him what Spike had said about hooligans. “It’s possible, I suppose. We certainly can’t discount it.” “What’s your profiler make of all this?”
“Well, it’s a bit early. Cochrane’s feeding the new information into his report and we should get something in the next day or two. He’s been considering the idea that the killer might be someone who used to be homeless himself.”
“And he’s basing that on what?” Thorne asked. “The killer obviously has a knowledge of that community.”
“Because he found a few rough sleepers? They’re hardly invisible, Russell.”
“If he had lived in that world himself, feeling powerless and marginalized, and escaped it somehow, it’s possible that he’s trying to wipe out that part of his life. He’s showing that he’s got the power now.
The money’s a symbol of that. How he’s worth so much more than they are.”
Thorne looked sideways at him, held the look until eventually Brigstocke gave in and smiled; like he wasn’t exactly convinced by any of it himself. “And they binned my report?” Thorne said.
They turned in to the park and walked down toward the all-weather football pitches. There was a game being played under floodlights and they stopped to watch.
“I’m not a hundred percent sure the undercover thing’s working out,” Brigstocke said.
Thorne, who had arbitrarily picked the team playing in red and begun rooting for them, winced at a particularly high tackle. “That must have hurt…”
“Tom?”
Thorne had heard him well enough. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘working out.’ ”
“Are you really getting any more out of people than we were before?”
“What about the information I got out of that fucker Moony?”
“It’s not hard to threaten somebody, is it?”
As if on cue, words were exchanged and a couple of players squared up in the center circle, every breath visible in the air as they spat curses at each other. Thorne and Brigstocke watched until they were sure no punches would be thrown.
“All I’m saying is that we should maybe take a view on it,” Brigstocke said. “It’s been three weeks…”
“Give me a bloody chance.”
“I’m getting pushed on this…”
Thorne turned from the game to look at Brigstocke. “I don’t know if anybody knows anything,” he said. “And I’m not expecting them to just spill the beans over a can of strong lager if they do. I still believe we need a presence, though, and by being part of that community, I’m learning stuff that I think’s going to help. I mean, Christ, if you’re willing to put faith in your profiler…”
“A limited amount.”
“You never know. If he’s right, by living as a rough sleeper, I might be able to get some idea of how the killer thinks. Ask him. I bet he’ll tell you it’s a good idea.”
Brigstocke couldn’t help but look impressed by the cheek of it. “You’ve always got an answer, haven’t you? Always got some angle.”
“Whatever it takes.”
Thorne turned around and they watched for another few minutes during which the team in red conceded two soft goals.
“I need to get back,” Brigstocke said. “I’m in the shit for missing a parent-teacher conference.”
Thorne stayed on, the solitary spectator, for a while.
At halftime, the red team’s dumpy left-back trotted slowly across to the touchline. His face was scarlet, running with sweat, and the fat on his chest and belly strained against the nylon of his shirt. Thorne watched through the chain-link fence as he wheezed and hawked, bent to take hold of his knees, then threw up onto the Astroturf.
It seemed as good a time as any to head back to the West End. Thorne turned and walked away, thinking, I know how you feel, mate.
FOURTEEN
There were a surprising number of places that gave out free food if you knew where to go and when.
Spike had given him the lowdown early on, and Thorne had thought that it was quite an achievement to keep all those different names, places, and times in your head. On any one day in the very center of London alone, you could get a free breakfast, lunch, or dinner in one of a dozen different churches, hostels, and ad hoc street cafes. Some operated a ticketing system and with others it was first-come, first-served; some provided full meals, while others offered tea, coffee, and biscuits, or maybe sandwiches on certain days. With all these possibilities open to those in the know, and with a three-course meal available for little more than a pound at the London Lift, Thorne could not understand why so many were still willing to hang about in all weathers for a bowl of free soup on the street.
Caroline had spoken like someone who knew what she was talking about. “Some people just don’t like going into places. You know? They’re not happy in buildings, for whatever reason. Centers like the Lift aren’t for everyone…”
“And cheap’s not the same as free, is it?” Spike had added. “When you’ve got fuck all and there’s free stuff on offer, you take everything that’s going.”
The three of them were walking quickly, from the Trafalgar Square end of the Strand, heading for the nine o’clock soup run behind Temple underground station. The street was gaudy with lights: the multicolored neon from the Vaudeville and Adelphi theaters; the huge yellow lamps across the front of the Strand Palace Hotel; the pulsing red or bright white of the cars, crawling in both directions.
The night was cold again, but as yet mercifully dry.
“You get whatever you can, whenever you can, ’cause there’s not a lot to go round,” Spike said. “Yeah?”
Caroline had slowed to light a cigarette, and was just catching up with Spike and Thorne again. “Except at fucking Christmas,” she said.
Thorne told them about something he’d read once: a quote from one of those pointless “It” girls with too many names and too little to do. She’d said something about how dreadful it was to be without shelter at Christmas, and suggested that all homeless people should move to the Caribbean during the winter, and live on fresh fish.
Caroline’s laughter quickly turned into a coughing fit.
“Dozy posh cunt,” Spike said.
December was still a few months away, but plenty of shops had already put out the decorations. Thorne had no idea where he’d be when it came. His father’s sister Eileen had offered, as had Hendricks. Everyone said that the first one was the most difficult…
“It’s supposed to be the worst time to be on the street, right?” he said. “There’s always documentaries on the telly. Women in green wellies taking a tramp home for Christmas.”
Spike shrugged. “It’s the same as the rest of the year, just a bit colder. It’s every other punter that changes.” He put on his best Islington trendy accent: “It’s when people really start to care…”
They told Thorne about the cold-weather shelters that Crisis and other organizations would open. About the donations that poured in from members of the public, and from some of the more forwardthinking companies. Big-name stores playing Santa and clearing out old stock.
“You can pop along Christmas Day, get yourself turkey and all the trimmings, and as many Gap sweatshirts as you can carry.”
“It’s hysterical,” Caroline said. “You get these poor bastards walking into day centers and hostels all through January with nothing except major drug habits and enormous bags of brand-new toiletries.”
Spike took Caroline’s cigarette from her mouth, used it to light one of his own. “The new clothes thing is ace, though. People who give stuff to Oxfam or whatever seem to think we’re all desperate to dress like some old
