THIRTY-EIGHT

Wendy Markham had discovered a cupboard stuffed with old magazines and was sitting on the small stage at the far end of the hall, thumbing through copies of Woman’s Weekly and Woman’s Own that were older than she was. Barber was hunched over a table nearby, struggling with a jigsaw he was convinced had some pieces missing, and Fletcher and Jenks sat within touching distance of the tea and biscuits, exchanging gossip about a female colleague who had allegedly got a little over-friendly with an armed robber in the prison library.

Nicklin and Batchelor sat close together on a bench underneath the window. Nicklin did not have to make any special effort to talk quietly. He had become well used to having conversations in a place where you were almost always in danger of being overheard; where a degree of concealment in word as well as deed had become second nature.

‘So, what did you and Thorne talk about last night?’ he asked. ‘When he walked you down to your cell.’

Batchelor shook his head. ‘I told him I wanted to speak to my wife, that was all.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he might be able to make that happen.’

Nicklin smiled. ‘I’m guessing he wanted something from you first though, right?’

‘Yes, but I couldn’t give him anything, could I?’

‘No you couldn’t.’ Nicklin looked across and saw Fletcher watching them.

‘Everything all right, Stuart?’

‘Couldn’t be better, Mr Fletcher.’

The prison officer bit a biscuit in half and gestured with what was left of it. ‘You won’t get away with this for very long, you know?’

‘Get away with what, Mr Fletcher?’

‘Pulling DI Thorne’s plonker like this. He doesn’t strike me as a man with a lot of patience.’

‘Come on, Mr Fletcher. It’s not too bad hanging about here, is it? Isn’t this better than patrolling the wing?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘On top of which, Barcelona’s a pricey place, exchange rate on the euro and what have you. So if you want to enjoy your holiday, you’ll need all the overtime you can get.’

‘All right, Stuart, that’s enough.’

‘If you know something, you should tell him,’ Jenks said.

‘I’m only trying to make things a bit more interesting.’

‘I’m not sure he sees it that way.’

‘Come on, how would it look if I helped the police too much?’ Nicklin waited, allowing the officers time to consider what was clearly an extremely serious question. ‘How would that go down back at Long Lartin? I’ve got a reputation to protect, haven’t I?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Jenks said. The quieter and less demonstrative of the two officers was as animated as Nicklin could remember. ‘You’ve certainly got one of those.’

Nicklin waited until Fletcher and Jenks were whispering again. Something about the ‘pair of them being at it like rabbits in the fantasy section’.

‘Why did you bother asking Thorne? About ringing your wife. I told you I’d make sure that happens, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, but if I could have done it last night, it would have made things easier, don’t you think? One less thing to worry about.’

‘I’m not worried about anything, Jeff.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you are.’

‘Are you worried?’

Batchelor pushed his boot back and forth across the floor, leaving worms of dried mud on the worn parquet.

‘Look, of course you are, but it’s not like you needed your arm twisting or anything, is it? That’s not how I remember it.’

‘No,’ Batchelor said.

‘You remember what you were like back then?’ Nicklin shook his head as if the memory pained him, as though it were almost too terrible to contemplate. ‘After the letter?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Who was it showed you a way through that?’

Batchelor dislodged some more mud on to the floor.

‘Right. So, I wish you’d trust me. It’s hurtful that you don’t.’

‘I don’t mean to hurt you,’ Batchelor said, quickly.

‘I’ll tell you much the same thing I told Thorne yesterday,’ Nicklin said. ‘It’s not out of the goodness of my heart. I mean, you’re not stupid, you know that. But ultimately it’s something that suits both of us, isn’t it? It works for both of us or neither of us. Which is why I need to know that you’re still OK with everything.’

‘I’m OK with it.’

‘Good.’ Nicklin leaned across until their shoulders met. ‘And I won’t forget about that phone call. It might not be the longest conversation you’ve ever had, mind you.’

‘That’s fine,’ Batchelor said. ‘I don’t have very much to say.’

‘Probably best.’ Nicklin looked up and saw that Fletcher and Jenks were watching again. Nicklin raised his hands and gave them a clumsy, handcuffed thumbs-up. Fletcher shook his head, as though Nicklin were a persistently naughty yet charming schoolboy.

Jenks looked rather less amused. ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘You need to tell Thorne where this body is.’

‘There’s bodies everywhere on this island,’ Nicklin said. ‘He could start digging almost anywhere he fancied. Nine times out of ten he’ll find some bones.’

‘This woman’s body,’ Jenks said.

‘Thorne’s not daft, is he?’ Nicklin raised his hands again. ‘I wouldn’t be sitting here wearing these things if he was. I’m sure he’ll work it out eventually.’ He turned his face towards the window, what little daylight the caked-on grime allowed through. ‘Talking of which, what’s the time?’

Jenks glanced at his watch. ‘It’s just after eleven.’

‘Already?’ Nicklin shook his head, looked at Batchelor. ‘I don’t know where the day’s going, do you, Jeff?’

THIRTY-NINE

The descent was not quite as straightforward as Thorne had thought the day before. It took the three of them more than double the fifteen minutes Thorne had estimated it would take when he’d first looked down at the drop, but he guessed that a seventeen-year-old boy with a body to get rid of and a boat waiting to take him to freedom might have done it rather quicker than that.

Once they had reached the shoreline, it was hard to tell if the tide was on its way in or out. Either way the water was up over their ankles as they stepped carefully around those rocks that were too large or uneven to walk across. Howell was wearing wellingtons, but if they were going to get where they were heading, Thorne and Holland had little choice but to let the seawater fill their boots and soak the bottom of their jeans. At almost every step, curses were muttered or shouted, depending on their severity. Howell laughed, assured them that there was no need to censor themselves on her account. Within a few seconds, she had slipped on a rock and grazed her wrist trying to steady herself. She let fly a torrent of invective that stopped Thorne and Holland in their tracks.

‘See?’ she said. She licked at her injured wrist and started swearing again.

‘Something about your accent though,’ Holland said, when she’d finished. ‘Makes “fuck-shit-fuckety-fuck” sound a bit more poetic than when we say it.’

Thorne pointed. Said, ‘There you go…’

They began moving again. The wind was stronger suddenly and it felt like there was rain coming. They took their time, stepping cautiously across jagged rocks that were thick with slime and wading slowly through puddles of weed, until they finally stood at the entrance to a cave. The opening was no more than five feet high and narrow.

Wide enough, Thorne thought; if you were crouching, dragging something.

‘He mentioned there were caves down here and I just thought… I don’t know.’ He looked at Holland. ‘Brigstocke said there might be clues, so maybe he mentioned the caves for a reason.’

‘Does your head in,’ Holland said. ‘Even trying to think about what he might be up to.’

Howell said, ‘It makes sense.’ She looked back along the shoreline, the way they’d come, then turned to the cave. ‘He dumps her in there, throws a few rocks over the body, then wades out to meet his mate. There’s no reason why anyone would ever have looked down here. There’s no access from the water.’