“So, even though he knew your name, chances are he didn’t know you ?”
“God knows; probably not. We can be fairly sure he was getting his information from the newspaper as opposed to anywhere… closer to home.”
There were still many things Thorne couldn’t be sure about, like how the killer had known his name. But it was starting to look as though a stolen warrant card was as near as it came to police involvement in the killings themselves. It might therefore be safe enough to take surveillance off McCabe and the others at Charing Cross.
Thorne held up the paper. “I still don’t know who leaked this, though.” He tossed the Standard toward the mass that had already been discarded and went back to searching through the main pile. He still hadn’t found the newspaper he was actually looking for.
Eales’s flat was small, but smart and extremely tidy. Once inside, he saw a tightly winding flight of stairs covered in coir matting rose straight into a bed-sitting room, with an arch at one end leading through to a tiny kitchen, and a door at the other, which Mackillop presumed opened into the bathroom.
Eales was putting his shopping into cupboards while Mackillop sat on a stiff-backed chair in the bedroom, still unable to believe how jammy he’d been.
“I know it’s not huge,” Eales shouted through from the kitchen. “But I don’t have a lot of stuff…”
Mackillop was buzzing. He felt like he’d been in the Job for years. He couldn’t wait to clock the look on Stone’s face when he finally turned up; when the DC saw which of them had really got lucky that lunchtime.
“You still wouldn’t believe what the rent is, mind you…”
“It’s nice,” Mackillop said, meaning it. His own flat in a modern block was bigger, but strictly functional. He liked the polished floor in this place, the stripped beams in the ceiling, and the stained-glass panels in the bathroom door.
“It’ll do,” Eales said.
“It’d do for me…”
“Good job I’ve just done a shop.” Eales was walking in from the kitchen brandishing an unopened packet of biscuits. “Coffee won’t be a sec.” He handed the packet across and turned back toward the kitchen. “If your partner’s going to be a while, you might as well put your feet up…”
While he waited for his coffee Mackillop continued to look around. Eales had said that he didn’t have much, but Mackillop thought he could be fairly positive about at least one of the ex-trooper’s possessions; the one which, without any doubt, would be the most valuable. There was a VCR beneath the small TV at the end of the bed, and a number of unmarked videotapes piled on top of it. Mackillop couldn’t help but wonder…
“Why have you not contacted us, Mr. Eales?” he asked.
Eales walked back through, handed a mug to Mackillop, and sat down on the edge of his bed. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said.
“You did know we were trying to trace you, though? You didn’t seem very surprised to find a policeman on your doorstep.”
“A little, maybe.”
“It was obvious you knew who I was looking for.”
“I didn’t know anything until I saw it on the TV the other night. I’ve not seen a newspaper in a while. I’ve barely been out of the house.”
Mackillop took out a biscuit from the packet on the floor, held it up. “Except to go shopping.”
“Once every couple of days,” Eales said. “You’ve got to get supplies in. And when I go, I don’t hang about.”
“You’ve been keeping your head down?”
“Something like that.”
Mackillop knew why, of course. Even with his life under threat, Eales would hardly have been mustard-keen to go to the police; to explain the reason why he was next on a killer’s list. Mackillop also knew that, by questioning him, he was almost certainly moving well beyond his remit. So far, he hadn’t been short of luck, but the sensible part of him was wondering just how far he could push it. “I’m guessing it’s not your name on the rent book…”
“It’s a name I use sometimes.” Eales slurped his coffee. “I pay the rent, and that’s all anyone seems bothered about.”
“You’ve not used your real name for a while, have you?”
Eales walked over, leaned down to grab a few biscuits, then sat again. “Have I not?”
“I know that because we’ve looked. Everywhere…”
“I didn’t think you were here to nick me for not filling in forms correctly.”
“I’m not,” Mackillop said. “But it’s natural to wonder why you might be so keen to stay anonymous.” He watched as Eales downed the rest of his coffee in three or four swift gulps; amazed, as his own mug was still hot to the touch.
Eales stood, gestured with his empty mug. “I’m going to get some more.”
Mackillop followed him toward the kitchen. “Mr. Eales…”
“I’ve moved around a lot in the last few years.” Eales spoke with his back to Mackillop, taking coffee and sugar from the cupboard, moving across to the fridge for milk. “I’ve done a few strange jobs, you know? Worked for one or two dodgy characters…”
“Dodgy how?”
“Dodgy, as in secret. I do what they pay me for, I fuck off and I keep my mouth shut. This isn’t the sort of work you pick up at the Job Centre, you know?”
Mackillop thought about it, guessed that Eales was talking about working as a mercenary. He watched the man’s shoulders moving beneath his sweatshirt. Eales certainly looked as though he kept himself useful. “We’re not really interested in what you’ve been doing,” he said. “We’re actually here for your own good. But I think you know that, don’t you?”
Eales turned, looked at him.
Mackillop was starting to grow impatient with the caginess; tired of going round the houses. Here was someone who’d taken part in a brutal war crime; their only hope of catching a man who’d perpetrated an atrocity of his own fifteen years down the line.
“Do you know why we’ve been trying to find you, Mr. Eales?”
Eales began to look a little nervous. He reached for his mug and dropped his head to sip from it. Mackillop waited a few seconds, then pulled out his phone, deciding that maybe it was a good time to see how far away Stone was…
Eales moved forward, suddenly enough to slop hot coffee across the floor. To make Mackillop step back. “Show me your warrant card again. Straightaway, please.”
Mackillop did as Eales asked. Watched as he took a few moments to regain control and recover his composure.
“I’m sorry for… sorry about that, ” Eales said. “You know damn well that I’ve got every right to be a bit jumpy, so let’s not kid each other.” He snatched a tea towel from the worktop, tossed it onto the spill, and pushed it around with his foot as he spoke. “I knew Ian Hadingham had topped himself last year, all right? Supposedly topped himself. And I knew Chris Jago was missing because I’d tried to get in touch with him. So that, on top of Hadingham, was enough to make me nervous. Then I open a paper three weeks ago and see a picture of a dead man who looks very much like Alec Bonser. I see his picture, and I see a picture like this…” He rolled up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. There were several tattoos: a row of Chinese symbols, two Celtic bands, a lion’s head-but the important one was high up, just below the shoulder.
Letters faded to the blue of his eyes: O+ S.O.F.A.
“I’ve no idea if he killed Chris Jago or not, but I’m the fourth member of that crew, and I want to stay alive as long as possible, thank you very much. I’m not claiming to be Brain of Britain. I was just a pig-thick squaddie, but it seemed like a good idea to keep a fairly low profile. Like you said, I kept my head down, and I’ve got away with it. Until now, at any rate.” Eales shrugged, blew on his coffee. “You lot might want to talk to me, but last time I checked, that wasn’t fatal.”
Mackillop felt like straps were being fastened tight across his chest. Dry-mouthed in a second, he sucked in the words and tried to arrange them into the question that was begging to be asked: You’ve no idea of who killed Chris Jago?
