Free Buried-6 by Mark Billingham

asking for anything .’
    ‘These cases are never predictable, I’ve learned that much. But yeah, it’s bloody odd.’
    ‘They’ve had Luke four days already.’
    ‘Four days, five nights. Mind you, we were worried that they hadn’t got in touch, and then they did.’
    Thorne began to do up the buttons on his leather jacket. ‘Something bothers me,’ he said. ‘Something on the tape.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I wish I could tel you. Something’s not right, though; something that he said, or maybe just the way he said it.’
    ‘It’l come to you.’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘It’s old age, mate. That’s Alzheimer’s kicking in.’
    Thorne dug down deep for a smile.
    ‘I’l catch up with you later on at Arkley,’ she said. ‘See how they’re doing, OK?’
    ‘Right.’ He took a step backwards, half turned, on his way. ‘What do you make of Mul en?’
    ‘I think he needs to remember he’s not a copper any more.’
    Thorne fastened the top button of his jacket and stuffed his hands into the pockets. Thinking about memory, perfect and fucked-up. Thinking that his memories of the time before he was a copper were getting pushed for space; shunted aside by less pleasant recol ections. ‘You ever thought about getting out early?’ he asked.
    ‘Now and again. What about you?’
    ‘There’s times I think about it a fair bit.’
    ‘What sort of times?’ Porter asked.
    ‘When I’m awake . . .’
    Tony Mul en reached into the fridge for the wine bottle, pul ed the glass across the counter-top and poured himself a decent measure. He moved over to where his daughter was making herself a sandwich. Stroked the back of her head as he drank.
    Neither had spoken since he’d come into the kitchen a few minutes before, and they continued to stand, each busy in their own way, sharing the space in silence until Juliet Mul en picked up her plate and walked out.
    He listened to his daughter’s footsteps on the stairs, to the creak and click of her bedroom door, and to the music which escaped in the few seconds between those final two sounds. He strained to hear the murmur of Maggie’s voice, and, though he could hear nothing, he knew very wel that in some room or other of the house his wife would be deep in conversation. She’d been keeping the landline clear for obvious reasons, but somewhere she’d be sitting or lying down with the mobile pressed to her ear; talking it out and talking it through to her family, her friends, anyone wil ing to listen and pretend they understood what was happening.
    He’d spoken when he’d had to. He’d given the necessary information when it had been required of him, but aside from that, he’d said next to nothing. That had always been the way between them if ever there was trouble, if ever the family unit had been threatened in any way. He’d always be the one to go into himself, bottle things up; the one to turn the problem every which way without saying a word while others did the screaming and shouting. Luke was like that, too: never one to get hysterical. Maggie was usual y the one that wore her heart on her sleeve and it was never easy to tel what was going on inside Juliet’s head.
    It wasn’t very inclusive or touchy-feely, he knew that. It was old fashioned and out of step. He guessed that in some ways it might have been better if they’d al sat around and opened up, if they’d shared , but it wasn’t the way he or his family operated, and you couldn’t help the way you were.
    He moved his fingers back and forth across the smooth, cold surface of the counter-top and thought about DI Tom Thorne. The cheeky bastard had given him a hard time the day before, badgered him, even though only one person in that room had made DCI, and only one was ever likely to. He was grateful to Jesmond for laying on the extra men, but Thorne was one he’d have to watch. That type of copper – the ‘bul in a china shop’ type – didn’t solve cases like this one. His son would be freed by