Buried Read online

  ‘And a relatively safe one for the kidnappers,’ Porter said. She told them that over half of all her cases involved hardcore foreign drug gangs, distributors and smugglers; that fewer than one in five ever resulted in a conviction. ‘Most of the victims never testify, the ungrateful fuckers. We rescued an old guy last year who’d been tied up in a loft and tortured for a couple of weeks. They cut both the poor bastard’s ears off and he still wouldn’t give evidence in case others in the gang came after him.’

  ‘You can understand him being scared,’ Holland said. ‘He wouldn’t hear them coming.’

  Thorne sighed, shifted in his seat. ‘Sounds like you’re all getting plenty of overtime,’ he said.

  Porter grunted her agreement. ‘Heavy-duty dealers are getting lifted every other week. Yardies, Russians, Albanians, whatever. It’s a quick way of scoring cash or merchandise – putting the shits up a rival. We’re not short of jobs, but maybe the wheels don’t turn quite so quickly when it comes to some of our less than law-abiding kidnap victims.’

  Thorne knew very well what she meant. He’d worked on a case the year before; the case during which his father had died. The squad, and Thorne in particular, had found themselves caught in the middle of a vicious gang war. He explained to Porter that one side had been involved in a people-smuggling racket; that though a fair number of gang members had died, few could bring themselves to care a great deal, or argue that the city wasn’t a better place without them.

  ‘That stuff’s down to us, too,’Porter said. ‘If people are brought here and then used as slave labour, they’ve basically become hostages. They’re held against their will and usually there’s an implied threat to their families back at home.’ She slowed the car to a stop a hundred yards from a driveway. ‘It’s also the main reason why people are queuing up to work on the unit,’ she continued. ‘So far this year I’ve been to China, Turkey, the Ukraine. It’s all business class, and we get the air miles.’

  Holland sucked his teeth. ‘I went to Aberdeen to interview a rapist once . . .’

  Porter took a good look at a Jag that drove past, waited a minute or two after it had disappeared around a corner, before moving the Saab slowly forward and turning it on to the driveway.

  ‘This kind of case isn’t common, though, is it?’ Thorne asked. ‘Snatching civilians?’

  She shook her head. ‘You can get the family of a bank employee being held until the safe’s opened, but even that’s pretty rare. You might get one like this in Spain and Italy every so often, but it’s like rocking-horse shit here. Thank God.’

  ‘So why no ransom with Luke Mullen?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I still don’t see why it has to be a kidnap.’

  ‘It doesn’t. There are other possibilities.’

  ‘Like Luke going off voluntarily with the woman in the blue car?’

  ‘Or just running away,’ Porter said. ‘But parents never like to admit that their precious kid might do that.’

  Holland released his seatbelt. ‘Like no parent ever thinks their kids are stupid, or ugly.’

  ‘You’ve got kids?’

  ‘I’ve got a little girl.’ Holland grinned. ‘She’s gorgeous and very bright.’

  ‘Maybe this isn’t about money at all,’ Thorne said.

  Porter appeared to think about it as she killed the engine. ‘It’s certainly . . . unusual.’

  ‘Who knows . . .’ – Thorne opened the door and swung his legs out, let out a groan of pain as he lifted himself upright – ‘if there had been a ransom demand, maybe the parents might have got on the phone a bit quicker.’

  Holland got out and walked towards him, looking up at the detached, mock-Tudor house where Tony Mullen and his wife lived. ‘It’s a big place,’ he said.

  Porter locked the car and the three of them began moving together towards the front door. ‘It’s probably feeling that little bit bigger just at the moment,’ she said.

  A few minutes earlier, Thorne had seen the relief flood into Tony Mullen’s face, but it had been purely temporary. Already, sitting across from Thorne in an uncomfortable-looking armchair, a damp pallor of desperation was smearing itself back across his features; the look of a man bracing himself.

  He’d been at the front door before they were, staring out at the three of them as if he were urgently trying to read something in how they walked; to work out what they had come to tell him by the way they approached the house. Porter had shaken her head. A small movement, but it had been enough.

  Mullen had let out a long breath and closed his eyes for a second or two. There was something approaching a smile when he opened them again, when he moved the hand that had been flat and white against the door frame and held it out, palm skyward, towards them.

  ‘Your guts just go into your boots,’ he said. ‘Whenever the phone goes or the bloody doorbell rings, especially if it’s you lot. It’s like feeling the punch coming. You know?’

  The introductions were made there on the doorstep.

  ‘Trevor Jesmond said he’d sort out a few extra pairs of hands,’ Mullen said. He touched Thorne’s arm. ‘Make sure you say “thanks” to him, will you?’

  Thorne wondered if Jesmond had told Mullen what he really thought about the man those extra hands belonged to. If he had, Thorne guessed it was probably a less than honest assessment. If the request for help had come directly from Mullen himself, Jesmond would hardly want his old friend thinking he was palming him off with damaged goods. Thorne decided it was a subject best left alone; that he should keep things light for as long as it was appropriate.

  He looked at Mullen. The man had less grey in his hair than Thorne himself did, and, though the circumstances had clearly taken their toll, the rest of him looked in pretty good shape, too. ‘Well, either you’re a lot older than you look or you retired early,’ he said.

  Mullen seemed taken aback for a second, but his tone was friendly enough as he led the three of them into a gloomy hallway. ‘Can’t you be both?’

  ‘It’s certainly what I’m aiming for,’ Porter said, hanging up her coat.

  ‘You’re right, though. I did bow out early,’ Mullen said. He looked Thorne up and down. ‘What are you? Forty-seven, forty-eight?’

  Thorne tried not to react. ‘I’m forty-five in a few months.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll be fifty this year, and I know I’d look a damn sight older than that if I’d stayed in the job. You know what it’s like. I was starting to forget what Maggie and the kids looked like.’

  Thorne nodded. There hadn’t been anyone to forget for a fair few years, but he understood what Mullen meant well enough.

  ‘I’d managed to squirrel a bit away, and it seemed as good a time as any. I fancied a move and Maggie was pretty keen for me to get out. She even got used to having me under her feet after a while.’

  On cue, Maggie Mullen came down the stairs, with every one of the fifty-odd years Thorne guessed were behind her, showing on her face. The lines had become cracks. The freshly applied make-up had done precious little for eyes that were puffy and red-rimmed. ‘I was catching up on some sleep,’ she said.

  It was Holland who prevented the pause becoming a silence. He nodded towards Mullen, picking up the thread of the previous exchange. ‘It’s what politicians always say, isn’t it?’

  Mullen looked at him. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Whenever they leave the job, for whatever reason, they say they want to spend more time with their family.’

  They stood around a little awkwardly, almost as though they were not the parents of a kidnapped child and those entrusted with finding him; as though they were waiting politely for someone to announce that dinner was served.

  Now, in the living room, something of that odd formality lingered, not helped by the seating arrangements. It was a large room and the sofas and chairs had been positioned around a rectangular, Chinese-style rug. Thorne and Porter sat on a cream leather sofa with Mullen and his wife fifteen or more feet
away on uncomfortable-looking armchairs, which were themselves a fair distance from each other. There was music playing somewhere upstairs, and noise too from the kitchen, where Holland and DC Kenny Parsons – the on-duty family liaison officer – had gone to make coffee.

  Thorne looked out of the French windows at the garden. It was enormous compared with the postage-stamp-sized plots that graced most London properties. He turned back to Mrs Mullen. ‘I can see why you moved here. I wouldn’t fancy mowing it, mind you.’

  It was Tony Mullen that responded. ‘This place was a compromise, really. I was all for upping sticks completely and getting out into the country, but Maggie didn’t really want to leave London. It feels like you’re in the country here, but you’ve got High Barnet tube a few minutes away, or you’re twenty minutes from King’s Cross on the overground.’

  Thorne made the right noises, thinking: This is a world away from King’s Cross.

  ‘And the schools,’ Maggie Mullen said. ‘We moved because of the schools.’

  Then, with that one meaningful word, the terrible reason for them all being there was finally in the room with them, and the small talk was well and truly done with.

  Tony Mullen slapped his palms against his legs, the noise causing his wife to start slightly. ‘We know it’s not bad news, thank God, but I presume that there isn’t any good news, either.’

  Porter edged forward on the sofa. ‘We’re doing everything we can, but—’

  ‘Don’t.’ Mullen raised a hand. ‘I’m really not interested in the pat speeches. I know the game, remember. So let’s not waste anyone’s time, all right, Louise?’

  Thorne could see that Porter was more than a little irked at the familiarity, but he thought she was probably not the type to react. Not the first time, anyway. Instead, she let her eyes drift across to Mullen’s wife and spoke softly to her. ‘It wasn’t a speech.’

  ‘I’m the new boy,’ Thorne said, ‘so you’ll have to forgive me if we go over some old ground, but I was wondering about the delay.’

  Mullen stared right back at him. It was a grudging invitation for Thorne to elaborate.

  ‘Luke went missing on Friday after school, but the first call to the police was made at a little after nine yesterday morning. Why the wait?’

  ‘We’ve already explained all this,’ Mullen said. The edge to his voice revealed traces of a Midlands accent. Thorne remembered Porter telling him that Mullen was originally from Wolverhampton. ‘We just thought Luke was out and about somewhere.’

  ‘Only on Friday evening, surely?’

  ‘He could have gone to a club, then stayed over at a mate’s or something. There was usually a certain amount of leeway on a Friday night.’

  ‘It was me.’ Maggie Mullen cleared her throat. ‘I was the one who thought there was nothing to worry about. I was the one who persuaded Tony that we should just wait for Luke to come home.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say this yesterday?’ Porter asked.

  ‘Is it really important?’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t, but—’

  ‘We waited. That’s all that matters. We waited when we shouldn’t have and I’ll have to live with that.’

  ‘There was an argument,’ Mullen said.

  Thorne’s eyes stayed on Maggie Mullen. He watched her drop her head and stare at her feet.

  Mullen sat up straight in his chair and continued. ‘Luke and I had a stupid row that morning. There was a lot of shouting and swearing, the usual kind of stuff.’

  ‘What did you argue about?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘School,’ Mullen said. ‘I think maybe we were putting him under a bit of pressure. I was putting him under pressure.’

  ‘Luke and his dad usually get on so well.’ Maggie Mullen looked at Porter, spoke as though her husband were no longer in the room. ‘Really well. It’s not normal for them to argue like that.’

  Porter smiled. ‘The fights I used to have with my mum and dad . . .’

  ‘Sometimes I think Luke’s closer to his dad than he is to me, you know?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Mullen said.

  ‘I get jealous sometimes, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Come on, love . . .’

  Maggie Mullen was staring straight ahead.

  Thorne followed her gaze to the elaborate fireplace; to the flame-effect gas fire and the half-life-sized ceramic cheetah sitting to one side of it. ‘Was this row really that serious?’ he asked. ‘Serious enough for Luke to leave without a word?’

  ‘No way.’ Mullen was categorical. Said it again to ensure that Thorne and Porter got the message.

  ‘Mrs Mullen?’

  The drum and bass coming through the ceiling seemed louder for a few seconds. Still staring towards the fireplace, Maggie Mullen shook her head.

  ‘Whether it’s got anything to do with this argument or not, Luke’s disappearance may still have a simple explanation.’ Porter waited until all faces were turned to her before carrying on. ‘We’ve at least got to accept that possibility.’

  Maggie Mullen stood up and smoothed down the back of her skirt. ‘I’m happy to accept it, love. I’m praying for it.’ She walked across to the fireplace, reached for a packet of Silk Cut on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Obviously, we’ve checked out all his friends,’ Porter said. ‘But in the absence of any sort of communication from anyone who might be holding Luke, there has to be a possibility that he’s gone away with someone.’

  ‘You mean this woman?’ Mullen said.

  ‘He’d been spotted with “this woman” on other occasions.’ Thorne stood up too and walked behind the sofa, the relief from the pain in his leg almost instantaneous. ‘If Luke’s seeing an older woman, he might have thought better about telling you.’

  The boy’s mother was clearly not convinced. ‘I can’t see it.’ She fumbled for a cigarette. ‘I can’t imagine Luke with a girl his own age, let alone someone older. He isn’t confident with girls. He’s a bit awkward.’

  ‘Come on, Maggie,’ Mullen said. ‘He could have been into all sorts of things. I don’t mean drugs or anything like that, but kids have secrets, don’t they?’

  ‘Your husband’s got a point,’ Thorne said. ‘How well does any parent know an adolescent?’

  Maggie Mullen lit her cigarette, took in the first lungful like it was oxygen. ‘I’ve been asking myself that quite a lot,’ she said. ‘Ever since I started to wonder if I was ever going to see my son again.’

  In the kitchen, DC Kenny Parsons opened another cupboard and peered inside. ‘Maybe we should just leave it.’

  Holland was sitting at the table, idly turning the pages of a Daily Express. ‘Don’t be nervous, mate. As family liaison officer, you definitely get biscuit privileges.’

  ‘Result. Here you go.’ Parsons produced an unopened packet and placed it on a tray next to the mugs. Coffee had already been spooned into each. The kettle had boiled minutes ago, but been ignored.

  ‘So how d’you reckon things are between them?’ Holland asked, nodding towards the living room. ‘Normally, I mean.’

  Parsons flicked the kettle on again and carried the tray to the table. He was in his mid-thirties, Holland guessed, a dark-skinned black man with hair cut almost to the scalp, and the trick of looking untidy in a perfectly presentable suit. ‘You know they split up for a while a few years back?’

  Holland nodded; Porter had told them as much. The team were looking at the family, of course, but not as closely as they might have, had Luke been a bit younger; or if it had been more obviously an abduction rather than a kidnap. The family were certainly not under any suspicion, not this early on at any rate, but a few discreet enquiries had been made all the same.

  ‘She was the one that walked out, right?’ Holland asked.

  ‘Yeah, but she wasn’t gone for very long.’

  ‘Old man playing away from home, d’you reckon?’

  ‘Usually the way, isn’t it?’

  ‘So what about now?’

>   Parsons considered it. ‘Things are pretty good, I think.’

  Holland had discovered quickly that his new colleague was not short of opinions. He had plenty to say about those on his own team, and was far more relaxed when it came to talking about the Mullen family than he was about helping himself to their digestives.

  Holland was happy enough to get another perspective on the case.

  ‘Bear in mind that even splitting the shifts, we’re not here twenty-four hours a day,’ Parsons said. ‘Mullen was fairly adamant early on that he didn’t want anyone stopping overnight. Based on what I have seen, though, I reckon he rules the roost, give or take. He’s used to people doing what he tells them to do, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘And do they do what he tells them? The wife doesn’t come across as any sort of doormat.’

  ‘Oh no, she’s not. Definitely.’

  ‘She seems nice enough,’ Holland said. ‘I mean, she’s obviously a bit shell-shocked just now . . .’

  ‘She’s tougher than she looks, if you ask me.’ Parsons moved the mugs around on the tray, lining them up, making room for milk and sugar. ‘Ex-teacher, right?’ He held up his hands, as if the point were self-evident.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So I reckon she can give as good as she gets. I bet there are times she tells him exactly what to do.’ He waited in vain for a reaction to the vaguely lewd suggestion before continuing. ‘I think the family’s learned how to look like they do what the old man tells them, know what I mean? They’re good at making him feel like he’s in charge. Probably no different to when he was on the Job, right?’

  Notwithstanding Parsons’ obvious taste for gossip and speculation, Holland could see the sense in what he was saying. His own father had been a police officer. In the few short years between retirement and an early death, his relationship with Holland’s mother had fallen into exactly the pattern that Parsons was talking about.

  ‘What about the kid?’

  ‘You seen his room?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It’s a lot different to my lad’s, I can tell you that. I don’t think we’re talking about your average sixteen-year-old.’