Mark Billingham - Buried
Here you can read online Mark Billingham - Buried full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:
Romance novel
Science fiction
Adventure
Detective
Science
History
Home and family
Prose
Art
Politics
Computer
Non-fiction
Religion
Business
Children
Humor
Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.
- Book:Buried
- Author:
- Genre:
- Rating:5 / 5
- Favourites:Add to favourites
- Your mark:
Buried: summary, description and annotation
We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "Buried" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.
Mark Billingham: author's other books
Who wrote Buried? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Great Britain. Army. Special Air Service.
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Buried — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work
Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "Buried" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.
Light
Font size:
↓
↑
Reset
Interval:
↓
↑
Bookmark:
Make
Annotation
Luke Mullen, sixteen year old son of a former, high- ranking police officer has disappeared, presumed kidnapped. While no- one quite dares to voice the fear that he could also be presumed dead, Detective Inspector Tom Thorne is brought in to beef up the squad dedicated to locating the missing boy. The first thing the team looks for is anyone with a grudge against Luke's father, a man who'd put a lot of tough villains away in his time. A list quickly emerges, but Thorne discovers that ex-DCI Tony Mullen has omitted the name of the most obvious suspect; a man who'd once threatened him and his family, and who, after serving time for his original crime, is now the main suspect in a murder which has been unsolved for four years. Is this a simple oversight - understandable considering the trauma of his son's disappearance? Or is it something more telling? Aware that he does not have the luxury of time, Thorne searches desperately for connections and leads, but learns that secrets are as easily buried as bodies, and that assumptions are the enemy of truth.
Mark Billingham
Buried
Buried
The sixth book in the Tom Thorne series, 2006
For Sarah Lutyens.
Without whom there wouldn't have been any at all.
PROLOGUE
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 all 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 hell, why the fuck, didn't you tell 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 carefully plumped cushions. 'I think you should try to calm down,' he says.
The room smells 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 really be interested to know.'
'I can't tell 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 tell me this. Casually, like it's just something you forgot to mention. You walk in here and tell me all 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 doorbell. Inside, the central heating's working overtime, but there's still plenty of sun streaming into the room through the net at the windows.
'I'm sorry.'
'You're what?' But she's heard him well 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 belly now; a spasm takes hold at the top of her leg. 'I need to get to the school.'
'The kids'll 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 swell 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 still; 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, falling 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 fallen. She tries to sit up, but her head is suddenly as heavy as a wrecking ball. 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 well 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.
PART ONE. THE PUNCH COMING
LUKE
'I suppose all I'm really 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 all right, though. I'm doing pretty well. Better than "pretty well" actually. 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.
'I don't really know what else to say. What else I'm supposed to say...
'Except... If you want to video the comedy shows I like, that'd be cool. And don't rent my room out straight away, and please tell everyone at school not to be too devastated. See? Well fed, sleeping OK, and I've still got my sense of humour. So, really, there's nothing to get yourself worked up about, all right, Mum? I'm fine. Tell you what - when this is all finally sorted out, how about that PS2 game I've been going on about? Can't blame a lad for trying, can you?
'Look, there's loads of other things to say, but I'd better not go on too long, and you know the stuff I mean anyway. Mum? You know what I'm trying to say, yeah?
Light
Font size:
↓
↑
Reset
Interval:
↓
↑
Bookmark:
Make
Similar books «Buried»
Look at similar books to Buried. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Great Britain. Army. Special Air Service.
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham
Reviews about «Buried»
Discussion, reviews of the book Buried and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.