‘Yeah, her.’

‘She’s staying in the same place she was last night,’ Thorne said. ‘With Howell and the CSI.’

‘What about you and the prison lot?’

‘We’re in a separate cottage. Me, Dave and the four from Long Lartin.’

‘Sounds cosy,’ Helen said.

‘Oh, it’ll be lovely. I reckon we’ll be keeping each other awake all night, giggling and talking about girls and football.’

‘I still find it hard to believe there’s only one boat. Or that there’s nobody else capable of sailing the bloody thing.’

‘Just the way it is.’

‘It’s definitely coming tomorrow, is it?’

‘Don’t tempt fate, for God’s sake.’ Thorne turned and looked towards the sea, watched the beam from the lighthouse sweep across the stretch of water in his line of vision and away. Once the darkness had returned he could just make out the lights of a large boat in the far distance. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Any problems with the weather tomorrow, I’m swimming for it.’

For a few minutes they talked about what Helen had been doing at work. They talked around some of her ongoing cases – the banter and the bullshit and the less than serious moments – though it was clear that she still wanted to talk properly when Thorne got back.

‘I know it’s only Wales,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘It feels like you’re on the other side of the world, or something. Just a long way away, you know?’

‘Feels like that to me too,’ Thorne said. ‘Something about this place. It’s like going back in time.’ Helen replied, but the line broke up and he couldn’t catch it. ‘Listen, do you know what fraping is?’

‘Yeah, it’s when kids put fake pictures or status updates or whatever on somebody else’s Facebook page. Frape is Facebook rape, you get it?’

‘Nice.’

‘You’re so not down with the kids.’

‘I think that’s probably a good thing,’ Thorne said.

‘You fancy going out somewhere tomorrow night?’

Thorne could not be sure exactly what time he would make it home the following day, but barring disasters it would be in time for dinner. ‘Sounds great,’ he said.

‘I’ll see if I can get my dad to take Alfie.’

‘What about Indian?’ Thorne waited a few seconds for a response, then looked at his phone and saw that he had lost the signal. He moved from one corner to the other, held the handset at arm’s length, swearing loudly enough to raise several dead saints as he tried to get the signal back. When the tell-tale bars eventually reappeared on the small screen, he called Helen again, but she was engaged.

He waited, guessing that she was trying to call him back.

He looked out into the blackness, paying particular attention to the lower slopes of the mountain rising up behind the chapel, still thinking about that torch-beam he had seen in the back garden of the Old House.

He turned and stared past the point where the land fell away, but he couldn’t see the boat any longer. It was only the noise that told him the sea was there at all.

Howell and the others were sitting around a table in the parlour when Thorne returned to Chapel House. If the empty one on the floor was not evidence enough, the laughter and increased volume of conversation pointed towards a second bottle of wine having been opened. Barber was dealing from a tatty-looking pack of playing cards and each person had a pile of matches in front of them.

‘All good?’ Holland asked.

‘Wet,’ Thorne said. He looked around for something to dry his hair with, but could see nothing. With no bathroom facilities, towels were clearly the responsibility of those visitors who could bring themselves to wash at a kitchen sink in ice-cold water. He shook the water from his hair, pointing towards the closed door and the sitting room beyond. ‘Everything all right in there?’

‘Fine,’ Holland said, picking his cards up. ‘Nobody fancied listening to Nicklin any more, that’s all. So we came out here.’

‘He’s in a talkative mood,’ Howell said.

‘Nobody likes a chatty psycho, do they?’ Markham fanned her cards out, every inch the experienced player.

‘I don’t know,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s when he’s sitting there saying nothing that you want to worry. When the cogs are turning.’

Holland tossed a few of his matches into the middle of the table. ‘Four,’ he said.

‘Call,’ Markham said.

Thorne leaned down and snatched Holland’s cards from him. ‘Come on, Dave. I think we need to get that lot bedded down.’

‘Shame,’ Holland said. He pushed back his chair, then reached for the empty box at the other end of the table and began dropping his matches back in. ‘I was making a killing here.’

When Thorne opened the door to the sitting room, all heads but Batchelor’s turned to him. ‘We should make a move,’ Thorne said. He stepped inside and looked at Fletcher, then at Jenks. ‘Time to get your boys to bed.’

Nicklin was the first one to his feet, Fletcher quick to follow, a little taken by surprise.

‘Bagsy the top bunk,’ Nicklin said.

FIFTY-ONE

‘No chance,’ Fletcher said. He peered into the bedroom and shook his head, as though he were no more than a dissatisfied guest at a hotel. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘And there I was thinking this was your job,’ Thorne said.

‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, isn’t it?’ Fletcher planted his feet and squared his shoulders. ‘This is not what I’m paid for.’

‘No, not normally, I understand that. But these are special circumstances.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Everybody else is having to adapt.’

‘There’s not enough money, mate. Nowhere near. Sorry, but you’ll have to sort something else out.’

‘Such as what?’

‘You share a fucking room with him.’

As soon as they had arrived at the Old House, Thorne had escorted the group from room to room; allocating beds, talking through the protocols that would see everyone safely through to the following morning. Thorne had told Holland to take the first of the single rooms and Holland had not complained. Jenks had seemed fine about sharing a room with Jeffrey Batchelor once Thorne had pointed out that the prisoners would be handcuffed to their bedsteads throughout the night. Batchelor had said nothing. Nicklin had moaned briefly about human rights, but Thorne sensed that it was just for show and the protest petered out once Thorne had made it clear that there was simply no alternative.

As they had approached the second of the rooms containing two single beds, Fletcher – seeing what was coming – had begun grumbling and hanging back, like a child in fear of the dentist who has just heard the whine of the drill.

Now they stood on the landing outside the room. Cop and prison officer staring one another out.

Thorne was nominally head of the entire operation, but it gave him no formal authority over either of the officers from Long Lartin. Both had seemed content up to this point, happy to go along with everyone else while they clocked up the overtime. This, though, was a sticking point, and it was clear that Fletcher was not going to budge.

‘I’m frankly rather hurt, Mr Fletcher,’ Nicklin said.

Fletcher shrugged. ‘I couldn’t give a toss what you are.’

‘I’m the one that’s going to be handcuffed to the bed like a wild animal, so you’ll be perfectly safe. I don’t see what it is you’re objecting to.’

‘And I don’t have to give you reasons.’

‘Is it a personal hygiene issue?’

‘It’s a not wanting to share a room with a murderer issue.’

Nicklin nodded towards the other officer. ‘Mr Jenks doesn’t seem to have a problem.’

‘It’s hardly the same thing.’

‘No? Jeff beat an innocent boy to death with his bare hands.’

Fletcher looked at Jenks. ‘You fancy swapping, Alan?’

‘I’m fine as I am,’ Jenks said.

‘I’ll do it,’ Thorne said. ‘I’ll share with Nicklin, OK?’

Fletcher nodded, satisfied.