Read Online The Bones Beneath by Mark Billingham - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Billingham
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despair I couldn’t shake him out of.’
‘But Nicklin could?’
Sonia shook her head. ‘Trust me, I know how ridiculous it sounds. I spoke to one of the chaplains in there a bit later, someone Jeff had been talking to a lot ever since he’d been inside. He couldn’t explain it either, but he’d certainly noticed the difference. Jeff and Nicklin started spending time together and things changed. Next time I went in, he was calmer. More like his old self. He was talking about the future, courses he wanted to do in prison, that sort of thing.’ She took a mouthful of tea, pulled a face. ‘I’ve no idea how he did it, let alone why, but somehow Nicklin managed to talk my husband round. Thank God he did…’
Kitson looked across at the photographs again. ‘That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question though, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘
Why
. Why would Nicklin want to take Jeff under his wing like that.’
Sonia put her mug down. She sat back and folded her arms. ‘Listen, I’ve got no bloody idea what’s in this for Nicklin,’ she said. ‘But I think I know what Jeff gets out of it. I think Nicklin makes him realise that what he did wasn’t so terrible.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, yes it
was
terrible, course it was and nothing’s going to bring Nathan back or make his parents feel any better. I just mean… compared to what Nicklin did. Someone like Nicklin helps Jeff remember that he’s just a good man who snapped, that’s all. An ordinary man, who’s
nothing
like the Nicklins of this world.’ She looked away for a few seconds, grimacing as though she were about to cry out or spit. When she turned her eyes back to Kitson, she said, ‘Maybe you’ve got this the wrong way round and it was all Jeff’s idea to go.’
‘You really think so?’ Kitson asked.
‘I think my husband needs Stuart Nicklin there to remind him who he is.’
TEN
They cut north for a while, the single-lane B-road running almost parallel with the Welsh border, just a mile or so away across the fields. Though they were still in England, the small towns and villages they passed through had decidedly Celtic-sounding names: Gronwen, Gobowen, Morda. ‘You sure we haven’t taken a detour into Middle Earth?’ Holland said, clocking a road sign.
Jenks, who looked like he was no stranger to the world of fantasy fiction, laughed from the back seat. Said, ‘I’ll keep a lookout for Orcs.’
Once across the border, Thorne turned west and they made good progress through the Dee Valley, the Holyhead road almost precisely following the path of the river as it wound through Llangollen. To the left, the landscape was soon densely wooded with conifers, while hills rose steeply away on the other side of them, mist shrouding the higher peaks. Holland pointed out the ruins of an abbey, said that Sophie had mentioned it.
‘You wait until we get where we’re going,’ Nicklin said. ‘There’s remains way older than that.’
‘Nice to know,’ Thorne said.
‘Shame there won’t be time to enjoy the sights.’
‘We find the remains of that boy, I’m happy.’
‘You should try and come back,’ Nicklin said. ‘Bring your other half.’
Driving through the small town of Corwen, they passed a statue of a warrior on horseback brandishing a sword, a couple posing for photographs in front. Jenks wanted to know who the soldier was, but no answer was forthcoming. A mile or so down the road, Batchelor said, ‘It’s Owen Glendower. The statue.’
‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ Jenks asked.
‘Last proper Prince of Wales,’ Batchelor said. ‘Last one who was actually Welsh, anyway. He led a rebellion against the English at the start of the fifteenth century. Very much the father of Welsh nationalism.’
Thorne nodded. ‘One of those groups in the seventies and eighties who tried to burn the English out, weren’t they called the Sons of Glendower or something?’
‘That’s right,’ Batchelor said.
‘But Nicklin could?’
Sonia shook her head. ‘Trust me, I know how ridiculous it sounds. I spoke to one of the chaplains in there a bit later, someone Jeff had been talking to a lot ever since he’d been inside. He couldn’t explain it either, but he’d certainly noticed the difference. Jeff and Nicklin started spending time together and things changed. Next time I went in, he was calmer. More like his old self. He was talking about the future, courses he wanted to do in prison, that sort of thing.’ She took a mouthful of tea, pulled a face. ‘I’ve no idea how he did it, let alone why, but somehow Nicklin managed to talk my husband round. Thank God he did…’
Kitson looked across at the photographs again. ‘That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question though, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘
Why
. Why would Nicklin want to take Jeff under his wing like that.’
Sonia put her mug down. She sat back and folded her arms. ‘Listen, I’ve got no bloody idea what’s in this for Nicklin,’ she said. ‘But I think I know what Jeff gets out of it. I think Nicklin makes him realise that what he did wasn’t so terrible.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, yes it
was
terrible, course it was and nothing’s going to bring Nathan back or make his parents feel any better. I just mean… compared to what Nicklin did. Someone like Nicklin helps Jeff remember that he’s just a good man who snapped, that’s all. An ordinary man, who’s
nothing
like the Nicklins of this world.’ She looked away for a few seconds, grimacing as though she were about to cry out or spit. When she turned her eyes back to Kitson, she said, ‘Maybe you’ve got this the wrong way round and it was all Jeff’s idea to go.’
‘You really think so?’ Kitson asked.
‘I think my husband needs Stuart Nicklin there to remind him who he is.’
TEN
They cut north for a while, the single-lane B-road running almost parallel with the Welsh border, just a mile or so away across the fields. Though they were still in England, the small towns and villages they passed through had decidedly Celtic-sounding names: Gronwen, Gobowen, Morda. ‘You sure we haven’t taken a detour into Middle Earth?’ Holland said, clocking a road sign.
Jenks, who looked like he was no stranger to the world of fantasy fiction, laughed from the back seat. Said, ‘I’ll keep a lookout for Orcs.’
Once across the border, Thorne turned west and they made good progress through the Dee Valley, the Holyhead road almost precisely following the path of the river as it wound through Llangollen. To the left, the landscape was soon densely wooded with conifers, while hills rose steeply away on the other side of them, mist shrouding the higher peaks. Holland pointed out the ruins of an abbey, said that Sophie had mentioned it.
‘You wait until we get where we’re going,’ Nicklin said. ‘There’s remains way older than that.’
‘Nice to know,’ Thorne said.
‘Shame there won’t be time to enjoy the sights.’
‘We find the remains of that boy, I’m happy.’
‘You should try and come back,’ Nicklin said. ‘Bring your other half.’
Driving through the small town of Corwen, they passed a statue of a warrior on horseback brandishing a sword, a couple posing for photographs in front. Jenks wanted to know who the soldier was, but no answer was forthcoming. A mile or so down the road, Batchelor said, ‘It’s Owen Glendower. The statue.’
‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ Jenks asked.
‘Last proper Prince of Wales,’ Batchelor said. ‘Last one who was actually Welsh, anyway. He led a rebellion against the English at the start of the fifteenth century. Very much the father of Welsh nationalism.’
Thorne nodded. ‘One of those groups in the seventies and eighties who tried to burn the English out, weren’t they called the Sons of Glendower or something?’
‘That’s right,’ Batchelor said.
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