Buried

EPILOGUE

Thorne regained consciousness thirsty and dribbling, with tears in his eyes.

He’d seen the old man knocking around while he was under. Not saying a lot, just there at the edge of it, keeping an eye on things. He felt as if his father had been drifting, shadowy, same as he was. When he came out of it, Thorne had the powerful sense that he’d said goodbye to more than just the pain.

Like both his phantoms had left at the same time.

He sat up on three pillows and stared at the TV screen. Watching the coverage of a criminal trial was something of a busman’s holiday, but it was irresistible. In the United States, one of the world’s most recognisable celebrities was facing a major prison sentence, and the past three weeks had been taken up with the farce of jury selection. Candidate after candidate was rejected on the grounds that they knew who the defendant was and would therefore make assumptions. The prosecution demanded to know where they were meant to find jurors who didn’t know the mega-famous celebrity and what he was alleged to have done.

Thorne, still sleepy, closed his eyes and conjured a wonderful picture of a jury consisting of an Eskimo, a Kalahari Bushman, one of those African tribesmen with a saucer in his bottom lip…

Assumptions.

Boys and girls from nice homes and good schools don’t become racist murderers. Don’t grow up and snatch kids.

The ex-copper must be the parent being targeted when his child is kidnapped.

Children are safe with those closest to them.

He knew that everyone had prejudices and preconceptions. That they made fucking idiots out of good people as well as bad. That most of them were based on simple experience. But still…

When it came to matters of guilt and innocence, of trust or misgiving, Thorne knew better than most that making assumptions was a dangerous thing.

It was stinking thinking.

The door opened at the far end of the room and Hendricks stepped out of the bathroom, wiping his hands.

‘Nice facilities.’

Hedley Grange was a private hospital and convalescent home on the banks of the Thames, near Kingston. It was where the Met sent all officers injured in the line of duty; where Thorne would be recovering from an operation on the ‘back injury’ he’d received when rescuing Luke Mullen from the cottage in St Paul’s Walden.

‘Might as well get something out of it,’ Holland had said.

Hendricks came around the side of the bed. ‘Let’s have a look at the mess they’ve made.’

Thorne eased himself on to his left-hand side. He moved gingerly so as not to disturb the stitches, or the tangle of tubes by which he was wired up to a saline drip and a syringe-driver delivering welcome shots of morphine whenever they were needed.

It was too early to tell if the operation to sort out the herniated disc had been a success. It was still very sore, though the surgeon had suggested that the pain might just have been post-operative. Either way, Thorne had hit the button on his syringe-driver several times in the three hours since he’d come round.

Hendricks lifted the sheet, drew in a sharp breath.

‘What?’

‘I’m kidding,’ Hendricks said. ‘It all looks fine. The plastic pants and DVT stockings look pretty sexy as well.’

‘Piss off.’

Hendricks walked back to his chair at the end of the bed. He examined the floral tributes on the table: the customary small bouquet from the Commander; the slightly bigger one, with a printed card that said, ‘Get Well Soon’. That was signed, with kisses, from ‘Louise’.

‘You were going to tell me what happened with her,’ Hendricks said.

‘Nothing, as yet,’ Thorne said. ‘Hopefully, if the back’s sorted out…’

‘Easy, tiger. I wouldn’t start swinging from the chandelier just yet.’

Thorne smiled. ‘I’d settle for a cuddle, tell you the truth.’ The smile widened. ‘Maybe a handjob.’

‘You reckon it might work out?’

‘It’d be good, wouldn’t it?’

‘She’s nice,’ Hendricks said. ‘Doesn’t take any shit.’

They could hear voices from the corridor. The clatter of a trolley. Tea or medication.

‘What about you and Brendan?’

Hendricks leaned back on the chair; held it balanced on two legs. ‘We’re getting on fine.’ He looked out of the window. ‘He hasn’t said anything, but I think he’s got someone else knocking around.’

‘You OK with that?’

Hendricks said he was, and looked as though he meant it. ‘I’m going to find someone who wants the same as I do. It can’t be that hard.’

‘Kids, you mean?’

The chair dropped back on to four legs. ‘What about it?’ Hendricks said. ‘You and me. Why fight it any more? Let’s adopt.’

‘I’m not sure I’d make a very good father,’ Thorne said.

Hendricks didn’t miss a beat. ‘You mean “mother”. I’m the butch one.’

Thorne laughed, then wished he hadn’t. He pressed the syringe-driver a couple of times until he floated away from the pain and couldn’t remember what it was he’d found so funny.

Until he couldn’t remember much of anything.