The pain had eased a little by the time they laid him not very gently down on the bathroom floor. He smelled bleach and soap, piss on the mat around the toilet. The cramping in his muscles had diminished to the point where he was able to raise his head just an inch or two from the lino.

To say, ‘I’ve got some savings. There’s money in the bank. I can get it…’

One of them said something and the other one might have replied, but anything they said after that was drowned out once the bath taps had been turned on.

Lying on the floor, he understood now what was coming, even if he still had no idea why. He was too weak suddenly to move or cry out. To stop his bladder opening. To say anything beyond a whispered, ‘please’ that was lost beneath the rush and splash of the bath filling.

FORTY-ONE

This time, they were able to leave the vast majority of their gear behind at the school. Now they knew exactly where to look. Though they might want the lights and generator down the line, for the time being they needed nothing more sophisticated than spades and later – if Howell was proved right – they would require only the equipment necessary for the recovery of Eileen Bennett’s remains.

Twenty minutes after Thorne, Howell and Holland had returned to the school and begun asking awkward questions, the entire party was walking back down across the fields, moving swiftly towards the location where Howell and her team had spent the majority of the previous day. The mood among them was rather more fractious than it had been at any time since they had set foot on the island. The professional calm had been shattered beyond repair.

Howell was still shouting at Andy Barber and he was happy to shout back.

‘Look, it’s not like we were working in a mass grave or anything. This isn’t Bosnia, is it?’

‘You didn’t do what I asked you.’

‘Because I didn’t see any point.’

‘What?’

‘We were there to find one body and we found it.’

‘It’s standard practice.’

‘Come on, calm down, love.’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down and don’t call me love.’

‘Sorry —’

‘All you had to do was your job and you didn’t, because you couldn’t be arsed. Because it was late and you wanted your bed.’

‘I said I’m sorry, all right?’

‘If I’m right about this, sorry isn’t going to be good enough.’

‘It won’t happen again.’

‘Too bloody right it won’t happen again. Not with me anyway, because you won’t be part of any team I’m working with, simple as that.’

A few feet behind them, Markham looked at Thorne and raised an eyebrow.

‘She’s right to be pissed off,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m pissed off, but she’s the one with the authority as far as that dickhead’s concerned, so she gets to dish out the bollocking.’

Markham nodded, impressed. ‘Remind me not to fall out with her.’

‘Were you planning to?’

‘I don’t want to fall out with anyone,’ Markham said. ‘You included.’

‘Why should we fall out?’

‘I’m just checking we’re OK, that’s all.’ She lowered her voice a little further. ‘We never really said anything about the other night.’

‘Oh.’

‘Just had one glass of wine too many, that’s all.’

‘It happens.’

‘Sorry if I put you on the spot.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘I suppose I’m just saying you don’t have to worry about me doing my job.’

‘Why would I?’

‘If we’ve got another crime scene, I mean.’

‘I’m not worried,’ Thorne said. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and stared ahead, increasing the length of his stride just enough to take him a pace or two ahead of her.

At the rear of the group, the two prisoners and their minders moved in silence. Nicklin had not said a great deal since Thorne had returned from the caves and the accusations had begun to fly, but the look on his face once it kicked off had convinced Thorne that Howell was on the money. He also realised that Nicklin had been right in suggesting that it was not that difficult to work out where Eileen Bennett’s body might be.

Thorne was embarrassed, angry with himself that Bethan Howell had worked it out before he had.

Half an hour later, Barber and Holland had taken their jackets off, picked up shovels and were excavating a grave that had been carefully dug out and filled in the day before. From which the body of Simon Milner had already been exhumed. As they dug, Howell was carefully moving the spoil from the edge of the grave, should examination prove necessary later on, while the rest of the party stood in a rough semi-circle around the gradually deepening hole.

Nicklin was smoking again. Like the handcuffs weren’t there, like he hadn’t a care in the world.

It had begun to rain, a soft drizzle that was gathering strength, but none of those observing seemed much inclined to head back indoors, even if Thorne had given the word to do so. They appeared content to stare as the heavy, wet earth was shifted, to stand in the rain and watch for that first glimpse of bone.

It didn’t take very long.

Less than an hour after starting to dig, a few inches below the level at which Simon Milner’s remains had been found, a mud-crusted femur was uncovered; a tattered grey ribbon of what might have been a skirt still attached.

Nicklin turned to Thorne, said, ‘Ta-daaa!’ He flicked away the remains of a roll-up and nodded towards the grave, the bone dangling between Dave Holland’s finger and thumb. ‘See, it wasn’t that hard, was it?’

Thorne said nothing, aware that Nicklin was not the only one looking at him and waiting for a reaction. He stared down at one of the discarded shovels. He thought how easy it would be to bend down and pick it up and he wondered what sound the blade would make as it bounced off Nicklin’s bald head.

‘Right, let’s get sorted then.’ Bethan Howell did not need to look at the bone twice. She was quickly into the grave and ordering Barber and Holland out of it. ‘We need to get the tent up,’ she said.

Barber offered to go and get it, clearly feeling the need to score some Brownie points fast. ‘I’ll bring the rest of the stuff down as well.’

‘Hurry up, then.’ Howell watched Barber walk away, then carefully laid the bone down at the edge of the grave.

With Fletcher at his shoulder, Nicklin wandered across to where Thorne and Holland were standing. Holland was putting his jacket back on. There were streaks of dirt across his cheek and forehead, plastered into place by sweat. Nicklin leaned in close. ‘So, you reckon there might be the odd bit of her rotted down in there?’

‘What?’

He raised his hands and pointed. ‘In what’s all over your face. Must be at least a few remnants of flesh and gristle mixed into the dirt. Powdered blood…’

Holland quickly touched a finger to his face, then turned away and stepped across to where Wendy Markham was brandishing a fistful of tissues. He took several and stood watching the exchange between Nicklin and Thorne as he wiped his face good and hard.

‘Why did you do it like that?’ Thorne asked.

‘Like what?’

‘You could just have thrown the two bodies in together. Simon and Eileen. That would have been the quickest thing to do, surely.’

‘Probably,’ Nicklin said.

‘But you buried Eileen first. You covered her up and then you buried Simon on top. You separated them.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Nicklin looked genuinely shocked that anyone might not understand his actions. ‘They weren’t family, they hadn’t even met as far as I was aware. I had no way of knowing what they believed, what their wishes might be. To have done it any other way would have been… disrespectful.’

Thorne barked out a dry laugh. ‘So, you murder them both for no good reason and then you’re worried about being disrespectful afterwards?’

‘Absolutely.’

Thorne shook his head and looked across at Howell, who was climbing into a body suit, snapping on plastic gloves. ‘God, listen to me. Like I’m talking to someone normal.’ He looked at Fletcher. ‘Why am I even surprised?’