Buried-6 (6 page)

‘So, have I been sympathetic enough?’ Thorne asked.

‘Wel , not straight away, no.’

‘That’s because I know what a bloody drama queen you are. You turn up on the doorstep wailing and it could mean anything. I don’t know whether someone’s died, or if you’ve just lost one of your George Michael CDs.’

Thorne got the smile he was aiming for. Hendricks was certainly no drama queen, but when he’d arrived an hour before it
had
taken a while for Thorne to realise how serious it was.

Hendricks had told him that he and his boyfriend Brendan had had a major argument, that this was
definitely
the end, but Thorne had known both of them long enough to take such pronouncements of doom with a fistful of salt.

Thorne’s first tactic had worked a time or two before: beer and distraction. Once the initial crying jag had abated and Thorne had got Hendricks settled down in the living room with a drink, he tried talking to him about work. Hendricks was a civilian member of Russel Brigstocke’s Major Investigation Team at Homicide Command (West), and the pathologist Thorne had worked with most regularly in recent years. He had also become a close friend; probably the only person Thorne could think of who might donate a kidney should he ever need one.

Certainly the only one who might actual y have the odd one or two knocking around.

Their cosy chats about death and dismemberment were often perversely enjoyable, but this was one work conversation that was never destined to go anywhere. Though the two shared plenty of ancient history, Thorne’s position on the sidelines in recent weeks meant that they hadn’t a single ongoing investigation in common. Besides, the only dead thing Hendricks had seemed keen to talk about was his own relationship. ‘It’s not like the times before,’ he’d said. ‘He real y fucking means it this time.’

Thorne had begun to see that the situation was more serious than he’d first thought; that this was more than just a spat. He’d done his best to calm down his friend. He’d phoned out for pizza and dragged a couple of kitchen chairs into the garden.

‘I can’t feel my feet,’ Hendricks said.

‘Stop bloody moaning.’ It
was
chil y, no question, and Thorne had never got around to buying a gas bottle for the heater, but he was enjoying being outside. ‘I’m starting to see why Brendan’s done a bunk.’

Hendricks didn’t appear to find that crack quite so funny. He lifted his feet up on to the seat of his chair, wrapped his hands around his ankles.

‘Maybe he just needs a bit of space to cool off,’ Thorne said.

‘I was the one doing most of the shouting.’ When Hendricks sighed the breath hung in front of his face. ‘He stayed pretty calm a lot of the time.’

‘Maybe a day or two apart isn’t such a bad idea, you know?’

Hendricks looked like he thought it was just about the
worst
idea anyone had ever come up with. ‘He took a lot of his stuff. Said he’s coming back for the rest tomorrow.’

In recent months, the couple had been living at Hendricks’ place in Islington, but Brendan had kept his own flat. ‘So he’s got somewhere to fuck off back to when we split up,’

Hendricks had joked once.

Up to this point it had al been about the
fact
of the argument, the ferocity and finality of it. Hendricks remained adamant that it had been terminal, yet did not seem particularly keen to talk about what had triggered the fight in the first place.

Thorne asked the question, then immediately wished he hadn’t when he watched his friend turn his head away and lie to him.

‘I can’t even remember, to be honest, but I can tel you it was nothing important. It never real y is, is it? You end up fal ing out over the stupidest things.’

‘Right . . .’

‘I think it’s probably been brewing for a few weeks. We’re both stressed at work, you know?’

Though Thorne guessed there was stil something he wasn’t being told, he knew that Hendricks was probably right about the stress. He’d seen what the work could take out of Hendricks on any number of occasions, and knew that his partner’s job was far from being a walk in the park, either. Brendan Maxwel worked for the London Lift, an organisation that provided much-needed services for the city’s homeless. Thorne had got to know him wel during his investigations into the rough-sleeper kil ings the year before.

Thorne looked at his watch. ‘What time did we order that pizza?’

‘I’m not going to do much better, am I?’ Hendricks stood up and leaned back against the wal next to the kitchen door. ‘Better than Brendan, I mean.’

‘Come on, Phil . . .’

‘I’m not, though. There’s no point kidding myself. I’m just trying to be realistic, that’s al .’

‘I give it a fortnight,’ Thorne said. ‘A tenner says you’ve got a new piercing within two weeks. You up for it?’ This was one of their jokes: that Hendricks commemorated each new boyfriend with a piercing. A unique, if painful way of putting notches on his bedpost. It had been a
running
joke, until Brendan had come along.

‘It’s just the thought of being single again.’

‘You aren’t single yet.’

‘Back on the scene. How depressing is that?’

‘It’s not going to happen, I’m tel ing you.’

‘We were so grateful that we’d saved each other from that, you know? That we’d found each other. Fuck.’

Thorne watched Hendricks repeatedly drive the heel of his biker boot into the brick behind him. He saw the tears come again. It suddenly seemed like al he’d done that day was watch people trying, and failing, not to cry.

The powerful hit of relief he felt when he heard the phone ringing in the kitchen was quickly cancel ed out by an equal y strong pang of shame. He wondered if he should let it ring; what Hendricks would think of him if he got up and answered it; how much longer whoever was cal ing would bother hanging on.

When Hendricks gestured towards the kitchen, Thorne shrugged a
what-can-you-do?
and hurried inside.

There must have been something in his voice when he picked up.

‘Not a good time?’ Brigstocke asked.

Thorne’s answer might have sounded vague, but was about as honest as he could be. ‘Yes and no.’

‘I just wanted to see how life on the Kidnap Unit was treating you.’

Thorne took the phone through to the living room. ‘You just wanted to see if I fucked up on my first day, you mean.’

‘Oh, I know you didn’t fuck up. I’ve already spoken to the DCI.’

‘And?’

‘Gold stars al round, I reckon. You impressed DI Porter, by the sound of it. What did you make of her?’

Thorne dropped into the armchair, swiftly fol owed by his terminal y confused cat, who jumped on to his lap and began digging in her claws. Thorne lifted Elvis up until she let go and tossed her back to the floor. ‘She seemed OK,’ he said. ‘She certainly knows what she’s doing.’ He couldn’t be sure why he was so reluctant to say what he real y thought, especial y when she’d obviously said such good things about him. The fact was that he’d been very impressed with Louise Porter. In every sense.

‘Exciting enough for you?’

‘Wel , I’m not stuck behind a desk,’ Thorne said. ‘But I’m not sitting here waiting for my pulse to return to normal, either.’ He could hear one of Brigstocke’s kids in the background.

The tone of the silence changed as a hand went over the mouthpiece, and he heard Brigstocke’s muffled voice tel ing the child that he’d be with him in a few minutes.

‘Sorry . . .’

‘I’m not even sure we’re looking at a kidnap,’ Thorne said. ‘This business with the woman’s bloody odd. And if someone
is
holding the kid, it doesn’t make any sense that they haven’t got in touch.’

‘What does Porter think?’

‘She thinks it’s strange, too. We were talking about motivation, you know? About why
anybody
takes a hostage. There’s always a reason. It might be drugs, or money, or some kind of political statement. But they always want something.’

‘You think the boy’s just left home?’

‘God knows. I think we might be wasting a lot of time and effort, though.’

The doorbel rang, but almost as soon as Thorne was on his feet, Hendricks had come inside and was making his way to the door. Thorne reached into his leather jacket for his wal et but Hendricks waved him away.

‘So I’d be right in thinking you wouldn’t be keen on me making this transfer permanent, then?’

‘This is going to sound weird, and I know that, whatever the reason turns out to be, there’s stil a missing kid, but I find it hard to get . . . excited about it. There’s an element of going through the motions. Does that make sense?’

‘You’re happier when there’s a body, aren’t you?’ Brigstocke said. ‘You want a kil er to go after.’

Thorne thought about what Hol and had said to him in the car that morning: ‘Sounds almost like you’re hoping.’ He wondered if the pair of them might have a point; if perhaps there were a part of him that could only be described as ‘ghoulish’. ‘I just think we should do what we’re good at,’ he said. He knew, even as he spoke, that he was sounding sulky and defensive.

Brigstocke sniffed. ‘I could say something deep and meaningful here, about how some people care more about the dead than they do about the living, but I’m not sure I can be arsed.’

‘I think you’d be doing the pair of us a favour if you didn’t,’ Thorne said.

Brigstocke said nothing. Just hummed, like he was thinking about it.

The front door slammed and Hendricks walked back towards the kitchen with the boxes. Thorne was eager to fol ow him. ‘I need to go. I’m about to eat my dinner.’

‘I know. I heard the doorbel ,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Curry or pizza?’

Thorne laughed. ‘You haven’t lost it.’

A minute later he was taking two fresh cans of beer from the fridge, glad that the cal from Brigstocke had ended on an upbeat note. It could easily have gone the other way. So many conversations he’d had of late had seemed dangerously poised, while Hol and, Hendricks and a number of others had al used the phrase ‘walking on eggshel s’ more than once.

When Thorne got snappy, told them in no uncertain terms that they were being oversensitive, they just looked at him like he’d proved their point.

‘Shal we eat this outside?’ Thorne asked.

Hendricks was already picking at pepperoni slices. ‘Are you kidding? It’s even colder now. I’m young, free and single, mate, and if I’m going out on the pul , the last thing I need is my knob shrinking to the size of an acorn.’ He picked up his pizza box and wandered into the living room.

Thorne was about to shout after him, ask if he fancied putting some music on, then thought better of it. Hendricks might have been gagging it up, but the pain hadn’t gone anywhere.

He would almost certainly pul out an album with at least one unsuitable track on it; the makeup of Thorne’s col ection would make it hard not to. It was, as people never seemed to tire of tel ing him, the problem with country music: too many songs about dead dogs and lost love.

‘Stick the TV on,’ he shouted as an alternative. ‘See if there’s a game on Sky.’

He stepped back outside to bring in the kitchen chairs. It was a clear night, but there was no guarantee it wouldn’t piss down before morning. He thought through what he’d said to Brigstocke about not feeling excited, and about what it might take to start the blood pumping that little bit faster. He wondered how bad he’d real y feel if the body so many people accused him of wishing for turned up. He just hoped to Christ that if it did, it wasn’t Luke Mul en’s.

He looked up as a plane passed, winking and droning overhead. The sky was the colour of a dusty plum, and spattered with stars. He carried the chairs inside and shut the door.

Hendricks was already shouting at the television.

In spite of his bad back, of the boredom and the morbid thoughts, Thorne was feeling pretty good. Relative to the recent past, at any rate. Al the same, it was a welcome diversion to spend a few hours with someone who – if only for the time being – was in worse shape than he was.

CONRAD

The kid was clever, no doubt about that. A bit of a smartarse, in fact, but it didn’t matter how brainy you were if you weren’t the one in the driving seat. The kid had probably passed a ton more exams than he ever had, but it didn’t count for much now, did it? Clever didn’t mean a lot with a bag over your head.

Because he was the one cal ing the shots.

Even as the words formed in his mind, it struck him as a smart way of putting things. ‘Shots’ as in guns, and ‘shots’ like when you give someone an injection.

He’d always been tal and wel built, and he’d always looked after himself, but he’d never been given any real respect. Not when he was younger, anyway. Back then he’d lacked the

‘necessary’, the something in the eyes or whatever, that made people take you seriously; that made them back off, try to smile, and say, ‘Al right, mate, whatever you want.’ He’d wanted to make someone react like that ever since his bal s had dropped, and he could stil remember when it had happened for the first time. It was a few years ago now, but he could remember every single detail of it. It was like watching a film that he was starring in.

A poxy red Fiesta.

The spiky-haired ponce behind the wheel had cut in front of him at the lights, swerved across into his lane instead of turning right like he should have done. Then, to top it off, the arsehole had given him the finger when he’d leaned on his horn, as he’d every bloody right to do!

So he’s chased the fucker. He’s right up his arse, doing fifty and sixty through Dalston and Hackney, al the way to Bow. There’s big puddles on the streets and precious little traffic around that time of the morning; just night buses and the odd dodgy minicab getting out of the way seriously fast.

The Fiesta pul s up hard and sharp somewhere round the back of Victoria Park, and the bloke gets out and starts waving a basebal bat around. Shaking his head and pointing a finger. Shouting his mouth off as he walks towards the car.

The next bit’s in slow motion and the sound’s real y pumped up loud. He can feel his heart going mental underneath his Puffa, but it’s excitement, not fear, and when he gets out of the car he gets the look he’s been dreaming about for so long.