‘I remember that Simon was with us that day,’ Nicklin said. ‘You know, Simon, who we’re going to be looking for?’

‘Simon, the kid you murdered,’ Thorne said.

‘That’s the one,’ Nicklin said, cheerfully. ‘I remember that he was getting really wound up. Scared to death, he was. Silly bugger spent every day for weeks afterwards banging on about how he was going to get cancer.’

‘I bet you had nothing at all to do with winding him up,’ Thorne said.

‘Oh, I had everything to do with it.’ Nicklin sat back in his seat. The power station was lost to view behind tall trees. ‘You’ve no idea how boring it was on that island, Tom. Well, you’ll see when we get there. I needed a hobby…’

The last stretch took them through Porthmadog, slowing beside the miniature railway running along the Cobb, then out into open country again, the darkening fields flooded on their right and above a streak of blue sky narrowing to grey and then a dusty pink at the horizon. A few miles further on, the vista became almost absurdly melodramatic as the sea came suddenly into view.

‘Needs music,’ Holland muttered. ‘Like a film…’

Twenty minutes later, driving into the village of Abersoch, the sat nav announced that their destination was ahead.

Thorne outlined the itinerary for the remainder of the day. By now everyone understood that they would not be travelling to the island until the following morning. It was already after two thirty and would be starting to get dark in an hour or so. ‘We need to make a start bright and early,’ Thorne said. ‘Give ourselves a full day. Though I’m hoping it won’t take that long.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Nicklin said.

Jenks leaned forward to tap Fletcher on the arm. ‘Not that we’ll be complaining about the overtime, mind…’

‘So, what’s the plan for tonight?’ Nicklin asked the question casually, as if they were just a gang of mates on the town and it was a toss-up between a nightclub and a quiet dinner somewhere.

‘Not got one yet,’ Thorne said. ‘For now, we need to see what we can do about getting you and Mr Batchelor a nice uncomfortable bed for the night.’

ELEVEN

There was quite a welcoming committee.

Over and above the staff who would be required to monitor the prisoners, there was a healthy number of North Wales police officers gathered when Thorne walked into the custody suite at Abersoch police station. It was not the warmest of welcomes. Thorne was greeted with terse nods and a cursory handshake or two from a custody sergeant, three PCs, the regional chief superintendent in best dress uniform and a plain-clothes inspector from local CID. The detective – a scruffy sod who was wearing half his breakfast on his jacket – feigned a lack of interest, but was clearly there for no other reason than to gawp at their infamous overnight guest.

‘You might have been better off going to Bangor,’ the custody sergeant said. ‘Caernarfon maybe.’

‘Why’s that?’ Thorne asked.

‘Well, for a start we’re only up and running here three days a week, see.’

‘Cutbacks or crime rate?’

‘Those other stations wouldn’t have had to open up specially, like. That’s all I’m getting at.’

Bangor was another hour’s drive away and Caernarfon almost as far. Doing his best to sound good-natured, Thorne explained that he wanted to base himself and his team as close as possible to where they would be leaving from the following morning. ‘So we can get an early start.’

‘Just saying —’

‘Yeah, I’ve got it.’

‘They’d have been a bit more geared up for all this than we are.’

Thorne said, ‘You’ve got cells, haven’t you?’

Perhaps sensing that their visitor was running low on patience, the chief superintendent stepped forward and led Thorne to one side. He introduced himself as Robin Duggan. Tall and rail-thin, with wire-rimmed glasses and acne scars, he was somewhat less dour than the sergeant and his accent was certainly nowhere near as thick.

‘It’s both, by the way,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘Cutbacks and crime rate. That’s why we’ve had four stations in the region close completely, had twice that many relocated and got a bunch more like this with limited opening times to the public.’ He balled his hand into a fist and held it up. ‘We’re definitely getting a bit squeezed. But… a town like this one, we’ll rarely get more than fifty or sixty reported crimes a month. That’s across the board. You probably get that many every five minutes in your neck of the woods.’

‘I enjoy the excitement,’ Thorne said.

If, contained within Thorne’s simple statement, Duggan detected the slightest suggestion that his own job was less than exciting, he chose to ignore it. Instead the chief superintendent straightened his cuffs and ploughed on, seemingly keen to impress on Thorne that he was highly experienced when it came to cross-border and cross-boundary co-operation. That things at his end of this operation were under control. ‘I’ve been liaising with an opposite number at the Met,’ he said. ‘And I think we’re very much on the same page on this.’

‘That’s good,’ Thorne said. He wondered who the opposite number might be and if talking in senior management clichés was compulsory once there were a certain number of pips on your shoulder.

‘There is one slight glitch,’ Duggan said. ‘Which is that nobody’s awfully clear who’s paying for all this. The manpower, the facilities, what have you.’

‘I wouldn’t know about any of that.’

‘Of course you wouldn’t.’ Duggan smiled. ‘Your job’s just getting him to the island and back safe and sound, correct?’

‘Spot on,’ Thorne said.

‘Talking of which… I’m still in two minds, but I may head on over there with you in the morning.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ll confirm with you later on.’

Thorne nodded and tried not to look too horrified. This was not an operation he had asked for, but now that it was his, the last thing he needed was a senior officer from another force looking over his shoulder. Least of all one for whom a sheep wandering on to the A499 was probably as exciting as the job got.

‘I mean obviously this has all been put together at your end,’ Duggan said. ‘And I know we’re talking about a crime that was committed a long time ago, but if evidence of a murder is found, that’s going to be our jurisdiction.’

‘Bang go your nice cosy crime figures.’

Duggan shrugged. ‘Well yes, and it’s going to be complicated, I can see that. Divvying it up to everyone’s satisfaction. Still, I’m sure we’ll get it sorted out.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Thorne said. Bearing in mind that Duggan and his opposite number could not even get on the same page when it came to divvying up the bill for Nicklin’s accommodation, he thought that the Welshman’s confidence was probably misplaced. He looked across at the other officers milling around in the otherwise empty custody suite. He saw now that their surliness was no more than nerves.

They could not be blamed for that.

‘Let’s get him in then, shall we?’

Ten minutes later, the cars stood empty in the station courtyard and the prisoners were being booked in. Thorne and Holland stood close behind them at the booking desk. Fletcher and Jenks were sitting with cups of tea next to Karim and Wendy Markham. Batchelor kept his head down, as quiet as he had been for the majority of the journey, while Nicklin seemed content to chat away to the custody sergeant while all the necessary paperwork was completed.

‘I saw a sign for Portmeirion on the way here,’ Nicklin said.

‘That’s nice.’

‘It’s where they filmed The Prisoner, isn’t it?’

‘If you say so,’ the sergeant said.

‘You know, the village? The penny farthings?’ Getting no joy from the custody sergeant, Nicklin turned to Thorne. ‘You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Tom?’

Thorne nodded. He’d seen it. ‘Never really understood it, though.’