Buried-6

Mark Bil ingham won the first Theakston’s Old Peculier Award for the Best Crime Novel of the Year with
Lazybones
, and also won a Sherlock Award for the Best Detective created by a British writer. His series of novels featuring Detective Inspector Tom Thorne have al been
Sunday Times
bestsel ers. He lives in north London with his wife and two children.

Praise for
Buried

‘Mark Bil ingham is a master of a rough-and-tumble crime writing which has liberated itself from the iron hoops of sameness that confine so many . . .What is so impressive is how
real
his characters are’

Guardian

‘[Thorne is] the most interesting cop in British crime fiction at present’

The Times

‘Bil ingham is writing at the very top of his considerable game . . . Good writing, authentic police work and superb craftmanship’

Daily Mail

‘A cunning variation on the serial-murder theme’

Sunday Telegraph

‘[A] self-assured and thought-provoking thril er’

Sunday Express

‘Clever and competent’

Literary Review

Also by this author

SLEEPYHEAD

SCAREDY CAT

LAZYBONES

THE BURNING GIRL

LIFELESS

BURIED

DEATH MESSAGE

You can visit the author’s website at:

www.markbillingham.com

BURIED

Mark Billingham

Hachette Digital

www.littlebrown.co.uk

Published by Hachette Digital 2008

Copyright © Mark Billingham 2006

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than

that in which it is published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on the

subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7481 0929 6

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For Sarah Lutyens.

Without whom there wouldn’t have been any at all
.

You think about the kids.

First and last, in this sort of situation, in this sort of
state
; when you can’t decide if it’s anger or agony that’s al but doubling you up, and making it so hard for you to spit the words across the room. First and last, you think about them . . .

‘Why the hel , why the
fuck
, didn’t you tel me this earlier?’

‘It wasn’t the right time. It seemed best to wait.’

‘
Best?
’ She takes a step towards the man standing on the far side of her living room.

He moves back instinctively until his calves are squashed against the edge of the sofa and he almost topples back on to the careful y plumped cushions. ‘I think you should try to calm down,’ he says.

The room smel s of pot pourri. There are lines on the carpet showing that it has recently been vacuumed, and the carriage clock that can be heard ticking loudly when the shouting stops sits on a highly polished pine mantelpiece.

‘What do you expect me to do?’ she says. ‘I’d real y be interested to know.’

‘I can’t tel you what to do. It’s your decision.’

‘You think I’ve got a
choice?
’

‘We need to sit down and talk about the best way forward—’

‘Christ Almighty. You just march in here and tel me this. Casual y, like it’s just something you forgot to mention. You walk in here and tel me al this . . . shit!’ She’s begun to cry again, but this time she does not lift a hand to her face. She shuts her eyes and waits for the moment to pass. For the fury to return, undiluted.

‘Sarah—’

‘I don’t know you. I don’t even fucking
know
you!’

For a few seconds there’s just the ticking, and the distant traffic, and the noise bleeding in from a radio in the kitchen, turned down low when she’d heard the doorbel . Inside, the central heating’s working overtime, but there’s stil plenty of sun streaming into the room through the net at the windows.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re
what?
’ But she’s heard him wel enough. She smiles, then laughs. She gathers the material of her dress between her fingers as her fists clench at her sides. There’s something starting to twitch in her bel y now; a spasm takes hold at the top of her leg. ‘I need to get to the school.’

‘The kids’l be fine. Honestly, love. Absolutely fine.’

She repeats his last word; and then again, in a whisper. There’s no stopping the tears this time or the scream that comes from deep inside; or the swel and the surge that take her fast across the room, her hands clawed and flying at the man’s face.

The man raises his arms to protect himself. He grabs the fingers that stab at his eyes, and, once he has them, as soon as he is in control of her, he tries to keep her stil ; to guide her firmly away. ‘You’ve got to stay calm.’

‘You. Rotten. Fucker.’ She snaps back her head.

‘Please listen—’ The spit hits him just above the lip and starts to run into his mouth. He swears at her; a word he rarely uses.

And he pushes her . . .

And suddenly she’s dead weight, fal ing back, opening her mouth to cry out, and smashing down through the glass of the coffee table.

A few seconds’ ticking. And traffic. And the buzz from the kitchen.

The man takes a step towards her, then stops dead. He can see what’s happened straight away.

Her back hurts, and her ankle, where she’s caught them on the edge of the table as she’s fal en. She tries to sit up, but her head is suddenly as heavy as a wrecking bal . The moan rattles from her chest, and her shoulders grind glass into the carpet beneath her. She lies, breathless, across the ragged jewels and slivers, recognising a song from the distant radio at the same moment that she feels the warmth and the wetness at the back of her head. Spreading at her throat, and creeping down inside the neck of her sweater.

Shard
. . .

She thinks for a second or two about that word; about what a stupid word it is when you say it to yourself repeatedly. About her bad luck. How bloody unlucky can you get? Must have caught an artery, or maybe two. And, though she can hear her name being spoken, though she is wel aware of the desperation, of the
panic
, in the voice, she is already starting to fade and to focus; concentrating only on the faces of her children.

First and last.

As her life ebbs quickly away – running red across smoked glass – her final thought is a straightforward one. Simple and tender and vicious.

If he’s touched my kids, I’ll kill him.

COMING

LUKE

‘I suppose al I’m real y saying is try not to worry. OK, Mum? That you don’t have to, I mean. Even sitting here saying that, I know how pointless it is, because it’s something you’ve always done. Juliet and me reckon that if you weren’t worried about something, you’d probably feel odd, or under the weather, like part of you wasn’t working properly. You’d be disconcerted.

Like when you know there’s something important you’ve forgotten to do, or when you can’t remember where you’ve put your keys, you know? If you weren’t worried, we’d be worried that you weren’t!

‘It’s al right, though. I’m doing pretty wel . Better than “pretty wel ” actual y. I’m not saying it’s five-star or anything, but the food could be a damn sight worse, and they’re being fairly nice to me. And it’s only the second most uncomfortable bed I’ve ever slept in. Remember when we stayed in that shitty guest house in Eastbourne that time, when Juliet had her hockey tournament, and the bed felt like it had rocks in it? I’m even managing to get some sleep, amazingly enough.