these soldiers any better than he’d been able to see what was in the eyes of the four he’d watched committing murder on a grainy videotape. Those men were in front of him at that moment; he was looking at their faces. And now, if any were still alive, there was a way to trace them.
“How did they get away with it, Dave? How did no one find out what they’d done?”
“Maybe someone did,” Holland said. “The army might have known and hushed it up…”
Thorne wasn’t convinced. “Or maybe they just buried the bodies.” He ran that through his mind for a moment; thought about holes being dug in wet sand once the camera had been switched off. Thinking about the tape reminded him of something else. “Any word back from the lab yet? They were going to try and sort out the sound on the video…”
Holland rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, we’ve now sent it to a special unit at the University of California…”
“They can’t do it here?”
“Not if you want a result this side of Christmas.”
“Jesus.” Thorne handed the magazine back to Holland. “I presume we’re going back to the army with these names.”
“Yeah, and this should make things piss-easy for them. We know none of them are still serving with the Twelfth King’s Hussars, but we should be able to find out if any have moved anywhere else within the service. And now we’ve got the names, we can finally get on to the Army Personnel Centre.”
“I think we should start trying to locate them ourselves at the same time, though.” Thorne got to his feet. “We might find them faster than the army can.”
“That’s the plan,” Holland said. “We just need to get hold of someone with a decent memory. Someone who can remember the other three who were in Jago’s tank crew.”
“Start with the rarest names, right? Leave the Smiths and Joneses till last…”
“Really?” Holland looked across at Thorne like he was telling him how to tie his shoelaces.
Thorne returned the look with knobs on. “Okay… Sorry, Sergeant.”
“We’re shit out of luck as far as that goes, anyway.” Holland pulled on his gloves and stood up. “Nothing too outlandish, I’m afraid. Not a single Private Parts or Corporal Clutterbuck among them
…”
They walked south toward the Serpentine.
It had started to drizzle, and Holland reached instinctively for the umbrella in his case, then stopped when he saw Thorne moving through the rain as if he were unaware of it.
“So why did you move?” Holland asked. “Are you trying to lower the tone in as many places as possible?”
“No choice. The bloke whose pitch I took is coming back. Today or maybe tomorrow. These things tend not to be very specific…”
When Thorne had seen him the day before, Spike had been insistent that Terry T was on his way back to London. He’d heard a definite rumor, at any rate, and seeing as how Terry would want his pitch back, it was a good idea for Thorne to look around for somewhere new to bed down. Terry T was a big bloke, after all, Spike had said, and with a seriously vicious temper. Thorne had taken the bait, pretending to fall for the same gag he hadn’t fallen for on the first night he and Spike had met…
“How’s the face feel?” Holland asked. This was the first day he’d laid eyes on Thorne since his arrest, and the first time he’d mentioned Thorne’s souvenirs of the occasion.
“What, have you only just noticed it?”
“I didn’t think you’d want people banging on about it…”
“Because I got my face smashed in?” Thorne’s tone was suddenly edgy, and snide. “Or because of why?” They walked on in silence for a few minutes.
“Obviously, it looks pretty bad,” Holland said. “The face, I mean. I just wondered if it hurt much, that’s all. Thought maybe you could get Phil Hendricks to bung you a few painkillers or something.”
Thorne felt bad that he’d been snappy before. “Don’t worry about the face, Holland. It looks like shit, but beneath the bruises, my looks remain undamaged.”
“That’s a shame,” Holland said.
They came out onto Carriage Drive opposite Hyde Park Corner. Thorne had decided to take the long way back and walk into the West End along Piccadilly. Holland was planning to catch the tube back up to Colindale.
“Do you want to know the worst thing about you being promoted?” Thorne asked. “I can no longer enjoy the simple pleasure of calling you Constable as if it’s spelled with a U and an extra T…”
Saturday had been a bit hectic, but he’d got what he needed, and the rest of the weekend had actually been very pleasant. He’d taken a boat trip down to Greenwich and wandered around the Maritime Museum. Sitting in a nice pub by the river, he’d had a couple of pints and a Sunday lunch with all the trimmings. Later, he’d poked around a few of the little antiquey places and secondhand shops. He’d bought a computer game and a black suede jacket from the market.
If you could be bothered to look, there were plenty of places like that in London, north and south of the river; places with some charm and individuality; with a little bit of character. You couldn’t help but wonder why those who ended up on the street chose to congregate like rats around the West End. Were they drawn to the bright lights or something? Did they think it was glamorous? He didn’t understand it. Surely they could have gone wherever they fancied, slept wherever they liked. Wasn’t that one of the few good things about being homeless?
For all that he’d learned about the lives of these people-and he’d made it his business to learn a great deal-he couldn’t help but think that, for some of them, it was a lifestyle choice. There were a few, of course-the ones who were soft in the head or whatever-who would never be able to cope and were always going to end up on the margins of society, but for others it seemed to be about preference. From what he could see, those people didn’t want to help themselves and scorned any offer of assistance from others. It was hard to have any real sympathy with that sort…
Bearing in mind what he’d been doing, he knew full well that he could hardly have been expected to think any other way, but that was genuinely his opinion on the subject. He firmly believed that he could do what he’d done and still be, you know, objective about what went on in the world. The people who had died had done so for no other reason than simple necessity. What had been done-what he’d had to do-was about no more than self- preservation. Well, that and the money, of course.
But nothing else.
He could honestly say that he hadn’t borne any illwill toward anyone he’d ever killed.
Today, with more work to do, he wasn’t quite as relaxed as he had been when ambling about in Greenwich. It should all have been done and dusted by now, but when it came to protecting yourself, being safe rather than sorry was the only sensible approach.
He was spending a dreary Monday mastering his new computer game; sharpening up his reflexes and concentrating his mind. He’d get back to the matter in hand tomorrow.
TWENTY-THREE
As a trainee detective constable, Jason Mackillop was desperate for any chance to make an impression. It was easy to get lost on a major investigation such as this one. But it was also possible, if you were in the right place at the right time, with the right people at the end of the phone, to go from donkey to hero in a few minutes. They hadn’t talked much about luck on the five-week Detective Training Course at Hendon, but all the trainees knew it was every bit as important as the stuff they had been taught: forensics; crime-scene management; handling exhibits; disclosure of evidence; performance in the witness box.
At twenty-three, he was relatively young for a TDC. He was perhaps no more than six months away from being assigned as a full DC, but after the probation, the year on relief, and the two more as a dogsbody on the Crime Squad, he was more than ready to step up. He’d already proved he could handle himself in most formal areas of the job, and catching a break like this one certainly couldn’t hurt…
