tomorrow when you’re on the way back and I can get some dinner on. Or maybe we could just get a takeaway.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Chinese?’ Helen suggested. ‘Without the added seagull…’

It was after midnight and Thorne had an early start in the morning, but once he’d finished talking to Helen and established that Frankfurt were a goal down to Bayer Leverkusen, he still felt the need to have a shower. It was as much about the day he’d had, the company he’d been keeping, as it was about the fact that he could skip having one in the morning and give himself an extra half-hour in bed.

When he’d dried himself off, he lay down on the bed with the damp, thin towel around his waist.

Come on, how many more did he kill?

Was he the worst one you ever had?

I’d bloody love your job …

He lay there for another few minutes, then he turned the television off and called Helen back.

‘Sorry, were you in bed?’

‘Almost,’ she said.

‘I can’t sleep…’

There were a few seconds of crackle on the line, a siren somewhere and the fierce breathing of the sea outside his window.

‘I’d better get another glass of wine,’ Helen said.

THE THIRD DAY

DEADLY WEATHER

He’s not taking the painkillers any more.

He’d begun leaving them on the tray, so the man doling them out has stopped bothering, which is fine. The pain has eased a little anyway, it’s not stopping him from sleeping any longer. But the fact is that he wants it, wants whatever is left of it. Not taking the painkillers means that his head isn’t fuzzy all the time, which is good, because it means he can focus.

And the pain lets him hold on to his anger.

He’s got no idea what the man’s name is of course, just as he had no idea what the couple’s names were, so he’s made one up. He calls him Adrian. It’s the name of someone he works with, a weaselly little tosser who gets on his nerves. It’s a little bit nerdish too, which he thinks suits the man with his thick glasses and ratty ponytail and his hairless, white belly which is now on display again. Just an inch or two of it, sagging beneath the bottom of his black T-shirt.

Adrian sits on a chair in the middle of the room, reading a comic of some sort. He studies him from the edge of the bed. He sits close to the metal bedstead, so he doesn’t have to stretch his arm out. He’d asked for some ointment for the welts where the cuffs had rubbed, but Adrian wasn’t having any of it. He said much the same thing as when he’d been asked for the antibiotics. He wasn’t a bloody chemist, something like that.

He watches Adrian read, the lips pursed in concentration. Adrian glances up for a second as he turns the page. He sees that he’s being watched but it doesn’t appear to bother him, and he quickly goes back to his comic.

‘Is that any good?’

Adrian looks up again, says nothing.

‘They’ve made a film of it, haven’t they? You’ve probably seen it, but reading’s always better, I reckon.’ He swings his legs up and eases gently back towards the bedstead. He reaches round with his free hand and props up a pillow behind him, then leans slowly back against it. He winces, but grits his teeth until the urge to cry out has passed. It hurts like hell, but at least the grubby pillowcase isn’t sticking to his wound, which means it’s starting to scab over. ‘I have this running argument with a mate of mine,’ he says. ‘He says they’re comics. Gets really annoyed when I tell him they’re graphic novels, try and explain how dark they are, how brilliant the artwork is. He doesn’t listen. His loss though, right?’

Adrian looks up again and now he shuts what is undoubtedly just a comic with a glossy cover and lays it down gently by the side of the chair. He leans back and says, ‘I don’t want to be your friend. So you’re wasting your time trying to crawl up my arse.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Yeah,’ Adrian says. ‘You were.’ He nods down to the comic. ‘I don’t give a toss what you or anyone else calls them, but I’m bloody sure you’ve never read one in your life.’

‘Are they your friends?’ he asks. ‘The other two.’

‘Never met them before.’ Adrian says this almost proudly. ‘We share an interest, that’s all.’

‘What about whoever’s organised this? Whoever’s in charge.’

‘What about them?’

‘Are they your friend?’

‘How do you know I’m not in charge?’

‘You said you were here to do certain things, so I’m guessing someone put you here. Put you together with the other two.’

‘You’re such a smartarse,’ Adrian says.

‘So people tell me.’

‘Yeah, well look where it’s got you.’

‘I can hear you on the phone, you know.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Outside.’

‘So?’

‘I can’t hear what you’re saying, not really, but I recognise the tone. It’s funny you should talk about crawling up arses, because that’s exactly what I’m hearing when you’re on the phone talking to whoever it is. Is it the boy or the girl? Looked to me like the girl was the one calling the shots.’ He waits, but Adrian says nothing. ‘Yeah, definitely her, I reckon. Even if she wasn’t a nutter, she’d scare the crap out of you, wouldn’t she? She’s got tits and everything. Probably makes you feel a bit funny in your downstairs special place, doesn’t it?’