Free The Bones Beneath by Mark Billingham Page A

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.’
    ‘“I am not a number!”’ Nicklin said, good and loud. He turned round and said it again for the benefit of Fletcher and the others, then turned back to look at Thorne. ‘That’s the thing though, isn’t it? For the last ten years, that’s
exactly
what I’ve been. Stuart Anthony Nicklin, prisoner number 5677832.’ He laughed, shook his head. ‘Between you and me, Tom, I never understood it either. That stupid white balloon bouncing along the beach…’
    The sergeant glanced up from his paperwork. ‘Can you take the cuffs off now, please? The prisoners need to turn out their pockets.’
    Jenks and Fletcher got up, moved to stand close to Thorne and Holland while the handcuffs were removed. Nicklin handed over his tobacco tin and wristwatch. Batchelor, just a watch.
    ‘Right, do we need to strip-search them?’ the sergeant asked.
    Duggan stepped forward, nodding. ‘We should follow the standard procedure.’
    ‘They were searched at Long Lartin,’ Thorne said. He looked at Fletcher, who nodded to confirm it. ‘Neither of them has been out of our sight since we left.’
    ‘Comfort breaks?’ Duggan asked.
    ‘One each, in full view at all times.’
    Duggan looked at the sergeant. The sergeant shrugged.
    ‘Look,’ Nicklin said. ‘It sounds like you lot
really
want to get your rubber gloves on and procedure’s there for a very good reason.’ He looked at Duggan, then at Batchelor. ‘We don’t want to get anyone into trouble, do we, Jeff?’
    ‘We can leave it,’ Thorne said.
    Duggan nodded at the sergeant, who said, ‘Whatever.’
    ‘Shame.’ Nicklin looked across at the pair of young PCs waiting anxiously nearby. Both reddened. ‘Sorry, boys. Mind you, you’d only have made Mr Jenks and Mr Fletcher jealous.’
    ‘Shut it now, Stuart,’ Fletcher said.
    Once Nicklin and Batchelor had signed to