‘No, and I’m really pissed off about it now.’

‘Yeah, well it’s good news for Eileen Bennett’s family, isn’t it? It’s good news for Simon Milner’s mum.’

‘Don’t do that, Russell,’ Thorne said. ‘Don’t pull that sentimental crap because it won’t work.’

‘Jesus, what’s it been, three days?’ That edge had crept into Brigstocke’s voice again, friendship giving ground to rank. ‘You could have spent that time sitting outside some scrote’s house or filling in paperwork for CCTV footage. Waiting for some jobsworth at a mobile phone company to return your call. At least you’ve achieved something.’ There were voices in the background, laughter. ‘I’ve spent the last three days in meetings, playing bullshit bingo.’

‘You want me to feel sorry for you?’ Thorne said. ‘Sleeping in your own bed every night and not getting pissed on in the arse-end of nowhere. Not having to play nursemaid to a nutter like Stuart Nicklin. Christ, it must be awful for you.’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘I want him locked up again, Russell.’

‘One more night, all right?’ Brigstocke waited, took Thorne’s silence as acceptance, grudging though it may have been. ‘Oh, and don’t pretend the sentimental thing doesn’t work with you. I’ve seen you cry at cowboy music. That one where he only stops loving her because he’s dead.’

‘Sorry, mate, I’m not really in the mood to joke about this.’

‘Listen, I’ve got to get back,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Eyes down for more bullshit bingo. Let’s talk later, OK?’

‘Remember to make that call,’ Thorne said.

‘You’re breaking up…’

‘Don’t give me that.’ Thorne took the phone from his ear and shouted at it. ‘Get me a helicopter, Russell…’

He hung up, slowed his pace a little and, once he had his breath back, he dialled Helen’s number. The connection seemed to take ages, though it was probably no more than fifteen or twenty seconds of clicks and ominous silences.

The call went straight to her voicemail, so he left a message.

He said, ‘It’s me,’ and turned his face away from the wind. ‘Everything’s gone tits up here and it looks like I’m not going to make it back tonight, so I just wanted to let you know that.’ He was trying to sound a little less miserable than he felt, but it was an effort. ‘Call me later when you get a chance… actually, I’m only getting a signal in one place, so it’s probably better if I try and call you. Not sure what time, but I’ll try not to make it too late.

‘Anyway… hope your day’s not too shitty and talk to you later on.’ He looked across and saw Holland waiting, his arms outstretched, asking. ‘Give Alfie a squeeze…’

All of them except Howell and Barber who were working in and around the grave, drifted across to join Thorne as soon as he was back. As he had suspected, his agitation – in the conversation with Burnham and the phone call with Brigstocke – had been clear enough from half a field away. Everyone was understandably eager to know what was happening.

Thorne could see little point in sugaring the pill.

The weather was unlikely to change, the boatman’s father had been taken into hospital and there was no chance of hearing the whump-whump of helicopter blades any time soon.

He said, ‘We’re all staying here tonight.’

Several people started talking at once; asking questions, then taking an unhelpful stab at answering those of others. Thorne raised his hand and kept it there until the last person had shut up. He told them exactly what the warden had told him.

‘I don’t like it any better than you do,’ he said. Fletcher, Jenks and Holland certainly looked every bit as miserable as Thorne felt at the prospect of spending the night on the island. ‘But there’s not a fat lot we can do about the weather, is there?’ Even as he said it, he realised it was much the same thing Brigstocke had said to him and he began to wonder if he’d given the DCI too tough a time on the phone. Then he saw the look on Nicklin’s face and decided that he had not been nearly tough enough.

Standing between Fletcher and Jenks, Nicklin was shifting his weight slowly from foot to foot. For a few seconds he looked as concerned, as apprehensive as everyone else, until the temptation to smirk became too strong to resist.

‘The best laid plans of mice and men,’ he said. ‘And coppers.’

FORTY-THREE

It was one of the few perks that came with knocking on a bit, with being as old as he was, at any rate. There wasn’t a great deal to celebrate, what with hearing in one ear all but gone, the need to sit down to put trousers on and a tendency to forget what he’d walked into a room for. Still, there were one or two things that came in fairly useful now and again, and being able to play the ‘doddery old git’ card when it suited him was one of them.

It was funny really, because of the two of them he was the one with the knack for it. The one who had taken to technology almost as fast as the kids did these days.

They’d been late getting it, computers and what have you, but he’d figured out the basics quickly enough. Emails, websites, all that. When it came to using it for things he didn’t fancy though, it was usually easier just to plead ignorance. To make out like it was all mumbo-jumbo, like he was far too long in the tooth to be bothering with any of that, thank you very much.

Oh no, that wasn’t for him…

Course, he was happy enough being a ‘silver surfer’ if and when it suited him – like sending emails on the sly to that saucy old mare who ran the newsagent’s – but not when something like a tax return came along. So, he’d happily left the boy to it all morning and had a few hours to himself.

Bloody lovely!

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone fishing for pleasure, so he’d grabbed his rod and tackle box, filled up a Thermos and walked down to a spot he hadn’t used in years. Those few hours had flown by and it hardly mattered that he hadn’t caught much. A couple of nice whiting for the freezer was more than enough, anyway. It had just been nice to do something he loved without the pressure they were under most other days, when they were out there in all weathers trying to pay the bills and keep a roof over their heads. Sitting there with your line in the water for no other reason than the fun of it, with time to think and enjoy the day was not the same thing at all. God, no…

Brilliant, it was, and now, walking back to the house with those whiting heavy and swinging in a plastic bag, he almost felt bad about the subterfuge. The playing stupid. He might tell the boy tomorrow, once the tax stuff was done with. He’d shout and sulk for a bit, but they’d laugh about it later on, out on the boat where there wasn’t the time or space for stupid grudges.

They’d open a few cans of beer and maybe he’d fry them up one of those whiting for their tea, once they’d been across to the island and back.

He dropped his stuff in the hall, called the boy’s name out as he carried the fish through to the kitchen. He put the bag down on the draining board and picked out the knife he would use to gut them. He flicked the kettle on, took the milk from the fridge, then walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to the living room.

The computer was still humming. The screen still filled with columns of figures, the cursor flashing.

He stepped out into the hall and shouted up the stairs. ‘Given up, have you, you lazy bugger?’ He listened, but could hear nothing but the tick and grumble of the kettle growing louder.

He walked up the stairs, the pain in his right knee a sharp reminder of one other thing that was horrible about getting old. It was odd, he thought, how he hadn’t felt any of the usual aches and pains sitting there on the beach, listening to the gulls scream over his head and sipping tea from a flask. That was the way of it, though. He could feel like a teenager out there on the boat all day, pulling in lobster pots or scrubbing the deck. Then, he’d sit at home all evening, groaning in agony like he was barely ten minutes from popping his clogs.