Thorne understood now that Nicklin was planning to do exactly what he had done twenty-five years earlier, the first time he had escaped from Bardsey Island. There was a boat coming, probably piloted by whoever had made sure the Morgans were unable to come. They were probably already on their way to collect Nicklin and his accomplice on the island, the man who had taken Batchelor on to the mountain.

‘How much did Batchelor know?’ Thorne asked.

‘No more than he needed to,’ Nicklin said. ‘He didn’t actually want to know any more. It was just about him getting the chance to top himself the way he wanted, that was all. I mean he knew more or less what I was planning to do, course he did.’

‘But he didn’t know about Hendricks.’

‘Oh God, no. He would never have agreed. Far too squeamish. I even offered to make sure that the kid who was really responsible for his daughter’s death was made to suffer, once I’d sorted myself out, but he wasn’t interested. He’s very forgiving.’ Nicklin glanced towards the window. ‘Actually, we should probably be talking about poor old Jeff in the past tense by now.’

Thorne could not help wondering if the same thing would apply to Alan Jenks. He looked across and all too easily imagined flying at Stuart Nicklin, doing a lot more damage than he had done all those years before in that playground. But he remembered the feel of his friend’s dead flesh beneath his fingers and knew that, whatever else happened, he must fight the urge to hurt the man responsible.

‘So, what do we do now?’

‘Well, it must be obvious to you what’s at stake. Yes?’

Thorne nodded.

‘I’m giving you my word that once I’m safely off this shitty rock and back on the mainland, I’ll make the necessary call and your friend will be released. You just need to make sure that I’m given adequate time to get there. Once that happens, obviously all bets are off and I understand that you and a lot of your colleagues will be out looking for me, but you need to make sure that doesn’t happen before I make the call.’

‘It won’t.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘I’ll do whatever I have to.’

Nicklin nodded, looking pleased, then stood up and told Thorne to lie down. ‘Quick as you can.’

Thorne did as he was told and saw Nicklin moving towards him, brandishing the handcuffs. ‘Come on, there’s no need for those.’

‘Best to cover all the bases,’ Nicklin said.

‘I’ve told you, you’ll get what you need. Why would I risk anything happening to Phil?’

‘Oh, if I’m being honest I know you won’t,’ Nicklin said. ‘This bit’s just for me.’ He grabbed Thorne’s wrist, dragged it across and cuffed it to the bedstead. When he was finished he stood back to admire his handiwork. He raised his hands and mimed taking a photograph. ‘It’s an image I’ll enjoy taking away with me, that’s all. Just a bit of fun.’

‘You know Holland will be back?’ Thorne said. ‘Maybe well before you get taken off the island?’

‘That’s a possibility.’

‘What do I tell him?’

‘Anything you like,’ Nicklin said. ‘You could always just tell him the truth, I’m sure he’ll understand. Come to that, you’ll need to think about what you’re going to tell everyone else who’s going to want to know what happened. You could try telling them that, while you were preoccupied with an escaped prisoner, I somehow managed to get my cuffs off and overpower you.’ He moved his head from side to side, like he was weighing the story up, how well it would play. ‘Or like I said, just tell them exactly what happened, that you were trying to save a life. You might want to finesse things a little, fiddle with the timings. Leaving a prison officer to die is never going to sound good, is it, however much you tart it up?’

Nicklin moved to the corner into which his jacket and boots had been tossed. He sat on a chair and began to put them on. He said, ‘You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself about this.’

‘I’ll try not to be,’ Thorne said.

‘Seriously. It’s worked out pretty well for Simon Milner’s mother, hasn’t it? For Eileen Bennett’s family.’

It struck Thorne that Brigstocke had said much the same thing only a few hours earlier. ‘What about Jeff Batchelor’s family?’

‘That was his choice.’

‘Fletcher and Jenks didn’t have a lot of choice, did they?’

‘They chose the job, same as you did. You deal with dangerous people, there’s always going to be an element of risk.’ Nicklin finished fastening his boots, stood and walked back across to the bed.

Thorne looked up at him and they stared at one another for a few long seconds. ‘Haven’t you gone yet?’

‘Come on, when a plan comes together, when you get to a moment like this, you have to enjoy it a bit, don’t you? Plus there’s one other thing.’ He took a step closer, his knees against the edge of the bed. ‘Twice now, you’ve done a good deal of damage to my face.’ He rubbed a hand across his mouth, gently dabbed at his cheeks. ‘Once in person and once in a rather more cowardly fashion by getting someone else to put broken glass into my food.’

‘You’d tried to hurt my friend.’

‘Oh I remember.’

‘And you’ve got your own back now, wouldn’t you say?’

Nicklin said, ‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ and bent to punch Thorne hard in the face.

Thorne cried out, tasting the blood filling his mouth, feeling for teeth which were no longer where they should be. Breathing heavily, he turned his head and looked back up at Nicklin, who was rubbing his knuckles, flexing the fingers. As soon as he had resumed eye contact, Thorne sucked in a deep breath and said, ‘Again…’

Nicklin nodded and Thorne tensed, closing his eyes as the fist came down a second time. He felt his lip split when his front teeth burst through it and blood leaking from his nose. When he opened his eyes a few seconds later and blinked away the tears, Nicklin had gone.

There were only footsteps going down the stairs and a tune being whistled it would take Thorne until the following day to place.

‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’.

THREE WEEKS LATER

MARKED ON THE INSIDE

FIFTY-EIGHT

Driving to the school after the conversation with the police officer, Sonia Batchelor did her best to keep the anger in check. She did not want Rachel to see it. Things were tough enough as it was and she did not want her daughter to think that she was not in control, not keeping on top of things.

It was hard though.

There had been that same exasperation in Kitson’s voice, something else that sounded like boredom.

‘Yes, me again,’ Sonia had said.

‘You weren’t joking, were you?’

‘Of course I wasn’t. I told you, I won’t be fobbed off.’

‘Nobody’s trying to fob you off, Sonia.’

‘Good. So, any news?’

It had been a week since she had announced that she would be calling twice every day, morning and afternoon, and would continue doing so until someone told her when her husband’s body was going to be released. When she and Rachel could bury him. Today, Kitson had sighed, then said what she had said the day before and the day before that.

‘Your husband’s death is closely connected to the murders of two prison officers. It’s part of the same case. Until investigations have been satisfactorily completed, it can’t be released. I’m sorry.’

‘And when’s that likely to be?’

The exasperation obvious then. ‘You must know I can’t possibly answer that.’

‘Jeff killed himself.’

‘Nothing is official though, I’m afraid. Not yet.’

The inquest into Jeffrey Batchelor’s death had been convened and immediately adjourned, as per standard procedure. As yet, no date had been set for its resumption.

‘I don’t understand what you’re all waiting for,’ Sonia had said. ‘What it is you still don’t know.’

‘I’m sorry —’

‘He left me a message.’