Buried-6 by Mark Billingham

‘You just wanted to see if I fucked up on my first day, you mean.’
    ‘Oh, I know you didn’t fuck up. I’ve already spoken to the DCI.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Gold stars al round, I reckon. You impressed DI Porter, by the sound of it. What did you make of her?’
    Thorne dropped into the armchair, swiftly fol owed by his terminal y confused cat, who jumped on to his lap and began digging in her claws. Thorne lifted Elvis up until she let go and tossed her back to the floor. ‘She seemed OK,’ he said. ‘She certainly knows what she’s doing.’ He couldn’t be sure why he was so reluctant to say what he real y thought, especial y when she’d obviously said such good things about him. The fact was that he’d been very impressed with Louise Porter. In every sense.
    ‘Exciting enough for you?’
    ‘Wel , I’m not stuck behind a desk,’ Thorne said. ‘But I’m not sitting here waiting for my pulse to return to normal, either.’ He could hear one of Brigstocke’s kids in the background.
    The tone of the silence changed as a hand went over the mouthpiece, and he heard Brigstocke’s muffled voice tel ing the child that he’d be with him in a few minutes.
    ‘Sorry . . .’
    ‘I’m not even sure we’re looking at a kidnap,’ Thorne said. ‘This business with the woman’s bloody odd. And if someone is holding the kid, it doesn’t make any sense that they haven’t got in touch.’
    ‘What does Porter think?’
    ‘She thinks it’s strange, too. We were talking about motivation, you know? About why anybody takes a hostage. There’s always a reason. It might be drugs, or money, or some kind of political statement. But they always want something.’
    ‘You think the boy’s just left home?’
    ‘God knows. I think we might be wasting a lot of time and effort, though.’
    The doorbel rang, but almost as soon as Thorne was on his feet, Hendricks had come inside and was making his way to the door. Thorne reached into his leather jacket for his wal et but Hendricks waved him away.
    ‘So I’d be right in thinking you wouldn’t be keen on me making this transfer permanent, then?’
    ‘This is going to sound weird, and I know that, whatever the reason turns out to be, there’s stil a missing kid, but I find it hard to get . . . excited about it. There’s an element of going through the motions. Does that make sense?’
    ‘You’re happier when there’s a body, aren’t you?’ Brigstocke said. ‘You want a kil er to go after.’
    Thorne thought about what Hol and had said to him in the car that morning: ‘Sounds almost like you’re hoping.’ He wondered if the pair of them might have a point; if perhaps there were a part of him that could only be described as ‘ghoulish’. ‘I just think we should do what we’re good at,’ he said. He knew, even as he spoke, that he was sounding sulky and defensive.
    Brigstocke sniffed. ‘I could say something deep and meaningful here, about how some people care more about the dead than they do about the living, but I’m not sure I can be arsed.’
    ‘I think you’d be doing the pair of us a favour if you didn’t,’ Thorne said.
    Brigstocke said nothing. Just hummed, like he was thinking about it.
    The front door slammed and Hendricks walked back towards the kitchen with the boxes. Thorne was eager to fol ow him. ‘I need to go. I’m about to eat my dinner.’
    ‘I know. I heard the doorbel ,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Curry or pizza?’
    Thorne laughed. ‘You haven’t lost it.’
    A minute later he was taking two fresh cans of beer from the fridge, glad that the cal from Brigstocke had ended on an upbeat note. It could easily have gone the other way. So many conversations he’d had of late had seemed dangerously poised, while Hol and, Hendricks and a number of others had al used the phrase ‘walking on eggshel s’ more than once.

    When Thorne got snappy, told them in no uncertain terms that they were being oversensitive, they just looked at him like