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  “That’s the closest you’ve been to culture for a while.”

  “There’s an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical on. It’s as close as I ever want to get…”

  As he watched Thorne go, Holland had to remind himself that the scruffy figure walking slowly back toward the West End was, theoretically at any rate, still his boss. There’d never been a great deal of “yes sir, no sir” flying about between them, except when Thorne was in a really bad mood. He was not normally the type to demand, or to dish out that type of deference. Even so, Holland was aware that over the last couple of weeks he’d begun speaking to Thorne differently and that it had nothing to do with his own recent promotion to sergeant.

  It shamed him, but if Holland was being honest, his attitude had far more to do with what Thorne had become, with the part he was playing, than with anything that might have happened to him.

  He watched Thorne pull the dirty red rucksack up on to his shoulder before turning the corner. It had never been easy to read the man, but physically at least he was pretty bloody close to being unrecognizable. Holland knew that it had only been a fortnight, and that it was probably his imagination, but had he seen a stoop there, and something genuinely shambling in the gait?

  It worried him more than a little, because Tom Thorne might well be sleeping in a theater doorway, but he was no actor.

  Peter Hayes sat on the train back to Carlisle, thinking of little but how desperate he was to get home and to kiss his son. He decided that this was because he’d watched his father die a few hours earlier, having just turned off the machine that had been keeping him alive.

  For the umpteenth time since he’d been given it, he smoothed down the pages of the handwritten letter and read. The words he’d scrawled in such an adolescent fury a dozen years before seemed rather clumsy now, their intention no more or less than to wound.

  He looked up from the page and out of the window.

  To wound. It was hard to imagine that they had done otherwise. So why the hell had the stupid, drunken fucker held on to the bloody thing?

  You left us like a snake, like we were shit, so you could crawl into a bottle and forget we were there at all. You fucking coward. Crawling, beery snake…

  He read the passage over again, each faded loop and slash of his handwriting like a decaying tooth to probe. Like a mouth ulcer to gnaw at.

  The buffet trolley was coming down the aisle toward him and he decided that he’d have tea, and perhaps a sandwich. He’d wait and see what they had.

  He’d wait and see just how hard the questions would be to answer, and how many times he’d ask them of himself. Questions about his judgment back then. About whether he’d pushed his father away until there’d been nobody for the poor old bugger to turn to except God.

  He put the letter away.

  He ordered tea and a chicken sandwich. He watched the scenery change as the train carried him farther north, and counted the minutes until he could hold his son again.

  Part Two

  Blood and Petrol

  1991

  There are two groups of men, four in each group. The differences between the two groups are strik ing, though the greatest differences are not the most immediate.

  Four men are sitting and four standing. The men on the floor are spaced out on the ground, each several feet from the next. Not within touching distance.

  They are all wearing drab, olive-colored clothing, though they’re not dressed identically: two have boots on their feet and two are wearing sandals; one has a hat but the other three are bareheaded. The black hair plastered to their skulls is all that can be seen of the men for the most part, until one of them raises his head and takes a bite from what looks like a chocolate bar. He chews mechanically.

  The rain and the darkness make everything appear slightly blurred and hard to make out clearly. In contrast to the first group, the men who are standing are dressed identically. Nothing of these men’s faces can be seen beneath the goggles and the multicolored kerchiefs or shamags that cover their mouths. Two are standing together, one of them flicking through a sheaf of papers that flap noisily in the wind. The other pair are placed like bookends: one at either end of the row of men on the f l o o r. Each is pointing a pistol.

  The man who is holding the papers waves them in the air, and shouts something across to the men on the floor. It is hard to make out all the words above the noise of the rain: “… are keeping… Do you understand?”

  The man on the floor who is chewing looks up at him, then back to the men who are sitting next to him. They all look up, their faces wet. Two of the others are also eating, but none of them says anything. The rain is fat, and black. Sputtering and hissing as it drops onto heads and hands and bodies. The man with the papers shouts louder: “We are keeping these. Do you understand?” And the man who is chewing nods quickly, twice.

  Nothing else is said for a while, and some time passes, though it is impossible to say how much. It is suddenly raining more heavily, and the dark hair and the olive clothes of the men on the ground are slick with it.

  The men who are standing use their sleeves to wipe the water from their guns.

  The light is even poorer than before, but the dull circle in the sky is most certainly the sun rather than the moon. It is dimmest, shittiest daytime, and now all the men with goggles are carrying pistols and pointing them.

  It’s virtually impossible to tell the four men who are standing apart from one another. Their faces are hidden, but even if they weren’t, the light would make it hard to read their expressions clearly. Yet, despite all this, the difference between them and the group of men on the floor is suddenly blindingly obvious.

  The men with guns are much more afraid.

  ELEVEN

  “That isn’t Christopher.”

  “Are you sure? It’s understandable if you’re not, what with the face being so-”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I can’t help you, I mean… But that’s not him. That’s not my brother’s body…”

  Susan Jago turned away as the sheet was lifted and placed back across the dead man’s face. Even though Phil Hendricks tried to be as gentle as he could, the noise of the drawer clanging shut seemed to hang in the air, as awkward as the pause that followed it.

  DI Yvonne Kitson put a hand on the woman’s arm. “Dr. Hendricks will show you out,” she said.

  “Phil…?”

  Hendricks led Jago to the door and through it.

  Unlike the heavy steel drawer that had been built to take the weight of the dead, the door closed behind them with a soft snick.

  “Fuck,” Kitson said.

  Holland groaned. “She sounded so positive on the phone. And I thought we were in, you know, when she first saw his face.”

  Jago’s hand had flown to her mouth a second after the breath she’d sucked into it. She’d shaken her head and gasped, “Oh Christ.”

  “That could just have been shock at seeing the body,” Kitson said. “Or most likely relief.” “I suppose.”

  “It’s a natural reaction.”

  “It feels terrible, though, doesn’t it?” Holland walked slowly over to the wall of steel drawers. “Wanting it to be him so much. Is that a natural reaction?” There had certainly been a mood of celebration when Susan Jago had called two days before. She’d seen the picture in the papers and on the TV and was fairly positive that she could identify the man who’d been murdered two months earlier. She was confident that the first victim of the rough-sleeper killings was her missing elder brother. Brigstocke had said it sounded as much like a decent break as any he’d ever heard, and the case certainly needed it. The powers that be were thrilled. More than a pint or two had been downed in the Royal Oak that evening. Holland stuck a thumb inside his sleeve, rubbed at a smear on the metal. “Wanting the body to be her brother’s. It feels selfish…”

  Kitson shrugged and walked across to where her coat and handbag were hung in the corner of the mortuary suite. There was a small re
d sofa and a low table, a box of tissues on a pine shelf. “It’s going to feel a damn sight worse telling Russell Brigstocke that we didn’t get a result. I’d as good as promised him a name.”

  Having made pretty much the same promise, Holland would be the one to break the bad news to Tom

  Thorne. Kitson didn’t know about Thorne working undercover. As far as Holland was aware, below the level of the DCI, he was the only person who did know.

  He wondered why that was.

  Maybe he’d been included because of what was perceived as some kind of special relationship between himself and Thorne. Maybe they just thought that dogsbody and go-between were his special areas of expertise…

  “I’m sure the DCI will take it in his stride. He must be getting used to disappointment by now.” Kitson turned sharply. “Sorry?”

  “On this case, I mean.” Holland could see that

  Kitson was annoyed, that she’d misunderstood him somehow. He tried to backpedal: “It’s been a bastard from the off, hasn’t it?”

  “I don’t care what it has been. Christ, what sort of attitude is that?”

  “I wasn’t implying anything, guv…”

  Kitson shoved her arm through the straps of her bag, lifted it up onto her shoulder. “Sorry, Dave. I’m just cheesed off and a bit snappy.”

  She walked toward the door and Holland followed.

  “Is everything all right?” Even as he asked he guessed it was a pointless question. Kitson rarely revealed anything of her private life anymore. “My eldest got sent home from school yesterday for punching another kid. Some little toe-rag who was picking on his younger brother.” She looked at

  Holland, unable to keep the grin at bay. “Of course, secretly I’m hugely proud of him…”

  Holland smiled and opened the door for her. Kitson had really got herself back together of late.

  A couple of years earlier she’d been seen as very much the role model for high-achieving female officers: on the fastest of fast tracks with job and family seemingly balanced perfectly. Then the news got out that her old man had caught her screwing a senior officer and had walked out, taking their three children with him. Though she’d got her kids back soon enough, everything else had unraveled very bloody quickly. It wasn’t the affair itself as much as the fact that it had become common knowledge that made things so tough, but she’d eventually come through it. She’d proved how bloody-minded she was, if nothing else.

  In the last few months she’d started to return to her old self. Progress through the ranks would not be quite as mercurial from now on, but she didn’t seem overly concerned. She’d even begun seeing someone new; someone who most certainly was not a copper.

  “He wouldn’t know the Criminal Justice Act from the hole in his arse,” she’d announced gleefully. Thorne had raised his head wearily from a copy of

  Police. “Neither would a lot of coppers…” It was odd, but Kitson’s life had taken a turn for the better at around the same time that Thorne’s had begun its free fall. Now, with Thorne not around,

  Kitson was more or less running the show day to day; reporting to Brigstocke, who, as nominal senior investigating officer, was kept busy enough dealing with the press and the pressure from above. Stepping out of the mortuary suite, Holland could see Hendricks and Jago on a bench at the other end of the narrow corridor. Jago was sobbing and shaking her head. Hendricks had his arm around her shoulder. Holland and Kitson walked toward them, talking quietly to each other as they went.

  “Like I said, relief.”

  “If she’s crying like that now…”

  Kitson looked sideways at him. “She won’t have any tears left if her brother ever does turn up dead.” “I got the impression she’s expecting him to…” They arrived in front of the green plastic bench.

  Jago looked up at them. Managed to blurt out a broken “sorry” between sobs.

  “Don’t be silly, Susan,” Holland said.

  “I know you’re desperate to get out of here,” Kitson said. “I just wanted to be certain about a few things.” She gave Hendricks a look. He moved to the end of the bench and Kitson slid in next to Jago. “The thing is, I don’t quite understand why you thought the picture was your brother in the first place. I know it’s not a real photo, but you sounded so certain when you called us.”

  Jago took a few seconds, brought the crying under control. “It does look like Chris…” The accent was marked. Look rhyming with spook. She’d come down on the train that morning from Stoke-on-Trent. She nodded back toward the mortuary suite. “That poor sod probably did look a lot like Chris. It’s hard to tell, you know? I haven’t seen him in so long now that I’ve no idea what he might look like anymore, if he’s lost weight or grown a beard or whatever…” “I can see that, but even so…”

  “It’s definitely not him, ’cause there was no scar.”

  She rubbed her right arm, just above the elbow.

  “Chris caught his arm on some barbed wire, there, when he was a kid. Trying to get a ball back.” “Right…”

  “And the tattoo was wrong. I was so sure it was the same, you know? Then, when I saw it, I could tell it was different. Maybe it was the position of it. It might have been a bit lower down Chris’s arm than it was on… that bloke.”

  “How exactly was it different?”

  Jago started crying again, snatching breaths between the sobs. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and chewed her bottom lip.

  Holland looked down at her. He’d thought she was somewhere in her early thirties, but seeing her now, he wondered if she might be younger. The mascara that was smeared all over her face made it difficult to tell one way or the other. She had very dark hair and extremely pale skin. Similar coloring to the dead man lying in a drawer along the corridor.

  “How was the tattoo different?” Kitson asked again. “Different letters? Color? Was it laid out differently?”

  Hendricks drew Jago a little closer, nodded his encouragement.

  Between sobs: “I don’t… know.”

  “You’re certain it is different, though?”

  “Yes… I think so.”

  Kitson glanced up at Holland, raised an eyebrow.

  When she spoke again, her voice was still low and soothing, but Holland could hear the determination.

  “Look, we know the man in the mortuary isn’t

  Chris, which is great.” Holland caught Hendricks’s eye and had to look away for a second, embarrassed by the lie. “But I have to ask you if you recognized him at all. Had you ever seen him before?” The shake of the head was as definite as it could be. “I’m only asking you because of the tattoo. It’s such a unique design. Do you understand, Susan?

  Why would someone have a tattoo so similar?” Again she brought the crying under control, pressing a sodden tissue hard into both eyes.

  “There was a time, years ago, when Chris and his mates all went out one night and got one. They got pissed up and got their tattoos at the same time.

  They got the same sort of thing done. I don’t know why. I don’t know what it means.”

  Excitement flashed across Kitson’s face. “Chris and his mates? Is the man in the mortuary one of your brother’s mates, do you think? Is that possible?”

  Jago shook her head. “I told you, no. I’ve never seen him before…”

  The excitement had gone by the time Kitson had stood up. She nodded to Holland. “We’d better be getting back.” To Jago: “Do you want us to arrange a cab for you?”

  Hendricks moved his arm from her shoulder and took hold of her hand. “Why don’t I give you a lift?” “Could you?”

  “Yeah, no problem. I’ll run you to Euston…” She looked up at Holland and Kitson. “I’ll have to sort out my ticket when I get there. I’m not sure what train I’m allowed to get, because I got an open return.” Her eyes were red beneath a film of tears, but

  Holland thought he could see real happiness in them for the first time. “I thought it was Christopher, you see? I
didn’t think I’d be going straight back.”

  Thorne raised his hands, backing away. Though he could make out precious little of what the man was saying, the words fuck, off, and bastard were clear enough, so he picked up the gist of it.

  “Calm down, pal,” Spike said.

  The man hurled another torrent of incoherent abuse at them and wheeled away, just managing to avoid walking straight into the wall behind him.

  Spike hawked into the gutter and picked up his pace. “Fucking old tosser has a right go at me every time I walk past.”

  Thorne caught him up. They were walking north up Greek Street, toward Soho Square. The two of them had hooked up in a greasy spoon for breakfast and been mooching around fairly aimlessly ever since. Now it was raining and they were keen to get indoors; Spike had said he knew somewhere warm where they could get a cup of tea.

  “Why?” Thorne said. “What’s he got against you, then?”

  “He’s a boozer, so he doesn’t want anything to do with the likes of me, does he? With a junkie.”

  It was a word Thorne was used to hearing spoken with distaste. Spike said it casually, as if it were just another word to describe himself, like blond.

  In a little under three weeks, Thorne had seen enough to know exactly what Spike was talking about. The homeless community had its divisions like any other; its imagined hierarchies. There were, by and large, three main groups: drug addicts, drinkers, and those with mental-health problems. As might be expected, there were one or two who could claim membership in all three groups, but on the whole they stayed separate. And, those with mental-health problems tended to keep themselves to themselves, so any antagonism festered mainly between the drinkers and the addicts.

  “It’s mad,” Thorne said. “The boozers can’t stand the junkies; the junkies hate the boozers; nobody much likes the nutters…”