There was a head count just before lights out, but everyone knew it was a waste of time, the screws included. They used to joke about it. The one with the straggly beard said he couldn’t count up to twelve anyway. The fact was, a couple of the lads would sneak out at least once a week and everybody knew it.
Drink and drugs were obviously off limits, however much they might have helped with ‘contemplation’. Ruth had made that clear enough early on. Still, someone on the island must have had some. Maybe one of the painters or the poets had some weed and a bit of spare booze. Maybe they were happy to give some away or there was a pervy one getting wanked off in exchange for a couple of joints or whatever, but either way, boys were getting stuff from somewhere, then going out after dark for a drink and a smoke. Fires were lit and empty cider bottles were found in the fields or down on the beach.
Funny thing was, whenever the screws found out about it, it was always the ‘environmental impact on the island’ that got everyone hot under the collar. That was what the bollockings got dished out for; fires in the fields and plastic bottles not being disposed of properly. That was all there ever was: bollockings. The guilty party trying their hardest to keep a straight face, while Ruth shook her head and looked sad and talked about how many different people they were letting down, not to mention themselves.
Simon always remembered that joke about the inflatable kid with the inflatable mum and dad and inflatable school and everything. ‘You’ve let yourself down, you’ve let your family down and worst of all you’ve let your school down…’
Maybe they were all set to rethink the whole discipline business after what happened to Hunter, toughen things up a bit, but nothing much seemed to have changed when it came to checking on all the comings and goings.
How piss-easy it was.
Stuart only told him they were going that morning. It didn’t leave much time, but maybe that was the whole point, Simon thought. Not too long to get worried about it or chicken out; to get cold feet and do something stupid.
Yeah, it made sense.
Not that Simon was about to question Stuart about anything.
He was thrilled to be asked, to be included in the first place.
All day long, he was buzzing with it. Looking at the other boys and thinking what a bunch of losers they were. Digging their veggies or making pots or writing some rubbish in their notebooks like goodbye letters to drugs or crime or whatever else Ruth had told them to do. One boy had spat and stuck his chin out and asked Simon what he was looking at and Simon had told him to go and fuck himself.
His heart was thumping and his mouth was dry for a long time after that, but it was a good feeling. He wasn’t scared, because he knew he wasn’t going to be there for much longer anyway and he knew this boy wasn’t going to do anything, not so soon after what had happened with Hunter.
Mostly though, he wasn’t scared because of Stuart.
The two of them smiled at each other all through that last dinner and afterwards, while they were washing up. Simon could feel their shared secret passing back and forth between them. He felt it like a shock whenever their shoulders brushed at the sink or one of them laid a clean, warm plate down on top of the other’s.
For those last few hours in the lounge, while they were supposed to be reading, Simon was making mental lists: the first ten things he was going to eat; the first five places he was going to go; the three people he was not going to let anywhere near his mum…
The dealer, obviously.
The dickhead boyfriend who always made sure she went back on the gear.
The ‘best friend’ who was more of a hopeless junkie than she was and just wanted his mum to end up the same way, so she could feel better about herself.
Simon was going to make sure they stayed well away, would hurt them if he needed to. Maybe he could nick a car and sell it for a change, get enough money together so they could move out of London to the countryside or somewhere by the sea. Maybe Stuart would help him. He’d ask him what he thought as soon as they were off the island.
They went about an hour and a half after lights out. Long enough for the staff to have gone to their own rooms. Simon had thought they might have to climb out of their bedroom window but, in the end, they just marched straight out of the front door. There was a bolt, but it was on the inside!
How stupid was that? Who the hell was going to be breaking
in
?
There was no moon, which was probably a good thing. Simon guessed that Stuart had planned it this way, checked on a calendar or whatever, so it would be harder for anyone to see them. Stuart had stolen a torch from the supply cupboard and some bottles of water and a few chocolate bars for the journey. Then he’d told Simon to steal something too.
Simon thought it was like a test, or something.
There wasn’t any money left lying around, nobody was quite that trusting, so in the end he’d grabbed a few of the tiny china animals that were on the mantelpiece in the lounge. He thought it would be wrong to take them all, so he chose quickly and stuffed them into his pocket.
A cat, a bear, a dog, a monkey.
It was a warm night and the fields looked black. Stuart was good at leading them safely around the edges, using his torch, keeping it low on the ground ahead of them. There was the odd startled sheep, something scurrying in a hedge, but that was all.
Stuart had told him that they would have to wade out to the boat that was waiting, that it wouldn’t be able to get close in because of the rocks. That was fine, Simon didn’t mind the water. Stuart told him that his friend would have towels on the boat and maybe a bottle of whisky or something to warm them up.
It only took them about twenty minutes to get to the right place.
Stuart told Simon to wait and moved forward on his own, close to where the land fell sharply away. Simon watched Stuart raise the torch and flash it on and off, twice. When he saw a flash come back from out there in the darkness, Simon almost wet himself with excitement.
Stuart came back, asked Simon if he was ready. Simon started to take his shoes off, but Stuart told him not to be so stupid. There was no way he could make it down to the sea in bare feet without cutting them to pieces on the rocks. He would need to take them off at the last minute, Stuart said, tie the laces together and put them round his neck when they waded out.
Simon laughed, nervous. Said, ‘Yeah, course…’
They walked towards the edge, Stuart in front and Simon’s eye fixed on the small beam of light up ahead. Simon could not stop jabbering, shouting to make himself heard above the noise of the sea.
‘I was thinking, what I said before about having a spare room? You staying whenever you liked, remember? Well, you could come and stay there permanently if you want. I don’t think my mum would mind and it would be fun to be together a bit more, I reckon.
‘Then, when she’s cleaned herself up and maybe I don’t need to be there all the time, you and me could find somewhere on our own, a flat or something. We’d have such a laugh, I reckon. I’ve been thinking about some of the things we could get up to. The terrible twosome! Oh yeah, I’d be happy to do the cooking, by the way. I can make loads of different meals now and I know you’re not really bothered. I mean we’d have chips or a Chinese some of the time, obviously, but I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind cooking us a few things. I could even find a couple of recipes with chocolate in them. Puddings, stuff like that.
‘We could go out, we could stay in, wouldn’t matter. Just talking or whatever, watching telly…
‘Cheaper too, I reckon, two of us living together and who cares if people might think it’s a bit weird. Doesn’t matter what people think, does it and anyone who wants to say anything needs to be careful or they’ll end up like Hunter.’
Simon stopped when he heard Stuart shushing.
At first he’d thought it was the sound of the water against the stones down below.
He stared into the blackness, thinking about the boat out there waiting for them, wondering how big it was. Thinking about what it would be like when he introduced Stuart to his mum and what she would say, hoping she was straight. He was pretty sure they would get on and Stuart would help him sort out the dealer and the dickhead boyfriend. Maybe they would end up like Hunter, too.
He thought the water was still whispering and then he realised that Stuart was standing behind him and saying his name. He turned and saw the shape of something in Stuart’s hand.
Not a torch, not a bag.
It was like the water was angrier suddenly below them, chucking itself at the shore. It wasn’t quite so warm any more and Simon could feel the spray on the back of his neck. He said, ‘Stu,’ as Stuart raised his hand and then Simon saw what Stuart was holding and knew he’d been really stupid.
He could not call his mum’s face to mind, not clearly anyway, in those fractions of a second before the rock came down.
Twenty-five years on, standing in what was almost the same spot, Nicklin looked at Tom Thorne and quietly answered his question.
‘Because he was needy.’ He smiled, and turned from his handiwork as though he were suddenly bored with it. ‘And like I said, I’m impulsive sometimes.’
Thorne watched as Professor Howell – who was now back working in the grave – plucked something from her sieve. She brushed mud away, then held it up between tightly gloved fingers. Thorne leaned down to get a closer look, before the small object was handed over to be given its place as one more piece of evidence on the plastic sheet. To be photographed and catalogued with everything else.
Left femur (human), right half of pelvic girdle (human), belt buckle…
‘It’s ceramic,’ Howell said. ‘My nan used to collect these things, got them with teabags or something.’ She held it up towards Thorne. ‘It’s a dog, I think. No, a bear.’
There was not too much discussion about whether work was going to continue at the crime scene after dark. Barber was only too delighted to be earning the overtime and, with so much of the work done already, Howell was keen to press on, rather than leave things as they were overnight and come back again in the morning. As CSM and exhibits officer, Markham and Karim were expected to stay on. Markham seemed to have been prepared for such an eventuality and, if Karim looked less than thrilled at the prospect, he didn’t say as much.
With the light fading fast, Howell and Barber went up to the school and returned with the lights and portable generator. They had it all set up within fifteen minutes. In the gathering dusk, Barber stayed behind to assemble the forensic tent, while everyone else went back to talk through the procedures for those who would be staying on after Thorne and the Long Lartin contingent had left.
Walking back across the field, Fletcher said, ‘I don’t really see why we need to put the tent up at all. I mean, it’s not like there’s anyone around, is it?’
Howell turned to him. ‘It’s not about whether there’s anyone around. It’s about respect as much as anything.’
‘Just saying, it seems a bit daft.’
‘It’s what we do,’ Howell said.
Thorne had already spoken to Robert Burnham, who was waiting for them when they got back to the school and seemed eager to run through the ad hoc arrangements. Thorne could see that he was someone who was very much at home with a clipboard, but only in the absence of a flip-chart or PowerPoint facilities. He would, Thorne decided, have made a very good chief superintendent.
‘I think the Chapel House cottage would be best,’ he said. ‘That one sleeps six, easily. Obviously it’s been shut down for the winter, so there’ll have to be an element of make do and mend, I’m afraid. It’ll be a bit dusty and a few mice might have come in out of the cold, but we’ll do our best to make you comfortable.’
‘Close to the chapel is good,’ Howell said. ‘We can leave the remains in there overnight when we’ve finished at the crime scene.’ She nodded towards Sam Karim. ‘Can we get some kind of a bed set up in there for our exhibits officer? An inflatable mattress or something?’
Burnham looked horrified. ‘What, he’ll be sleeping in there with…?’
‘Has to,’ Thorne said.
‘Can’t be helped, Sam.’ Holland was trying to sound serious, but failed to hide his grin from Karim, who was suddenly looking even less happy about staying on than he had before.
‘All the bedding gets wrapped in plastic at the end of the summer,’ Burnham said. ‘So it should all be perfectly dry. As for food… I’m sure we can rustle you up some soup or something. We weren’t expecting that any of you would be staying over.’
‘Sounds great,’ Howell said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t suppose you’d have a spare bottle of something?’ Karim asked.
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ Thorne said. ‘Not sure being pissed in charge of the body is a great idea.’
‘Just thinking about keeping warm,’ Karim said.
‘We’ll find you a hot water bottle.’ Thorne turned to Howell. ‘How long are we looking at?’
‘Another five or six hours,’ she said. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll be done down there by midnight.’
‘Sorry it’s worked out like this,’ Thorne said. ‘I sounded out the Morgans about hanging on a bit, but there’s no way they’ll wait until after dark.’
Howell shrugged. ‘I’ve stayed in worse places.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ Burnham said, a little offended. ‘It just might be a little more rough and ready than you’re used to. I’m sure you can make it nice and cosy… get the lanterns lit. I think there’s some books to read in there, puzzles and what have you.’
Markham looked at Thorne. ‘No reason
we
can’t have a bottle or two of something, is there?’
‘None at all,’ Thorne said. ‘Almost compulsory, I would have thought.’
She smiled nicely at the warden. ‘Any chance of scrounging something?’
‘Wine all right?’
‘God, yes,’ Markham said. ‘Actually, this might be quite an adventure.’ She looked at Thorne. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘You could always keep me company,’ Karim said. ‘Freezing my tits off in the chapel with nothing but a bag of old bones…’
Thorne told them that, weather permitting, the boat would be returning to pick them up first thing in the morning, and that once he was back on the mainland he would make arrangements to have the body of Simon Milner transported back to London. He thanked the warden for his help and Burnham said that it was not a problem. Thorne wondered if the warden was feeling slightly guilty for the earlier delay, even if the hour he had cost them had made little difference in the end.
Burnham held up his satellite phone. ‘Well, you’ve got my number if you think of anything else after you leave. Or if you’d like to come back some time for a break.’
Thorne told Markham and Karim that he would see them both back in London and thanked Bethan Howell for everything she’d done.
She said, ‘The trial then, I suppose.’
‘Sorry?’
‘See you at the trial.’ She nodded at Markham and Karim. ‘We’ll all be there, I imagine.’
‘Sounds like it’ll be quite a reunion,’ Nicklin said. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’
They all turned to look at him.
‘Maybe we should set up a Facebook event or something. I’m happy to do it all… I mean I know you’re all a lot busier than I am.’
Thorne looked at Jenks and Fletcher, but they just seemed bored. He glanced at Batchelor who was sitting next to Nicklin. Batchelor would not meet Thorne’s eye and stared at his feet, like someone keen to avoid any association with an acquaintance who was doing something embarrassing.
Howell said, ‘He’s full of himself, isn’t he?’
‘I’m just happy that everything went well,’ Nicklin said. ‘I’m pleased that
you’re
pleased, that’s all.’ When he saw Howell’s smile, his own quickly vanished. He sat back, took a few seconds. ‘For obvious reasons, I’ve been up close and personal with a body or two in my time. I’ve got nice and comfy with bones and blood and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t quite like it. As a matter of fact, there’s been more than a few shrinks over the years who’ve listened and scribbled a bit and decided that actually I must be getting off on it. Getting some kind of sexual kick out of it.’ He raised his handcuffed hands, waggled a finger at Howell. ‘So what’s your excuse?’
Thorne saw the colour come into Howell’s face. He inched into her line of vision and shook his head.
Fletcher suppressed a yawn. Said, ‘He won’t be quite this cocky when he’s back on the wing tonight.’
As bags were gathered and Howell, Markham and Karim prepared to head back down to the crime scene, Burnham pressed a blister pack into Thorne’s hand. ‘Those travel sickness pills you asked me about,’ he said. ‘I swear by these and they work fast.’
‘Thanks.’ Thorne snapped a couple out into his palm. As if on cue, a horn sounded from down by the boathouse, low and mournful. Huw Morgan letting them know that the
Benlli III
was ready to leave.
Halfway back and Thorne was relieved that the pills Burnham had given him seemed to be doing the trick. Not that it was particularly rough, but Thorne had become convinced that much of the problem was psychological; that just the sight of water was now enough to bring on that prickle of sweat, the first waves of sickness.
Helen had suggested going to see a hypnotherapist.
‘What, you fancy a cruise or something?’
‘I just thought if you saw someone about the heights thing, they might be able to do something about the seasickness at the same time.’
When Thorne had mentioned this to Hendricks, on the off-chance that he might be able to recommend someone, his friend had seized the opportunity to take the piss with both hands.
‘I think it’s a top idea,’ Hendricks had said. ‘Why don’t you see if you can do some kind of a special deal for a job lot? See if they can change your shit taste in music while they’re at it and maybe cure your tragic devotion to Spurs…?’
‘It’s good that Simon’s going home,’ Nicklin said.
Thorne looked up and across at Nicklin, who was sitting with Batchelor and the two prison officers on the other side of the deck. Thorne was sitting next to Holland, their bags at their feet.
Holland said, ‘What?’
‘It’s good that his mum’s finally going to get him back.’
‘You could have made that happen sooner,’ Thorne said.
‘I’m making it happen now.’
‘It hardly makes you Mother Teresa.’
They were leaning towards one another, voices raised just enough to be heard above the engines.
‘She must have cleaned herself up,’ Nicklin said, nodding. ‘Certainly sounds like she has, anyway. Simon always wanted that.’ He looked back. They had lost sight of Bardsey by now and the sun had all but slipped beneath the horizon. ‘I reckon that her being a junkie was probably why Simon got into trouble in the first place. I mean, it wasn’t like she was ever really there to stop him, was it? Off her tits while he was running around nicking cars. Funny thing is, it was probably losing him that made her snap out of it.’
‘So, you did her a favour, did you?’
‘A favour?’
‘Killing him.’
‘Just saying, it’s strange how things turn out.’
Thorne stood up, unable to look at him any more. ‘Sorry if I’ve never associated you with happy endings.’
A few minutes later the boat was chugging across Aberdaron Bay and shortly after that the landing site came into view; a ragged line of lights on the shore.
Thorne checked his phone and saw that he finally had a signal again. As the boat slowed, he called Russell Brigstocke. He told him where he was, who was with him and that, all being well, they should be on the road within half an hour. Brigstocke sounded relieved and as the boat drifted in towards the slipway, Thorne took him through the chronology of the day.
‘We found the body just after lunch,’ he said.
He was distracted by something Nicklin was mouthing at him and missed whatever Brigstocke had said. Nicklin waved to get his attention, so Thorne took a step towards him, told Brigstocke to hold on.
‘What?’ he asked.
Nicklin smiled. Said, ‘You found
one
of them.’