Lifeless

by Mark Billingham

  “Sorry I scarpered, by the way,” Spike said. “I had stuff on me. You know how it is, right?”

  Thorne knew how it was.

  “Otherwise…you know?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Spike sniffed and spat. He shoved his hands into the pockets of a scarred vinyl bomber jacket. “I wanted to say thanks for wading in, you know? For trying to pull the tosser off me. Not that I was in any trouble…”

  Thorne nodded solemnly, sharing the joke. “’Course not.”

  “So”—Spike grinned as a young couple swerved into the street to avoid him, “as a small token of my appreciation, I’ve got us both a job…”

  Half an hour later and Thorne was hard at work. The sign he was holding had a bright yellow arrow drawn on it and bore the legend mr. jerk. chicken ‘n’ ribs. The restaurant was situated halfway along Argyll Street, and Thorne and Spike, with their gaudy advertising boards, constituted a cheap and cheerful pincer movement. Spike was at the Oxford Circus end of the street, his sign pointing hungry people one way, with Thorne doing his bit to encourage them in the other direction from a pitch down near Liberty’s. Every half an hour or so the two of them would swap positions; pausing for five minutes’ chat outside the Palladium.

  At a couple of quid an hour, Mr. Jerk was happy, and by the end of the day they would have made enough for Thorne to get a decent dinner and for Spike to get himself fixed up.

  Thorne stood, propping up his sign; letting it prop him up. The features of those who moved past him were anonymous, in sharp contrast to his own, which had been punched into distinction…

  What he’d told Spike had been at least partly true. Brigstocke had done his bit to placate McCabe and the officer whose face Thorne had rearranged, but nothing had really been decided. There might well be charges to answer, either sooner as a rough sleeper or later, when the operation was all over, as one officer assaulting another. Unlikely as it was that he’d be allowed to walk away from the incident, Thorne was far more concerned with how his stupidity might have compromised the job he was trying to do. McCabe had given assurances that, as far as Thorne’s undercover status was concerned, confidentiality would be maintained. But they were worthless: he could not possibly vouch for the discretion of every one of his own officers, never mind those hundreds of others—the beat officers, the Drugs Squad, the Pickpocket Teams, the Clubs and Vice boys—who moved through Charing Cross Station every day. The Met was no different from any other large organization. There was talk and rumor. There were drunken exchanges and gossipy e-mails. Thorne thought about the man they were trying to catch; the man who might be a police officer. If word did get out, would the killer himself be able to hear those jungle drums?

  Thorne remembered something Brigstocke had said. The mouse doesn’t know there’s cheese on the trap, but we still call it bait…

  When he’d stormed into the interview room at Charing Cross a few hours earlier, Russell Brigstocke was one police officer who certainly had looked like he wanted to kill him. The language of each I told you so had been predictably industrial, and he hadn’t spared himself. He’d also aimed a good deal of invective at his own stupidity for trusting Thorne in the first place…

  “I must have been fucking mental,” he’d said.

  “Maybe it was that diet you were on…”

  That hadn’t helped, and it wasn’t until Brigstocke was about to leave that he’d seemed to soften even a little. He’d turned at the doorway, exactly as McCabe had done, and let out a long breath before he spoke. “At least you look the part now…”

  Walking up now toward Oxford Street, Thorne could see Spike on his way toward him, spinning the sign in his hand as he bounced along. He looked twitchy, like his blood was jumping. He’d need paying pretty soon.

  Thorne remembered the look on Brigstocke’s face when he’d spoken; it was somewhere between pity and relief. He’d always been confident that he could look the part. He just hadn’t banked on feeling it.

  The soldier standing at the side of Major Poulter’s desk wore regulation combats over a green T-shirt, and Holland could not help but be struck by how good the uniform looked on her. As part of the Royal Armoured Corps, the 12th King’s Hussars was an all-male regiment. Neither Holland nor Kitson had expected to see any women…

  “This is Lieutenant Sarah Cheshire, our assistant adjutant,” Poulter said. “She’s the administrative wizard round here, maintains all the databases and so on. If you’d like to tell her exactly what it is you’re looking for, I’m sure she’ll do her best to sort you out.”

  Kitson explained that they needed a list of all those soldiers currently serving in the regiment who’d also fought in the first Gulf War.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Cheshire said.

  Holland’s charm was not quite as boyish as it had once been, but he turned it on nevertheless. “That’d be great, thanks…”

  Cheshire nodded and turned to Poulter. “I’ll get on it then, sir.” She was no more than twenty-two or-three, with ash-blond hair clipped back above a slender neck, and a Home Counties accent that Holland found a damn sight sexier than the major’s.

  “That’s good of you, Sarah, many thanks. I can’t see it taking you too long, to be honest.”

  “Sir?”

  Poulter looked across his desk at Kitson and Holland. “Aside from myself, I don’t think we’re talking about more than, say, half a dozen men left in the regiment.” He smiled at Cheshire; drew deeply on his cigarette as he watched her leave the room.

  “Why so few?” Kitson asked.

  Holland shook his head. “I thought there’d be a lot more than half a dozen.”

  “Soldiers leave,” Poulter said. “For many reasons. We lose a lot of men after a major conflict, a lot of them. It’s all about pressure, at the end of the day. Pressure from others and pressure inside your own head. If you’re lucky enough to have a family, then nine times out of ten they’ll want you out. You’ve been and done your bit, you’ve been out there and risked your neck, so why the hell go back and do it again? If you were lucky enough to make it back in one piece, the attitude of your nearest and dearest is ‘Why push your luck? Get out while the going’s good.’”

  “Understandable,” Kitson said.

  “Of course it is, but that’s the easy pressure. And having that kind of support system makes it easy to readjust afterward. For those without that system, and even for many who do have loving families, it’s not quite so cut-and-dried. You come back, your head’s still buzzing, you’re in constant turmoil, and I’m not necessarily talking about men who’ve fought hand to hand or anything like that. Any length of time spent in a combat situation, or spent in constant readiness for such a situation, is going to leave a good number of men in a fragile mental state.”

  “Like post-traumatic stress disorder?”

  “In some cases yes, but for many others it takes a different form. Some just crave the adrenaline high they experienced during combat. Back here, they just can’t get it, can they? You can see the signs. Silly buggers signing up for parachute jumps and what have you. Anything to get the rush. These guys have got ten, maybe fifteen years of skills and drills, then they come back from combat and they’ve got sod-all to do with them. That’s why so many go wild, land themselves in trouble, and end up in prison. It’s why they end up on the street, like with this case of yours…”

  The office door was held open by a tank shell. Kitson watched the smoke from Poulter’s cigarette drift upward, and then out into the corridor. “You must have to do a lot of recruiting after a war, then,” she said.

  Poulter barked out a smoky laugh. “Quite the opposite. The numbers go through the bloody roof for some reason. Good job as well.”

  “Why didn’t you leave?” Holland asked. “If you don’t mind me asking…”

  Major Poulter took a moment, then leaned forward to grind out his cigarette into a tarnished metal ashtray. “‘Mind’ is putting it a tad strongly. But I
can’t see that it’s strictly relevant.” He was trying to smile, but his eyes seemed to have grown smaller suddenly. “I’m more than happy to answer what I understand to be the important question, which is whether I remember your man Jago, or any of the men in his tank crew. I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Fine,” Holland said. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve already explained how things worked out there.”

  “You made it very clear.”

  “I may not have come within fifty miles of that crew, and even if I did, it was rather a long time ago…”

  Holland grimaced and saw Kitson do the same as an engine was cranked up to a deafening roar just outside the window. Poulter said something Holland couldn’t hear, but he nodded anyway. The noise explained why so many of the soldiers he’d seen had been carrying ear protectors, which they kept tucked into the belts of their blue coveralls.

  It had become obvious that there was little to do but wait for the list of men who’d been in the Gulf, however small that turned out to be. They weren’t likely to get any more useful information out of Poulter, but Holland decided to ask a question or two anyway, just for himself. They had time to kill, after all…

  “It strikes me that the army does precious little to help these men after they leave.” Holland cleared his throat, spoke up over the noise that was dying as the vehicle moved away. “It’s like they fight for their country, then you wash your hands of them, just when they need the most help.”

  “There’s a comprehensive army pension system.”

  The major had spoken as if it were the end of the conversation, but Holland saw no reason to let it lie. Besides, he’d been doing a little reading up. “Not if you leave too early, there isn’t,” he said. “Unless you’ve been wounded, you only get a pension if you do twelve years. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Poulter reached for another Silk Cut. “Look, I can’t say I completely disagree with you, but I do think the army does its level best in difficult circumstances. No, at the end of the day, pastoral care is probably not top priority, but you have to understand that the army has been doing things the same way for an awfully long time.” He summoned up a smile again as he leaned across the desk for something, then waved it around for them to look at. “I still carry a bloody riding crop around, you see? We wear black tie at dinner and we still get issued with mess kits.” He lit his cigarette. “Basically, we’re still Victorian…”

  Holland returned the smile. “Well, the system for keeping records certainly is.”

  The lid of the Zippo was snapped shut. “Some would say that we’ve got rather more important things to do.”

  The slightly awkward pause might well have gone on much longer if Sarah Cheshire had not appeared in the doorway brandishing a piece of paper.

  “Come on in, Sarah,” Poulter said.

  She walked over to the desk. “It’s not a long list, I’m afraid. There are seven men who served in Gulf War One who are still with the regiment.”

  Poulter looked pleased with himself. “I was more or less spot on, then…”

  “Three of these are presently away on attachment elsewhere, leaving four, including Major Poulter, on site at this moment.”

  Cheshire handed the list to Poulter, who looked at it, then passed it across the desk to Kitson.

  “Thanks for that,” Holland said. He was pleased when Lieutenant Cheshire held his gaze a little longer than was necessary; then embarrassed when he felt himself start to redden.

  “You already know that I can’t help you,” Poulter said, “but you’re more than welcome to talk to the others on the list. You might be able to cross-reference any useful memories, but I have to say I think you’ll be very lucky…”

  “We haven’t had a lot of luck so far,” Kitson said.

  “As I explained earlier, these men might not have served together, and even if they did, it was a fair while ago.” He turned to Holland. “How long have you been with the Met, Detective Sergeant?”

  For some reason, Holland felt his blush deepen. “Just over ten years.”

  “Right, ten years. And how many of your fellow cadets can you remember?”

  Holland could do little but shrug. Poulter had a very good point.

  Cheshire took half a step forward. “I did have one idea,” she said. She directed her suggestion toward Poulter. “I was wondering about the war diaries…”

  “That’s good thinking,” the major said. He turned to explain to Holland and Kitson. “The squadron adjutant would have routinely kept log sheets, which would then have been collated into a digest of service. They’re usually archived somewhere at HQ, aren’t they?”

  Cheshire nodded.

  “They might mention Jago and his crew, but only if any of them were commended or listed as casualties.”

  “Right, thanks.” Kitson felt fairly sure that neither of those things would apply.

  “Thinking about it, old documentation might prove to be your best bet.” Poulter was warming to his theme. “A lot of soldiers do hang on to stuff. You’d be surprised…”

  “What about letters home?” Cheshire asked. “If the men on this list are still with the same wives or girlfriends, they might still have the letters they wrote to them from the Gulf.”

  “Right, that’s another good thought. Soldiers often talk about their mates, or moan about the ones in the troop they can’t stand, or whatever. If it’s just the names you’re after, that might be worth a try.”

  Kitson agreed, of course, that anything was worth a try, but suddenly everything was starting to feel like a straw to be clutched at.

  Once again, she thanked them for their suggestions. It was polite and it was politic, but with the mood she was in—as dark as the shadow that was moving rapidly across the whole investigation—it was hard to tell if they were genuinely trying to help.

  Or simply trying to look as if they were.

  They boarded the train back to London early; made sure they got themselves a table. Each of them had bought something to eat and drink on the concourse, and as they waited to leave, both seemed happy to sit in silence, to concentrate on taking sandwiches from wrappings and stirring sugar into coffee. It wasn’t until the train was pulling out of the station that Yvonne Kitson passed what would prove to be the journey’s most pertinent reflection on their day.

  “Nothing’s ever fucking easy,” she said.

  While Kitson tried to sleep Holland leafed through a magazine, but nothing could stop him thinking about Thorne for too long. Late the night before, Holland had taken the call from the custody sergeant at Charing Cross. He’d passed on the news—along with the irritation at being woken up and the alarm at what Thorne had done—to Brigstocke, who had, presumably, passed it on in turn to Trevor Jesmond. It was a chain of conversations into the early hours that might well be used later to string up Tom Thorne…

  Holland thought back to when he’d last seen him, walking away from the London Lift after they’d sat and watched the Gulf War tape. Thorne had seemed right enough at the time. Then Holland remembered how badly he himself had needed a drink; how much he’d appreciated the chance to sit in the pub with Yvonne Kitson and pour some of it out. He doubted if Thorne had anyone he could have shared a drink with and discussed what he’d seen. Anyone who could have told him that he’d drunk enough…

  Against all prevailing wisdom, Thorne had been someone he’d looked up to since he’d first begun working with him, but even Holland had to admit that the DI’s future was looking far from rosy. He might well be taken off this case straightaway, and even if he was allowed to carry on, what would he come back to when it was all over? He’d been shunted off to the Yard when it became obvious that he hadn’t recovered from the death of his father; that he wasn’t himself. This latest misadventure wasn’t going to help his case for returning to the Murder Squad, which, as anyone with any sense could see, was always going to be an uphill struggle. There were plenty for whom Thorne’s presence on the MIT was even
more unwelcome when he was himself.

  Stupid, stupid bastard…

  Holland stared out of the train window and realized that they’d stopped moving; that the train had been stationary for several minutes. He looked at his watch. He’d rung home to say he would be back late, and now it was getting later all the time. Sophie wouldn’t be overly bothered, he knew that. He felt increasingly that she was happier when he wasn’t around. But he’d be annoyed if he missed out on seeing Chloe before she went to bed.

  The train began moving with a jolt. Kitson opened her eyes for a second, then closed them again. Rain was streaking the window, and some tosser in the seat behind was talking far too loudly on his mobile phone.

  Later, Holland would call and tell Thorne how things had gone at the regiment. Find out how things had gone for him, too. How the daft sod was doing…

  He flicked through the pages of Loaded, staring at pictures of scantily clad soap stars until he started to feel something other than irritation. He picked up the magazine, slid out from behind the table, and walked toward the toilet.

  TWENTY

  Over the years, Thorne had felt more than his fair share of rage and regret, of lust and loathing, but he’d never been overburdened with guilt. He guessed it was because he spent his working life trying to catch those who should have been eaten up with enough of it for everyone. Many who had done the very worst things felt nothing, of course, but most people, even those without a shred of religious conviction, at least accepted that they should. For Thorne, it used to be that clear-cut.

  It wasn’t that he never felt guilt at all; it was just that it was usually of the vaguely delicious variety that followed over indulgence of one sort or another. Its more corrosive strain was one that never burned within him for very long. It could be neutralized by making the call he’d forgotten to make; by stepping forward; by having that awkward conversation he’d been putting off. The pain was short-lived and easily dealt with.