Buried

calling his name, asking him repeatedly if he was all right – seemed to snap Lardner back into the moment.

‘He’s fine, really,’ Lardner said. ‘We’ve become good mates, haven’t we, Luke?’

The boy opened his eyes.

‘We’ve had some good old chats down there, I reckon.’

‘No…’

Thorne saw the spasm of panic around Maggie Mullen’s eyes.

‘Talked about all sorts.’

‘Like what?’

A shrug. ‘Family, you know. The important things in life…’

‘Don’t.’

Luke Mullen moaned, a long, desperate ‘no…’ from behind the tape.

‘I wasn’t planning on bringing any of it up here,’ Lardner said, ‘but now that you mention it…’

It was no more than a couple of paces, but Thorne knew Lardner could have the knife at Luke’s throat before he reached him.

‘What did you tell my son?’

‘Want me to repeat it? Even police officers can be shocked, you know. But he looks up to it.’

‘Stop it!’

‘Should I tell him what the pair of us got up to in bed? Or how about why you started having an affair with me in the first place?’

If she rushed towards her son, if she could distract Lardner for just a second, he’d have a chance. There was just no way to let her know what to do.

‘Luke, listen to me. I don’t know what he’s been telling you.’

‘We’d better not pretend it was my looks.’

‘He’s sick. You know that, darling, don’t you? You know he’s sick.’

Thorne would need to go for the left hand, for the knife. Maybe if Luke was quick and moved away at the same time, Lardner could be caught off balance…

‘Driven into my arms,’ Lardner said. ‘I think that’s a fair description.’

‘Twisted. What he’s been saying.’

‘Certainly driven out of her husband’s.’

‘Please look at me, Luke.’

‘I think we all know each other pretty well by now. A home truth or two can’t hurt, can it?’

‘Luke. Please!’

There would be no perfect moment. He just needed to pick one…

‘Why don’t you tell the inspector all about it?’ Lardner’s mouth was firm, grim, but there was gentleness in his eyes. ‘Why you can’t bear to let him touch you…’

The sound was unearthly, as the howl of rage and horror vibrated against the gaffer tape. Luke lurched towards his mother, and, as he was hauled back, he let his momentum carry him fast and hard into Lardner, taking the two of them down on to the sofa.

Thorne saw what was happening too late.

Saw the hand that the boy had kept pressed against his leg come up high. Saw the light catch something in his fist. Heard the sigh as the flesh was pierced, and the snap.

Then everything was happening at double speed. Crowded with screams and coloured red.

Thorne found himself at Lardner’s feet, staring at the broken shard that Luke had dropped. Its edge was bloodied, and the gaffer tape, wrapped around one end as a makeshift handle, was slick with sweat.

Picture-glass, it looked like. Thin, easily snapped.

He looked up for the piece he knew was embedded in Peter Lardner’s neck, saw that it was already lost beneath a bubbling spring of scarlet.

Maggie Mullen was on her knees, whispering, one arm wrapped tight around Lardner’s neck, both of them slick with blood. Her other arm was reaching desperately for Luke, the hand flapping, trying to grab the son who stood a few feet away, still screaming as though it were a language he had just mastered. The boy’s eyes were saucers, wild with horror and exhilaration.

And with something else Thorne could not name, something more shocking than all the blood that flowed into the cracks between the chipped and flaking boards.

MONDAY TWENTY-NINE

They’d had wine and a glass of whisky each before getting back to Thorne’s flat. A fair amount of lager since. And their first kiss.

It was a little after six in the morning, and getting light outside.

They lounged, laughing on the sofa, arms and legs moving against each other, and bed clearly on the cards at some point, once a different sort of excitement had burned itself out.

‘I wonder if Hignett and Brigstocke have started arguing about credit yet?’ Porter said. ‘Worked out how this is going to get divvied up.’

Thorne was grinning like an idiot, same as Porter, but he pulled a mock-thoughtful face. ‘Well, we get the three murders, obviously. Four, if you count Sarah Hanley. Your lot can have the kidnap. How’s that?’

‘Oh, can we?

‘Plus any little extras that come up: out-of-date tax discs, that sort of thing…’

‘Very generous of you.’

‘Bloody generous, if you ask me.’

Porter raised her eyebrows.

‘If Lardner had been at that flat in Catford and your lot had collared him, I bet you’d be claiming the bloody set.’

‘Fair point.’

‘Too right it is,’ Thorne said. ‘Now shut your face.’

She smiled, the pissed kind of smile that spread a little slower, and wider. ‘So… You charging into that cottage then, not bothering to let me, or anybody else, know…’

‘Hardly “charging”.’

‘How would you describe it, then?’

‘There wasn’t time to call. I didn’t know how close you were…’

‘You didn’t bother to find out.’

‘I took a decision, same as you did when you went into the flat.’

‘I didn’t go in on my own!’

‘Look, she was terrified about a firearms unit going in there, after what happened in Bow. I was just…’ Thorne puffed out his cheeks, gave up. He knew she had him.

‘Maybe you were getting your own back for being left in the van when we went into Allen’s place?’

Thorne looked shocked. ‘You really think I’m that bloody petty, do you?’

‘It crossed my mind.’

‘You’re right, obviously. I’m very petty.’ He leaned across. ‘Vindictive. Vengeful. I’m a nasty piece of work…’

They kissed again. Longer, the second time.

‘Sorry about the smell,’ Thorne said. ‘They only had that soap, you know? The medicated shit. Little green slivers.’ Thorne had showered at the hospital.

‘It’s five murders,’ Porter said. ‘You said “four”.’

He nodded.

Picture glass. Thin, easily snapped…