Buried-6 Read Free

preyed on children for sexual gratification were usual y far younger. It wasn’t that older children were not targeted, of course, but such abuse was often institutionalised or, most tragical y of al , took place within the home itself. For a sixteen-year-old to be taken off the street was unusual.
    ‘Trevor Jesmond getting involved means there’s pressure to get a result,’ Thorne said. If a shrug and a half smile could be signs of enthusiasm, then he looked mustard-keen. ‘I reckon I could do with a bit of pressure at the minute.’
    ‘You haven’t heard al of it yet.’
    ‘I’m listening.’
    So Brigstocke enlightened him, and when it was finished and Thorne got up to leave, he looked out of the window one last time. The buildings sat opposite, brown and black and dirty-white; office blocks and warehouses, with pools of dark water gathered on their flat roofs. Thorne thought they looked like the teeth in an old man’s mouth.
    Before the car had reached the gates on its way out of the car park, Thorne had slotted a Bobby Bare CD into the player, taken one look at Hol and’s face and swiftly ejected it again. ‘I should make sure there’s always a Simply Red album in the car,’ Thorne said. ‘So as not to offend your sensibilities.’
    ‘I don’t like Simply Red.’
    ‘Whoever.’
    Hol and gestured towards the CD panel on the dash. ‘I don’t mind some of your stuff. It’s just al that twangy guitar shit . . .’
    Thorne turned the car on to Aerodrome Road and accelerated towards Colindale tube. Once they hit the A5 it would be a straight run through Cricklewood, Kilburn and south into town.
    Having criticised Thorne’s choice of music, Hol and proceeded to score two out of two by turning his sarcastic attentions to the car itself. The yel ow BMW – a 1971 three-litre CS –gave Thorne a good deal of pride and pleasure, but to DS Dave Hol and it was little more than the starting point for an endless series of ‘old banger’ jokes.
    For once, though, Thorne did not rise to the bait. There was little anyone could have done to make his mood much worse. ‘The boy’s old man is an ex-copper,’ he said. He jabbed at the horn as a scooter swerved in front of him, spoke as if he were describing something extremely distasteful. ‘ Ex-Detective Chief Superintendent Anthony Mul en.’
    Hol and’s dirty-blond hair was longer than it had been for a while. He pushed it back from his forehead. ‘So?’
    ‘So, it’s a bloody secret-handshake job, isn’t it? He’s cal ing in favours from his old mates. Next thing you know, we’re getting shunted across to another unit.’
    ‘It’s not like there was anything better to do, though, is it?’ Hol and said.
    The look from Thorne was momentary, but it made its point firmly enough.
    ‘For either of us, I mean. Not a lot of bodies on the books at the moment.’
    ‘Right. At the moment . You never know when something major’s going to come in though.’
    ‘Sounds almost like you’re hoping.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Like you don’t want to miss out . . .’
    Thorne said nothing. His eyes drifted to the wing mirror, stayed there as he flicked up the indicator and waited to pul out.
    Neither spoke again for several minutes. Rain had begun to streak the windows, through which Kilburn was giving way to the rather more gentrified environment of Maida Vale.
    ‘Did you get any more from the DCI?’ Hol and asked.
    Thorne shook his head. ‘He knows as much as we do. We find out the rest when we get there.’
    ‘You had much to do with SO7 before?’
    Like many officers, Hol and had not yet got used to the fact that SO units had official y been renamed SCD units, now that they were part of what had become known as the Specialist Crime Directorate. Most people stil used the old abbreviations, knowing ful wel that the brass would change the name again soon enough, next time they were short of something to do. SO7 was the Specialist Operations department whose component