‘You take the other single room.’ Thorne tossed his holdall into the bedroom. ‘And all doors to stay open, OK?’

The arrangements hammered out, they all trooped into the room that Jenks and Batchelor would be sleeping in. While Fletcher stayed close to Nicklin, Thorne and Holland assisted in getting Jenks’s prisoner into bed. It was a fairly straightforward procedure, certainly once everyone had agreed that it was cold enough to necessitate sleeping fully dressed. Batchelor’s jacket and shoes were removed and as soon as he was beneath the blankets, one handcuff was unfastened and swiftly attached to the metal bedstead.

Batchelor immediately turned on to his side, face to the wall, and did his best to get comfortable. Jenks asked him if he was OK and he grunted, tugging at the blanket with his free hand.

Nicklin said, ‘Sleep well, Jeff.’

Batchelor nodded and did not move again.

Thorne asked Fletcher and Holland if they would get Nicklin bedded down in the other room, while he went downstairs to make a final check on security arrangements.

‘Try not to be too long,’ Nicklin said.

Thorne turned for the door. ‘And don’t worry about being gentle with him.’

‘Oh, and a glass of water would be nice…’

Thorne could not find any kind of key, but made sure that the heavy bolt on the front door was pulled across. He did the same with the back door, but not before he had opened it and stood for a few minutes, shining a torch into the rear garden.

Everything seemed as it should be. The wind had died down a little, but the rain looked to have settled itself in nicely. Leaning out and peering back towards the chapel, he could see light flickering behind the stained glass windows and leaking from the Chapel House just beyond it. He doubted very much that any of those inside would be going to bed any time soon. He wondered how strong the Blacks’ home-made wine was and what state Bethan Howell and the rest of them would be in the following morning.

Moving back through the house, Thorne checked all the windows, before ending up in front of the fire that Markham had lit an hour or so before. It was little more than glowing embers now, the occasional flicker as a small flame licked for a few seconds from beneath a partially burned log.

Thorne blinked, saw a shaft of browned bone emerging from black earth.

I’ve got nice and comfy with bones and blood …

He turned to head back upstairs and noticed a large, leather-bound notebook that he had not seen before, on a table near the door.

A visitors’ book.

He opened it and slowly turned the pages, read through the comments.

Never been anywhere like this!

As magical as everyone told me it would be.

I’m no saint but I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be buried.

Thorne did not have a pen and would probably not have used it even if he had, but just for a moment or two, he imagined turning to a nice, clean page and scrawling a heartfelt ‘sorry’.

Holland and Fletcher had done as they were asked and were waiting for Thorne in the bedroom. Nicklin lay in the bed nearest the door, the arm that was now handcuffed to the metal bedstead stretched out behind him, as though he were casually reaching for something.

Thorne told Holland and Fletcher to get some sleep, and reminded them to leave their doors open. ‘Anything you’re not happy with,’ he said, ‘I want to know about it.’

‘There’s plenty I’m not happy with,’ Fletcher said.

‘You know what I mean. Anything moving that isn’t a mouse, you come and tell me.’

When Holland and Fletcher had gone, Thorne removed his jacket and muddy boots. He pulled off the damp fleece he had been wearing all day and replaced the T-shirt that was underneath with a fresh one from his bag. He turned his back on his room-mate while he changed, but guessed that Nicklin was watching. He lay down on the bed, exhausted suddenly, laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. There was wallpaper coming away in one corner and filaments of cobweb swayed around the light-fitting.

Not enough money, mate …

Fletcher was a moaning pain in the arse, but Thorne could hardly blame him for not fancying this.

The lantern still sputtering on a shelf near the window was not exactly bathing the bedroom in light, but Thorne decided to leave it burning nonetheless. He knew that Nicklin had been secured, but that did not mean Thorne was looking forward to spending the night just a few feet away.

He was certainly not going to do so in the dark.

‘This is probably as much for me as it is for you,’ Nicklin said.

Thorne turned his head, watched Nicklin make a song and dance out of rattling the handcuffs.

‘To protect me from myself.’

‘Go to sleep,’ Thorne said.

‘You in bed over there… just a few feet away.’ Nicklin puffed out his cheeks and shook his head in mock relief. ‘I really don’t know if I’d be able to control myself.’

Thorne turned away again and closed his eyes.

FIFTY-TWO

The man who – unbeknown to himself – had been christened ‘Adrian’ by the only other person in the house sat in the small kitchen watching television and eating toast. He slathered peanut butter over the latest piece and put two more slices of bread under the grill.

He checked his watch.

Another ten minutes and he’d go in to clear the prisoner’s dinner things away, see if he needed the bucket. That was the bit he really disliked, all the messy stuff. Making meals and dealing with piss and shit like he was just some nurse or something. Couldn’t be helped though. He had known this would be part of the job when he’d taken it on, so there was no point in complaining – even if there’d been anyone around to complain to – and the fact was he was happy enough to do the job, menial stuff included, because at the end of the day it was an honour.

The others had felt the same way, the couple he’d taken over from.

‘We’re lucky,’ the girl had said. ‘Plenty of other people would jump at the chance.’

He wasn’t sure there were plenty, but he knew what she was getting at. He guessed there would be a good few people keen to seize an opportunity like this one. It was as close as they were likely to get to a celebrity and, if the worst happened, they might get a taste of it themselves. In newspapers and books, maybe even movies one day. That was what you called a silver lining!

So, there was cooking and there was cleaning up, but the part he liked best of all was when he spent time in the room with the prisoner. Just sitting there reading or whatever, watching him and listening to all the desperate rubbish he came out with. Those were the times when he knew he’d done the right thing, because it was a buzz he couldn’t remember getting from anything else he’d ever done. Not from games, and that was probably what came closest. However many aliens or cops or hookers you were wasting, only the real saddos actually got off on it. Only the proper losers imagined they were doing it for real. He enjoyed playing, no mistake about it, but they were just games.

This was something altogether different. This was genuine power over another person. It was life and death, simple as that, and that was a rush you didn’t get every day. Certainly not working in telesales.

The man, whose name was actually Damien, turned his toast over and reached for the wooden knife block next to the cooker. He drew out the biggest knife and touched a finger to its edge. Not for the first time, he wondered whose place this was. It didn’t appear very lived in, that was for sure. It didn’t feel like the knife he was holding had been used for a while.

He thought about what he’d told the prisoner about the scalpel, the girl leaving it behind. It wasn’t true of course, he’d just wanted to scare him, but the fact was there were loads of other knives knocking around, if he chose to use them.