Even as he said it, Holland was aware that this was still conjecture, but he knew instinctively that it was true. And, equally, instinct told him that Susan Jago had been deliberately keeping the information back from them. Yes, they should have checked, but they’d been so fired up by
Thorne’s theory that they’d neglected to get the simplest piece of procedure right. But the fact remained that Susan Jago had volunteered nothing. Holland had already called Phil Hendricks, asked about his and
Jago’s conversation in the car on the way to Euston, and she’d evidently said nothing to him either. “So, how pissed off is Kitson about this CRIS thing?”
Holland had already taken a step toward Brigstocke’s office. He needed to tell them that he’d spoken to Stone and confirmed their suspicions. That they needed to talk to Susan Jago urgently. Stone shouted after him. “I just presumed someone had called her…”
Thorne had sat through many tedious hours on stakeouts; in strategically chosen attic rooms or in the backs of unmarked vans. He had felt time drag as slowly as he’d ever imagined it could, and that was with the benefit of company, and coffee. With the prospect of a beer and a warm bed when it was all over.
Time spent on the streets passed like something that was spread over you; marked out in footsteps that could only grow heavier. And heavier still. There were moments when it felt like no time could have passed; when you found yourself staring into a familiar window or treading the same stretch of pavement yet again. It was only the blisters and the burning through the joints at the end of each day that made you certain it had passed at all.
Thorne settled back against the door of the theater and thought about a couple of boys he’d seen in a narrow side street when he’d left the day center: their skinny fingers cradled around the smoking rock; a flattened and gouged-out Coke can used as a crack pipe.
He had come to understand just why so many of those with drink and drug problems had turned in desperation to such comforts after they’d begun sleeping rough. If anything-bottled or burned-could numb the pain of hours that spread like tumors, or speed up the ticking steps, then Thorne saw clearly that it was something to be clutched at and cherished.
He reached behind him, felt for the can in his rucksack. At least he still had the prospect of beer…
Deep inside his pocket, the tiny mobile phone was still cradled in his hand. When he’d spoken to Holland earlier, when he’d been told that they would be bringing Susan Jago down from Stoke for an interview, he’d told him to check whether her brother had ever been in prison. It couldn’t hurt to ask.
From the sound of it, it wouldn’t hurt to ask the woman a great many things. There had to be a very good reason why she was being secretive, and now they had to hope they would find it. Thus far, luck and guesswork had allowed them to take a few, faltering steps-in who knew what direction-but Susan Jago might provide the hand shoved firmly in the back. The push that would give them the impetus to catch up with a killer.
As Thorne took out the phone and dialed, he wondered whether Chris Jago had been a good soldier. He also wondered if he’d known the driver of the car that had killed him.
The man who answered the phone recited his number slowly, then asked who was speaking.
“It’s Tom. I’m sorry for calling so late…”
“It’s not late, son. Don’t worry.”
It had gone midnight, but Thorne’s apology had been no more than a courtesy. If anyone had spent longer than he had on the phone to his father in the small hours, it had been Victor. Thorne had been fairly certain that he’d be awake.
“So, what’s up?” Victor asked.
“Nothing, really. Just calling for a natter…”
Even as he spoke Thorne thought that, in truth, there was nothing very much worth talking about; nothing that would have any bearing on the case, at any rate.
“That’s fine, son. It’s good to talk. Let me just go and turn the radio off…”
Thorne watched as a pair of young women in fuckme heels clattered past on the pavement opposite. It was far too cold for belly tops and bare midriffs…
“That’s better.”
If anyone had ever told him where Victor had originally come from, Thorne had forgotten, but he spoke with the faintest of accents. Somewhere Eastern Europe an, by the sound of it. It struck Thorne that he had no idea which army Victor had fought for. He realized that actually, there were a great many things he didn’t know about his father’s best friend. Things that he wanted to know. Like whether Victor had any family. What he had done before he retired. Where he had met his father, and how long had they known each other, and why he was the only one of his dad’s mates who hadn’t suddenly developed a busy life when the old man started going loopy.
“Tom?”
“What?”
“You’re not doing a lot of nattering, son.”
“Sorry. So, how’ve you been? Keeping yourself busy?”
“Oh yes, I’m always busy,” Victor said. “What about yourself? How’s the job?”
“You know…”
“When the phone went I thought it was him, you know? Just for a few seconds. Calling up with some quiz question, or one of his jokes, or trying to find out the word for something he’d forgotten. Remember how he used to do that?”
Thorne closed his eyes. He’d seen some film or read a book in which memory could be wiped out with a pill. Right now, even though good memories would be erased along with the bad, he’d take it.
“It’s okay,” Victor said. “I miss the silly old bugger as well, you know?”
Thorne felt suddenly as though he were only seconds away from sleep. “I’m fine, honestly, Victor. I really didn’t ring to talk about him.”
Then a low, amused hum. “ ’Course you didn’t…”
SIXTEEN
Becke House was not a fully functioning police station. There were no cells-other than those the detectives were required to work in-and no formal interview suite. As with anyone else who had to be questioned, or held, Susan Jago was taken to Colindale. It had the necessary facilities in abundance, and the added advantage of being just five minutes up the road.
“How long d’you think this is going to take?” Jago said.
Holland opened the door and showed her inside. “I’d say that was very much up to you, Susan…”
It was a narrow room and windowless, but cleaner than most. Jago dropped her handbag down by a chair and nudged it under the table. She looked up at the digital clock on the wall. Though she’d caught an early train from Stoke and been collected by uniformed officers from the station, it was already a few minutes after eleven o’clock. “I was hoping I could get back to pick the kids up from school.”
“I’m not sure that’s very likely,” Holland said. He reached across for her jacket and hung it on a coatrack behind the door.
When Kitson entered the room, Holland took her coat, too. She nodded at Jago. “Thanks for coming down so quickly.”
Susan Jago looked different from the last time they’d seen her. Her dark hair had been dragged back into a ponytail and there was no makeup to get ruined by tears. She looked more confident, certainly, but also harder. Holland had already gone through the Judges’ Rules with her outside. He’d explained that she was not under arrest, that she was free to leave at any time, and that she was entitled to legal representation. She’d laughed at him as if he were being silly. Now he went over the same ground for the benefit of the tape. The date was stated and the names of those present given for the record.
Jago glanced up at the camera high in the corner. The hardware had been recently upgraded. Now, as well as being recorded on two audiocassettes, the interview was being simultaneously filmed and burned on to a CD- ROM. She looked back to the racks of shiny, wall-mounted equipment. “I bet that lot cost a fair bit,” she said.
Kitson didn’t want to hang around any longer than anybody else did. “Miss Jago, did your brother,
