Detective.

‘I’m guessing that’s the good news,’ Thorne said.

A nod from Brigstocke and a nice long pause and the DCI could not quite maintain eye contact as he began to outline the reason for this unexpectedly positive outcome. As soon as the man’s name was mentioned, Thorne tried to interrupt, but Brigstocke held up a hand. He raised his voice and insisted that Thorne allow him to get at least a sentence or two out before voicing his understandable objections.

‘It’s a game,’ Thorne said, the moment Brigstocke had paused for breath. ‘Same as it always is with him.’

‘It checks out. The timings, the location.’

‘I don’t care what checks out, he’s up to something.’ Wishing more than anything that he was still wired up to the morphine pump, Thorne wheeled his chair a few feet forward, then back again. ‘Come on, Russell, you know what he’s like. What the hell are you all thinking?’

‘We’re thinking that he’s got us over a barrel,’ Brigstocke said.

Thorne listened as Brigstocke continued to explain how the man they were talking about – a convicted murderer currently serving multiple life sentences with no possibility of parole – had established contact six months earlier with the mother of a fifteen-year-old boy who had gone missing twenty-five years before. He claimed that he had once known the boy, that they had both been residents at an experimental retreat for troubled teenagers. After several months of communication, he confessed to the woman in a letter that he had in fact murdered her son and buried the boy’s body.

‘That much I can believe,’ Thorne said. ‘So far, that’s the only bit that makes any sense.’

Brigstocke ignored him and ploughed on. He described the series of desperate visits and phone calls during which the woman had begged the murderer to reveal the whereabouts of her son’s grave. How she had contacted the press and written to her local MP, urging him to get involved, until eventually, after a concerted campaign, the prisoner had agreed to co-operate. He would, he had promised, show the police where the teenager had been buried.

Then, Brigstocke had made eye contact, but only for a moment. ‘And he wants you to escort him…’

It had gone back and forth between them for a while after that: Brigstocke urging Thorne to shut up and listen; Thorne doing a lot more shouting than listening; Brigstocke telling him that he’d burst his stitches if he didn’t calm down.

‘So, what the hell are we supposed to do?’ Brigstocke had finished the biscuits. He screwed up the empty packet and attempted to toss it into the metal wastepaper basket in the corner of the room. ‘You tell me, Tom. The chief constable’s got this MP on her case. The papers are all over it. This woman needs to know about her son, to get… closure or whatever and as far as I can see there’s no good reason we shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘Him,’ Thorne said. ‘He’s the reason why not.’

‘Like I said, we’ve checked dates and records and it looks like he’s telling the truth.’ Brigstocke walked to the corner, picked up the packet and dropped it into the bin. ‘He was definitely there when he says he was and that was the last time anybody saw this missing boy.’

Thorne pushed himself back towards the bed. ‘He never does a single thing that he doesn’t want to do. That he doesn’t have a very good reason to do.’ He eased himself gingerly out of the chair and on to the bed, waving away Brigstocke’s offer of help and staring at him, hard.

‘Never…’

‘So, what do you reckon?’ Holland asked now. He unfastened his seat-belt, turned and reached into the row of seats behind for his overcoat and gloves. ‘A couple of days?’

‘Yeah,’ Thorne said. A couple of days until they found the body or it became clear they were being taken for idiots. He reached back for his own coat, for the case containing all the paperwork. ‘With a bit of luck.’

‘Nice to get out of London,’ Holland said.

‘I suppose.’

‘I mean, obviously I wish we were doing something a bit less… you know.’

You want the good news or the bad news?

In Brigstocke’s office at Becke House, the day after Thorne had been discharged from hospital. The arrangements already being made, the permissions and protocols put in place.

The argument continuing.

‘Let’s go over these “conditions” again, shall we?’ Thorne had thrown his leather jacket across a chair and sat leaning back against the wall. ‘Just to make sure I’m totally clear on all this. You know, why he’s the one making the rules.’

Brigstocke stood, walked around his desk. ‘How many times?’

‘I know,’ Thorne said. ‘The MP, the grieving mother, the barrel he’s got us across.’ He shook his head. ‘Anything else he wants? A particular make and model of car? Something special on his sandwiches?’

‘Nothing’s changed.’

‘So, come on then. The stipulations…’

‘Well, you, obviously.’

‘Yeah. Me.’ Thorne puffed out his cheeks. ‘You got any thoughts on that?’ He looked up at Brigstocke, wide-eyed and mock-curious. ‘I’m just wondering.’

‘You’re the one who caught him,’ Brigstocke said. ‘He’s got some weird kind of respect for you or something. Maybe he trusts you.’

‘He wants to mess with me,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s what he does.’

‘You’re taking him out there, you’re finding this body then you’re bringing him back.’ Brigstocke leaned against the desk. ‘That’s all this is.’

Thorne studied the carpet and fingered the straight scar beneath his chin for a few seconds. He said, ‘What’s his problem with the press?’

‘He doesn’t want any around, simple as that.’

‘Never seemed to bother him before,’ Thorne said. ‘Happy enough with the books and the bloody documentaries. Got a nice collection of his press cuttings pasted up in his cell by all accounts.’

Brigstocke shrugged. ‘Look, he knows they’ve been on to this ever since the boy’s mother went to the papers. He doesn’t fancy helicopters everywhere, that’s all, like when they took Brady back to the moors.’

Thorne grunted.

‘We’ve let the press know it’s on, which should keep them off our backs, but obviously they don’t know exactly when or where.’ Brigstocke began to work carefully at a torn fingernail with his teeth. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem as long as some friendly press officer gives them everything they want once it’s done and dusted.’

‘Tell me about his friend.’

Brigstocke spat out the sliver of nail. ‘Well, he’s saying he’ll feel a lot safer if he can bring another prisoner with him. That he’s less likely to have any sort of “accident”. Reckons there are too many of us who won’t have forgotten Sarah McEvoy.’

‘That’s bollocks.’

‘That’s what he’s saying.’

Thorne had certainly not forgotten the police officer who had been killed during the arrest of the man whose demands they were now discussing. He remembered blood spreading across asphalt. He remembered the look of elation on the man’s face, just before Thorne had forcibly wiped it off. ‘So, what, then? This bloke his boyfriend, maybe?’

‘Possible,’ Brigstocke said.

‘Well, whatever the reason is for bringing him along, I’ll want everything we can find on him.’

‘Obviously —’ Brigstocke’s phone chirruped in his pocket. He took the handset out, dropped the call then replaced it. Either the conversation could wait, or it was one he did not want Thorne to overhear. ‘Look, Tom, nothing about this is run of the mill, I know that. Normal procedures will be going out of the window to a large extent. This stupid place you’ll be taking him back to, for a kick-off. It’s already throwing up certain… logistical nightmares, so I’m just saying you might have to do a fair amount of thinking on your feet.’

Thorne nodded slowly and reached around for his jacket. ‘I’ve got a few conditions of my own,’ he said.

Brigstocke waited.