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
