Lifeless Thorne 5

by Mark Billingham

  “You’re Old Bill. ’Course you are.” He was starting to raise his voice. “I know you are.”

  “Listen, mate …”

  “I know a piggy …”

  Thorne thrust the can toward him. “Here, you can take it …”

  “Oink! Oink!” He smacked a fat hand against the side of his leg over and over as he shouted: “You’re a copper, you’re a rozzer, you’re a rotten, filthy fucker …”

  Thorne was on the verge of driving the base of the can against the old man’s head when Spike appeared next to him.

  “All right?”

  As Thorne turned his head the man reached out and grabbed the beer.

  Spike took hold of his arm. “Give us that back, you twat …”

  “Let him have it,” Thorne said.

  When Spike let go, the man took a couple of steps back, pulling the can of beer close to his chest. “He’s a copper. I swear he’s a fucking copper.”

  Spike spoke like he was humoring a mental patient. “ ’Course he is.” He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouted after the old man, although he was no more than a few feet away. “You don’t know how fucking wrong you are, pal.”

  They watched as the man walked to the railings at the edge of the curb and started to drink.

  Spike looked at Thorne. “You didn’t used to be a copper, did you?”

  Thorne turned and walked away, heading around the narrow strip of pavement that circled the church.

  The old man was clearly a head case, yet Thorne was still unnerved by the confrontation. Was there a chance he had been recognized? Could the old man have been someone Thorne had put away years before? It didn’t really matter; from what Spike had shouted, it was clear that he still believed Thorne had spent time in prison.

  He thought back to the case he’d been working on just before his father had died. The case that might have been the reason his father had died. He thought about a line he’d drawn, and then stepped across as casually as if he were entering another room.

  Ex-offender was exactly right.

  He stopped at the front of the church, looked up at the blackened statue of Gladstone, at the defiant bronze figure of Bomber Harris …

  Something began to suggest itself.

  There were other statues around the front of the church. He didn’t need to know whom they honored. Even from behind, the bearing of these men told Thorne what they were. He turned and walked back toward the entrance of the church, remembering it even as he saw the three letters, spelled out horizontally on a pale blue cross, beneath the figure of a golden eagle. St. Clement Danes was the RAF church …

  Something blurred started to come sharply into focus.

  He thought about the museum he’d walked past earlier with Russell Brigstocke. He remembered something Spike had said when he was talking about the differing backgrounds of people who were sleeping rough:

  It’s a right old mix, though. I fucking love it, like. You’ve got your immigrants, you’ve got …

  And then Thorne knew exactly who might have their blood group as a tattoo.

  It was funny, he thought, about old friends.

  Sitting in the flat, he thought about the strange ways things could pan out if you came across them again. Funny how it happened as well. It might be that you just ran into someone from your past on a street somewhere, or on a train, or found yourself leaning against the same bar one night. It might be a phone call out of the blue.

  Or it might all come about same as this had: it might all start with a letter …

  It was weird, that was the other thing, how some that you’d never really been close to might turn out, a few years down the line, to be all right. To be the ones you got on okay with. While others—the blokes who you thought at the time would be your mates forever; who you said stupid, soppy shit to after a few beers; who you felt really connected to—ended up being the ones who caused all the fucking headaches later on. And, of course, sod’s law, you could never tell first time round which were which.

  Time could heal some wounds, ’course it could, but others were always going to fester.

  He reckoned that basically, there was always a good reason why people lost touch with one another. Sometimes it was an effort to keep a friendship going; when geography was against you or whatever. If the friendship was really worth it, though, you made the effort. Simple as that. If not, you let it go, and like as not the other person was thinking the same as you, and letting it go at exactly the same time.

  If an effort was made later to get back in touch, there was a good chance that the party making the effort wanted something. It was certainly true in this case. Very bloody true all round, in fact. But, a decade and more down the road, you want different things, don’t you? You want a quiet life and you’ll do all sorts of things to keep it that way. You’re willing—no, you’re happy—to fight for what you’ve got; to keep hold of what you’ve worked so bloody hard to get.

  They all needed one another back then. No shame in that. But life goes on, and people learn lessons, and you didn’t need to be a rocket scientist, did you? When there isn’t a real enemy around anymore, you don’t need friends quite so much.

  1991

  There are no longer any weapons trained upon the four men who have been tied up, and though those who have bound their wrists, and now their feet, are no more than fifty feet away, each allows his gaze, for at least some of the time, to drift toward the floor or to the face of the man nearest to him. The eyes of these men are no longer fixed and popping, as they would be faced with the muzzle of a gun or the blade of a knife.

  The sand has become the color of soil, and their olive shirts are black with the rain and pasted to their skins.

  The four figures wearing goggles and helmets are also sitting now, or squatting, close together. Each still carries his gun, but it leans against a thigh or hangs loosely from a hand resting across a knee. Though their position might seem relaxed from a distance, they constantly eye the quartet across from them, and shift nervously. Heavily booted feet are flexed, carving out miniature trenches in the sand, and those on their haunches bob and bend, their arms stretched and stiff against the ground to steady themselves.

  Suddenly one man lowers his shamag and spits, a thick trail of it that he pulls away from his chin before lifting the kerchief back into place. He shuffles forward and the others do likewise; they lean close together and talk.

  They each have something to say, and though the exchange is heated at first, it settles quickly and the voices gradually lower. The words are getting harder to make out, but they are clearly given greater weight and seriousness, and now the men are close enough to touch one another. It starts with a slap that sounds like a bone breaking and a voice that has become little more than a low growl. Pleas give way to threats. Then promises. One man swears, pushes at a second, and finds himself clutched at like a lover. Heads are shaken quickly and nodded slowly until, finally, each man has a handful of another’s jacket or an arm wrapped tight around his shoulder, and they bow their heads so that the helmets smack together. They look like football players in a huddle, desperate to pool their terror and their aggression and turn it into something they can use. Firing up for one last, big push.

  And this is when it begins to look like a game. They all rise to their feet, and after another half minute, one—chosen or volunteered—steps away from the group. He examines his pistol. In the space that opens up between, there is a bright smear on the horizon, fainter as it rises, like red ink creeping up a blotter.

  The others watch as the man walks quickly toward the four figures on the ground, though two of those watching turn away at the last moment. They look like players gathered in the center circle. Some unable to handle the tension of the penalty shootout; turning their backs, lowering their heads. Afraid to watch.

  The men on the ground begin to move, quickly. They attempt to scramble to their feet, but it’s hopeless. They fall onto their backs or faces, and struggle to r
each one another. Now their eyes are popping again; wide, and shot with shattered vessels.

  Time passes, though probably no more than half a minute, and the man who left the group is on his way back to them.

  There’s no way of knowing, of course, what any of them are thinking; those that stand waiting their turn, or the man who trudges slowly back. But though the goggles and shamags give them all the same blank, robotic expression, it’s easy to imagine that the faces beneath are equally expressionless.

  He rejoins his friends in their center circle.

  Though three men have begun to scream, and weep, and pray, it’s impossible to tell if he’s scored or not.

  FIFTEEN

  The Media Operations Office of British Army HQ (London District) was housed in a building backing onto Horse Guards Parade. It had once been the barracks for hundreds of men, but these days the horses it stabled and the troops who paraded across its courtyards were engaged, for the most part, in ceremonial activities.

  As Kitson and Holland had walked toward the reception area, they’d had to pass a pair of House hold Cavalrymen on guard duty. The soldiers stood, unblinking in their scarlet tunics, with helmets polished to a mirrored finish, and Holland had only just fought off the childish urge to try to distract them, in the same way that giggling tourists and schoolchildren did all day long. Once inside the office, with a china cup of very strong tea, he confessed this to one of the senior public information officers sitting behind the desk opposite.

  “Oh, they love all that carry-on,” the man said.

  The second SPIO, seated behind a desk at a right angle to the first, was eager to agree with his colleague. “Especially if it’s a couple of teenage girls doing the distracting. You’d be amazed how many saucy notes get stuck into those boys’ boots.”

  The office, which overlooked Whitehall, was large enough to have housed more than just the two SPIOs, but was also somewhat dilapidated. Paint was peeling from the green door and eau de Nil walls, and though the brown color hid it, the carpet was probably as thick with dust as the strip lights above. Several large pin boards were covered with curling charts, sun-faded maps, and, on one, a color photograph of the Queen in one of those oversize prams she was so fond of traveling around in.

  Though many who worked in the building were civil servants, the two men who shared this office were actually retired army officers. This had been made clear early on, when each had introduced the other and had prefaced name with former rank.

  Ex– lieutenant col o nel Ken Rutherford was short and stocky, with silver hair that he’d oiled and swept back. Trevor Spiby, a former captain in the Scots Guards, was taller, and balding. A patch of red skin, which might have been a burn or a birthmark, ran from just below his jaw and disappeared under his collar. Each man wore a shirt and tie, but where Spiby had opted for braces, Rutherford sported a multicolored waistcoat. Their contrasting appearances gave them the look of an upmarket double act, and this image was furthered by the way that they bounced off each other verbally.

  “Tea okay?”

  “Be better with a biscuit …”

  “Are you sure we can’t rustle you one up?” Kitson thanked them and passed. Holland did

  likewise, the cut-glass accents of the ex-officers making him feel as though he belonged on EastEnders. He imagined his polite “Thank you” sounding like he’d said, “Get your lovely ripe bananas … two bunches for a pahnd!”

  “I don’t quite understand why you’ve come to Media Ops,” Spiby said.

  Rutherford nodded. “The Met would normally liaise with the RMP.”

  Russell Brigstocke had considered talking to the Royal Military Police, but all that was really needed at this stage was information. He was also wary of the “can of worms” factor that so often came into play when one force of any kind attempted to make use of another. As far as the meeting itself went, it had been his decision to send Yvonne Kitson along. Most interviews were conducted by officers of DS rank and below, but on this occasion Brigstocke had thought it politic for an inspector to be present.

  “It’s a simple inquiry really,” Kitson said. “I just need straightforward information and I don’t need to waste a lot of anyone’s time. To be frank, it was this office’s contact details that were first on the Web site.”

  “How can we help you?” Rutherford asked.

  Holland gave a brief summary of the case, concentrating on the deaths of the two men with tattoos, whom they now believed to have been ex-army.

  “It sounds more than likely,” Spiby said. “The blood group is often tattooed, along with other things, of course.”

  “Though not too much.” Rutherford was peering over his computer. “Anyone with too many tattoos can be barred from joining the army in the first place.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d know what the rest of the tattoo might mean?” Holland handed a piece of paper across. Rutherford pulled on the half-moon specs that hung around his neck. He studied the letters for a few moments and passed it to Spiby.

  “They’re initials, clearly, but certainly nothing military springs to mind.”

  “Do you have any rec ords of the partic u lar markings that certain soldiers may have had?” Holland asked. “Scars, tattoos, what have you?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Spiby looked to Rutherford, who shook his head emphatically. “There are medical records, yes, but nothing that detailed.”

  “DNA?”

  “Oh, I doubt it.”

  “Dental rec ords, perhaps?”

  “Yes, I think so. I’d need to check …”

  Kitson leaned forward to place her empty cup on Spiby’s desk. “As we only have a name for one of these men, we’re very much hoping we can use it to identify the other. Save for the different blood groups, these tattoos are identical, so we’re assuming they had them done at the same time. That they served together.”

  “It sounds a reasonable assumption,” Rutherford said.

  “So if we give you this man’s name, we thought you could give us a list of the other soldiers he served with.”

  “Ah. Not such a reasonable assumption, I’m afraid. First, we can’t give you anything; you’d need to contact the Rec ords Office. Second, the rec ords just don’t work like that. They don’t group the men together in that fashion. I’d be amazed if the Met’s rec ords worked a great deal differently.”

  Kitson sat back in her chair.

  “These men who were sleeping rough,” Spiby said, “they had been out of the army for some time, correct?”

  There was a pause. The silence was broken only by the sputtering of the ancient gas fire in the corner of the room. Holland cleared his throat. “We think so, yes.”

  “They were definitely not AWOL servicemen?”

  “Not as far as we know …”

  “It would explain why they were sleeping rough. When a soldier is AWOL, they will go to extraordinary lengths to avoid being traced through official channels.”

  Rutherford chipped in. “I’m sure that Army Personnel could cross-check your name against a list of absent servicemen.”

  “I don’t think that’s the case …”

  “So how far back are we talking?” Spiby asked.

  Kitson looked across to Holland. He looked back at her, gave a small shake of the head. “We’re not sure at this stage,” Kitson said.

  “When a soldier leaves the army, his rec ords are sent to the Manning and Record Office at the Army Personnel Centre in Glasgow. Sometime later …” Spiby looked to Rutherford. “Is it ten years, Ken?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sometime later, the rec ords are moved to the Services Archive at Hayes. Glasgow would need to recall any file from there if you made an inquiry. You could try that to begin with, but in the first instance they tend to give out only name, date of birth, and a confirmation of service.”

  “There are constraints on the release of any other information,” Rutherford said.

  Holland had sta
rted to feel very warm. He undid the top button of his shirt. “This is a murder investigation, sir. I doubt those constraints would apply.”

  Rutherford held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sure you’re right, Detective Sergeant, but with all the cooperation in the world I still don’t think they’ll be able to give you the information you’re after. As far as the soldier whose name you do have goes, you may still need authorization from his next of kin. You have that, correct?”

  Now Holland was feeling hot. Thinking about who that next of kin might be …

  “Which regiment did our man serve in?” Spiby asked. “That might give us a start, at least.” It was another question Holland couldn’t answer. Kitson snapped her head round to stare at him. He could see that she was thinking about Susan Jago, too.

  Kitson waited until she’d reached the end of the corridor and turned to walk down the stairs before she let rip. “They looked at us like we were amateurs. Fuck it, we are amateurs. What the hell went on in there?”

  Holland said nothing. He was still trying to put it together, trying to remember a sequence of events.

  “I don’t like passing the buck, Dave, but you were given the job of going into CRIS and writing up the notes for this interview.”

  “I did, guv …”

  Kitson stopped. “So why did we not know the answers to those questions?”

  Holland had accessed the Crime Reporting Intelligence System first thing that morning. CRIS was a complete record of the case to date: every name, date, and statement. There had been nothing relating to Christopher Jago’s service in the army—the year of his discharge, the name of his regiment. Holland had presumed that the data had simply not yet been entered, but that Kitson and Brigstocke must already know the relevant facts. He knew now that he’d fucked up; that they’d all fucked up.

  “Dave? Where’s the information we got from Jago’s sister?” The moment Kitson had finished asking the question, she knew the answer. “Christ. There isn’t any, is there?”

  “That’s the thing, guv. I don’t think Susan Jago has ever told us her brother was a soldier.”