Using the press had brought them, circuitously, to Chris Jago. Now, as the hunt for Ryan Eales ran out of steam, using it again might be the team’s last hope of a result. They had already run a fifteen-year-old picture of Eales in the Standard -inside the issue with the photo of Terry Turner on the front-describing the soldier as someone whom “the police would very much like to talk to in connection with…”
The calls were coming in, but they needed more, and they needed them faster.
“I think I can swing Crimewatch again,” Norman had said.
“Tonight?”
Over the phone, the senior press officer’s voice had sounded even more nasal, more irritating, than it did face-to-face. “This is still a major inquiry, Russell, so I think it should be doable. They’ll bump something else off until next week…”
They’d broadcast a reconstruction of Paddy Hayes’s killing on the show-which BBC1 put out live on a Friday evening-a month or so before, and there had been a further appeal for information after Robert Asker’s murder. In itself, this had gone down as something of a coup. The program makers were notoriously squeamish, with a distaste for anything overtly graphic. The sensitivities of the viewers had to be their primary concern. Murder was acceptable, but only if it was tastefully done, and not too scary.
Taking the case onto such a show was usually a last resort, but most senior officers still considered it worth doing. It was television, so when they were asked for help, people reacted in much the same way as they would to a phone-in question on a quiz show: the answer might not be the right one, but there was always a healthy response.
“So what do we think?”
“That’s great, Steve,” Brigstocke had said. “Thanks.” The platitude had screamed inside his skull like the squeal of a dentist’s drill.
“Just a quick update, yes? Something in the ‘urgently need to trace’ roundup toward the end of the show.”
“That’s all we need.”
“We’ll get Eales’s picture in vision for as long as possible. Wait for the phone lines to light up.” “Let’s hope so…”
“Well, even if nothing concrete comes of it, it’s as much about being seen to do something a lot of the time, right?”
Brigstocke had been desperate to hang up by this point. To rinse and spit. “I’d better go and talk to the chief superintendent,” he’d said. “We probably need to put our heads together…”
“How clean is your suit?” Norman had asked.
Brigstocke had spoken to Trevor Jesmond after that, talked about tone and message and budget. Then he’d phoned home and asked his wife to set the video. Now he stepped into the incident room and called for hush. The TV appeal would generate a lot of calls. A fair few nutters would come crawling out of the woodwork, but they would all have to be listened to, their information transcribed as if it were the Word of God, and every lead, no matter how iffy it sounded, would need chasing up.
“Usual good news, bad news routine,” he said. “Most of you can forget about your weekend. Fishing, football, feet up, trip to B and Q with the missus. Not going to happen…”
A voice from the back of the room: “Is this the good news or the bad news?”
Brigstocke shouted above the laughter. “But the overtime’s been approved…”
Thorne felt happier, more sure of himself and his surroundings, as the noise of traffic began to grow louder; as people moved around him in all directions and he could taste the fumes. Moving away from the Barbican’s eerie sprawl, he walked up what had once been Grub Street, and thought about his conversation with a man whose profession, in its worst excesses, had come to be associated with the name.
There’d been no thunderbolts of insight, of course; nothing to quicken the pulse overmuch. But there was enough to think about. Thorne had already considered the possibility that the man behind the video camera had been an officer. It was a reasonable enough supposition, but it was still interesting to hear it from Ward; to have the notion validated by someone who’d actually been there. There was no room for more than four men in a Challenger tank. The fifth man had to have got there under his own steam. If Brigstocke could eke any more information out of the army, it might be worth asking which ranks would have routinely had access to vehicles back then.
And there was something else to interest the DCI: There were one or two rumors about something…
If rumors of an atrocity had reached the press at the time, then it was safe to assume that the army would have been fully aware of them. Thorne felt pretty sure that they were every bit as aware fifteen years on. If the army knew at least something of what might have gone on on February 26, 1991, that would certainly explain the call from the Special Investigation Branch of the Royal Military Police.
He would enjoy telling Russell Brigstocke that he wasn’t completely paranoid…
The light changed on the pavement ahead of him, and Thorne looked up to see the sky darkening rapidly. He watched a ragged finger of cloud point its way behind a glass high-rise on Farringdon Road, and he followed it back toward the West End.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Good of you to have made an effort,” Thorne said. “Eh?”
Thorne looked over at Hendricks, straight-faced.
“The dosser’s outfit…”
“Cheeky fucker.”
“Honestly, it’s nice of you to try and blend in.
Maybe you should knock all this medical stuff on the head and try working undercover yourself. You’ve obviously got a gift.”
“I’m glad one of us has,” Hendricks said.
Save for the metallic aftertaste of bargain burgers, they might have been relaxing over a takeaway from the Bengal Lancer. Were it not for the rain, and the view of huddled bin bags, they might have been watching TV in Thorne’s front room; arguing about football like a grossly unfit Gary Lineker and a shaven-headed, multipierced Alan Hansen.
As it was, they were leaning against a wall on Great Queen Street, beneath a covered walkway that ran alongside the Freemasons’ Hall. They traded digs and shared silences, and drank the beer Hendricks had brought with him.
Hendricks tapped his beer can against the building, the frontage of which was decorated with Masonic symbols. “Probably a fair few coppers hang about in there, don’t you reckon? Pissing about with goatskin aprons and rolling up their trousers…”
“Talking of which, did you see Brigstocke on the box earlier?”
“Is he a Mason?”
Thorne shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I know Jesmond is…”
“Brigstocke came across very well I thought,” Hendricks said. “Relaxed, you know? He’s obviously in charge, but he looks friendly. You want to do whatever you can to help him.”
“He’s good at all that stuff. He’s been on courses.”
“I don’t know what the response has been like.”
“Pretty good, I think,” Thorne said.
Holland had called Thorne within an hour of the broadcast. The program had shown the original photo of Ryan Eales, together with a digitally aged image of the soldier’s face, to give Crimewatch viewers an idea of what he might look like so many years on. Calls had begun coming in immediately.
“I wonder if the killer was watching,” Hendricks said. “Maybe by showing that picture of how Eales might look now, we’re helping him.”
“I shouldn’t worry. He hasn’t needed anybody’s help so far.”
Hendricks grunted his agreement and took a drink. “I was thinking about the tape… Do you reckon Hadingham had it with him when he was killed?”
“Definitely,” Thorne said. “That tape was Hadingham’s leverage. He wouldn’t have let it out of his sight. The killer took it after he’d forced pills down the poor bastard’s throat; and I think he took Bonser’s, too, after he’d kicked him to death. It certainly never showed up in any of his belongings or with any of his family after we’d identified him.”
“And the only reason he never got Jago’s was that
he’d left it with his sister.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that maybe Chris Jago wanted to leave that part of his life behind, you know?” Hendricks pressed on, though Thorne was already starting to shake his head. “Perhaps Susan Jago wasn’t bullshitting. Perhaps her brother was the one who wanted nothing to do with what happened; the one who was arguing with the others.”
It may or may not have been true, but Thorne wasn’t sure it made any difference. “They each took a copy of that tape, Phil, each of them, because no matter who did the shooting, they were all part of it. The fact that they all had the tape was the insurance. It’s what kept all of them quiet.”
“Until Hadingham broke rank, and it got all of them killed.”
“Right.” Thorne held up his can, swilled the last of the beer around in the bottom as though it were fine brandy in a crystal snifter. “And we can only presume that Ryan Eales has got the last copy…”
Nothing but the occasional car or pedestrian passed them in either direction. Those on foot moved quicker than normal while the cars drifted, sluggish as hearses, through the rain. The two of them were sitting close enough to hear the rumble and hiss of the traffic on Kingsway, still heavy in the early hours of Saturday morning; vehicles moving south toward Aldwych and the river, or north toward Holborn, Bloomsbury, and beyond.
“So, what are you going to do about Spike and his girlfriend?” Hendricks asked.
Thorne had already told Hendricks that he was worried about them; that he still hadn’t seen either of them since Terry T had been killed. He’d asked around and had found out nothing that he hadn’t known already. Spike and One-Day Caroline had both been very upset by Terry’s death. It had hit them hard, Holy Joe had said. A strange and morbid thought had crossed Thorne’s mind then. Would it have hit them as hard if it had been him that had been killed?
“I’ll just have to wait for them to turn up,” Thorne said.
“I’m sure they will.”
Thorne knew that they would, but he also knew just how addicts could react when bad things happened, things that disturbed their routine or threw them off-kilter. He could only hope that when Spike and Caroline did show up, it wasn’t as two more names on a long list of drug fatalities.
You do me first, yeah? Piss off, I’ll do myself, then I’ll do you.
Vinegar and plastic lemons and one dose too many, in a box that looked enough like a coffin to begin with…
“Tom?”
“I’m listening.”
“I said, ‘I’m sure they will.’ ”
Thorne looked up and smiled. “I know.”
“It’s… impressive that people in their situation can be so affected by losing someone, you know?” The beer was starting to make itself heard in Hendricks’s voice. “That these relationships can run so deep, I mean. Brendan’s always on about this, but I could never really see it until these murders started. How the homeless are a community.”
“Brendan’s right,” Thorne said. “A small and very fucking weird one, that’s for sure, but a community same as any other.”
“Will it survive this, d’you think? I mean, I know that people are supposed to bond during times of adversity…”
“It’s the adversity that glues everyone together in the first place.”
“I suppose so.”
“They’ll get through this.” As he spoke Thorne felt a certainty that would not have been there a few weeks before. He pictured the faces of those he’d met since he’d been on the streets. He’d seen shame sometimes, and anger, in those faces. He’d seen disease and despair and a hunger for any number of things that could be dangerous to be around. But he’d also seen resilience, or at least the strength that can come through resignation. “A lot of these people are being killed every day,” he said. “Little by little…”
Hendricks reached into his plastic bag, rummaged for two more cans.
“Shit like this just makes you stronger,” Thorne said. “You move a little closer together. We look out for each other.” He looked over at Hendricks. “What?”
Hendricks held out the beer, unable to keep a slightly nervous smile at bay. “You said ‘we’…”
Thorne reached across and took the can. He’d already drunk three but was feeling unusually clearheaded. He wondered if all that Special Brew-a beer he’d sworn by everything he held sacred never to touch again-had somehow increased his tolerance to the weaker stuff. He popped the ring pull. “This stuff must be stronger than it tastes,” he said.
If you screwed up on a computer game, nobody minded. You could always have another bash. It was easy enough to go back and start that level again.
He wasn’t screwing up; he rarely did because he got plenty of practice. But people-real-life, flesh-andblood, human fuckups-weren’t quite as predictable as those he was happily blowing away on screen. The real ones moved around; they weren’t where they were supposed to be. And they had an irritating habit of looking much the bloody same in a darkened doorway at three in the morning…
He’d planned to be long gone by now. Somewhere sunny and expensive, where people smelled good and the only ones dossing down outdoors were sleeping on the beach because they couldn’t find their way back to the hotel. That had been the idea, anyway. Taking Thorne out of the picture was meant to be something of a last hurrah, but it hadn’t turned out that way.
When he’d completed the level, he turned off the PlayStation and ejected the game. He sauntered through to the tiny kitchen to make himself some tea. It was important to wind down a little; you had to let the adrenaline level drop and level out if you wanted to get any sleep at all. He sat in his underwear, watched the kettle, and waited. Trying to picture the sea. To imagine it like glass, lapping gently at the sand; to look down at himself, lying golden and satisfied, like a pig in shit with all his worries far away. This was something he’d become good at over the years: he’d developed the ability to lose himself, and to watch as he reappeared elsewhere; somewhere safe and still. But as the kettle boiled, the salt water began to seethe and the sea quickly grew rough. The waves became larger and crashed onto his beach, forcing him to move. Soaking the sand…
It wasn’t time to relax quite yet.
He carried his tea back to the bedroom and lay down.
As soon as he’d seen that newspaper-the photo of a young man called Terry Turner below its lurid headline-he’d realized that he’d made a mess of it. He’d known deep down that he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. It was a pain in the arse, having to rethink, but to have left would have felt wrong. He knew that if he had done so, he could never have relaxed.
He didn’t set a great deal of store by much anymore, but he still believed in the virtue of a job well done.
TWENTY-NINE
There were no more cans in the bag.
Though Thorne-as far as he could work out- had drunk as many as Hendricks, he felt none the worse for it. He was still worn out and frightened; he was still lost. But for that moment at least he wasn’t alone, and he welcomed the clear understanding of his place in the world that chance, or cheap lager, had lent him. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant place to be; not where he was in the life he was pretending to have, and certainly not in the life that was truly his to live with. The life that sooner or later he would have to go back to. Face up to.
His place in two worlds…
“I think I should make a move,” Hendricks said. Thorne grunted, waited, but it looked as though thinking about it was as far as his friend was going to get for a while. The rain had stopped, but water was running off the roof of the covered walkway, falling on three sides of him as he sat back against the wall.
He saw something else clearly, something that most people-even if they knew the truth of it-were happier to ignore. He saw the dreadful ease with which the line separating two worlds could be breached. He had chosen to take that step, and could retrace it, but he knew that for those with no choice at all, it was usually a one-way crossi
ng.
“We’re only two paychecks from the street,” he said.
Hendricks turned his head. “Right…”
“Two paychecks. A couple of months. That’s all that separates a lot of us from sleeping in a doorway.”
Thorne had heard Brendan talking about this, so he knew it was likely that Hendricks had heard it many times. But he wasn’t talking for Hendricks’s benefit, and besides, the man who was now lying next to him seemed perfectly content to listen.
“I mean, obviously it depends on circumstances,” Thorne said. “On having the right sort of family, or more likely the wrong sort of family. It comes down to not having the support when you need it most. You see what I’m saying? You’re earning enough to pay the rent, or make the mortgage repayments, right? You make enough money to eat and have a social life. But you’ve got no capital of any sort, you’ve got decent lumps owing on your Visa, and on a few store cards, and you’re paying for a car on tick or whatever. You get two months’ notice and you’re fucked. Really, it sounds unbelievable, but you could easily be comprehensively fucked. You might not realize that straightaway, but your whole life can go down the toilet in those eight weeks.
“And this is not a fantasy, Phil. This is how a lot of people live. And I’m not talking about poor people either, or drug addicts, or pissheads. These are not people on Channel Four documentaries. These are average people. These are average families a lot of the time, who can find themselves homeless very bloody quickly. Living in hostels and care homes before you can say P45.
“You’ve got two months. Normal notice period. Now, the council might pay your rent, but by the time those payments come through, your landlord’s thrown you out on your ear because he can’t be arsed waiting for his money, right? They might pay the interest on your mortgage, but there’s a limit on that depending on how generous your local council is, and banks get stroppy pretty bloody quickly when the checks start bouncing.
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