The decision not to print a photograph of the tattoo had been taken on grounds of taste. A similar decision with regard to the victim’s face had not been necessary: they’d had no choice but to computer-generate, and not just because the face itself was unrecognizable. It was unrecognizable as a face: every
46 Mark Billingham feature had been all but kicked or stamped clean off the victim’s head. The unmarked face that was confronting thousands of people, that very minute over their cornflakes, had been fashioned by a microchip from little more than bone and bruise.
“It’s like King’s Cross,” Thorne said. “It’s what they did with the victim they couldn’t put a name to.”
The fire at King’s Cross underground station in November 1987 had killed thirty-one people, but only thirty bodies were ever claimed. One victim had remained anonymous-in spite of numerous appeals to those who might have known who he was. Thorne remembered that face, too: the sketch on the poster in a hundred tube stations; the clay reconstruction of the head that was lovingly fashioned and paraded in front of the television cameras. Ironically, the dead man, known for years only as Victim 115, had finally been identified just the year before, nearly twenty years after his death, and had turned out to have been a rough sleeper. Many commentators in the press claimed to have been unsurprised. It was obvious he was homeless, or else someone would surely have come forward much earlier, wouldn’t they? Thorne wasn’t so sure. He doubted that material belongings had a great deal to do with being missed. He thought it was perfectly possible to have a roof over your head, a decent car, and two nice holidays a year, yet still go unacknowledged and unclaimed if you had the misfortune to find yourself trapped on a burning escalator.
Thorne reckoned it was less to do with being unknown than with being un loved.
“I think we’re in with more of a chance, though,” Holland said, looking at the picture. “The quality of this is far higher. It’s got to ring a bell with somebody.”
“Let’s hope somebody loved him enough.”
Thorne handed the Independent back across the table and turned the Daily Mirror over to the sports page. He wondered how many footballers had been accused of rape since the last time he’d read a newspaper.
SIX
Thorne leaned in close and stared at himself in the small, square mirror. A week without razor, soap, or shampoo didn’t seem to have made a great deal of difference. Seven days during which he’d tried to start looking the part, while a pair of stroppy sorts from SO10-the unit that ran undercover operations- had done their best to put him through a refresher course.
It had all been fairly straightforward. As Thorne had been keen to stress to Brigstocke, the job would be purely about intelligence gathering. There would be no real need to fabricate a detailed backstory-to create what those who worked in this area called a “deep legend.” When necessary, tax details, Land Registry records, and electoral rolls would be doctored, but there would be no need for any such elaborate preparations in this case. Whatever the reason for their being there, those who ended up on the street tended to reinvent themselves anyway; to keep their pasts to themselves. They were starting again.
Thorne took one last look, slammed the locker door shut, and hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulder.
“Once you’ve been out there a couple of weeks you’ll see the difference. Black snot and a proper layer of London grime that won’t wash off easily…”
Thorne turned to look across at the man standing by the door. “Who am I fucking kidding, Bren?”
Brendan Maxwell was to be the only person connected with the homeless community who would know what Thorne was doing. What he really was. Maxwell worked as a senior outreach officer for London Lift, an organization providing counseling and practical help for the city’s homeless, in particular those more entrenched rough sleepers who were over twenty-five.
He was also Phil Hendricks’s boyfriend. Thorne had been privy to the ups and downs of their oftenstormy relationship for the last few years and had come to know the tall, skinny Irishman pretty well. Aside from Hendricks himself, and those few officers on the investigation who had been briefed, Maxwell would be-for however long the operation lasted-the only real connection Thorne had between his two lives.
“Don’t lose the key,” Maxwell said. “There aren’t any spares.”
Thorne put the key into the front pocket of his rucksack. The locker, where he would leave spare clothes, was one of fifty or so provided for the use of clients at the Lift’s mixed-age day center off St. Martin’s Lane. The organization’s offices were on the top floor, with the lockers in the basement, along with washing and laundry facilities. On the ground floor were the advice counter, a seating area, and a no-frills cafe serving hot drinks and heavily subsidized meals.
Maxwell walked over. He had short blond hair and wore a brown corduroy shirt tucked into jeans. He cast an amused eye over Thorne’s outfit, which he’d already referred to sarcastically as his “dosser costume.” The sweater and shoes had come from Oxfam and the black jeans were an old pair of Thorne’s own.
The gray coat had belonged to his father.
“There’s all sorts out there,” Maxwell said. His accent was heavy and the disgust was audible beneath the arch, jokey tone. “There isn’t really a look, you know? You could be wearing a three-piece suit and spats, but if you’ve got a can of Tennent’s Extra or a needle in your arm, you’ll fit right in.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
There was a scarred, metal rubbish bin mounted to the wall. Maxwell moved across and took out the stuffed, white bin liner. Began tying a knot in the top of it. “This is very bizarre…”
“What?”
“First thing I do, with a lot of the younger ones anyway, is give them a reality check. You know? They’re straight off the coach or they’ve hitched here from wherever and some of these kids really do think the place is paved with gold. I swear to God. It’s my job, very gently you understand, to point out to them how very wrong, how completely fucking stupid they are. It’s usually a waste of time, but even if they tell me to piss off, they find out themselves quickly enough.” He pointed toward a high, dirty window behind a mesh of black metal. “It’s dogshit and fucking despair holding the pavements together out there. A reality check?” He looked across at Thorne. “Not much point with you, is there?”
“Not really.”
Maxwell dropped the bin bag onto the floor. He reached into his back pocket for a new roll, tore one off. “Phil thinks you’re mental, by the way.”
“I know.”
“I can’t say I disagree with him. Why all this De Niro shite?”
“All this what?”
“You know what I mean…”
“What are you on about?” Thorne said. “I’ve got a mobile phone in my pocket and I’m wearing thermal underwear.”
Maxwell smiled. “Fair play. You could still go a bit easier, though, spend the first couple of nights in a hostel.”
“The men who were killed were all sleeping rough. They died outdoors.” Thorne caught the smell of hot food drifting down from the cafe. “Besides, if I’m going to do this, I might as well bloody do it.”
Maxwell picked up the full bin bag and walked to the door. “Listen, I’m not having a go, Tom, and I’ll be around if you need any help, but don’t make any mistake about it. However much you think you’re doing this, you can always walk away.” He opened the door, then turned back into the room. “You can dirty yourself up and spend a bit of time kipping on cardboard, but you’ve got the option to cut and run any bloody time you feel like it. Anytime you like. Jump in a taxi back to your flat and your cowboy music.”
Thorne was getting irritated, but had to smile. Cowboy music. That was one of Hendricks’s. “I’ll see you upstairs,” he said. “I’d better grab some food before I make a move.”
Maxwell nodded and stepped out into the corridor. “Stew’s good.. .”
It had seemed like as good a spot as any.
Three steps up from pavement level and fairly sheltered. Odd as it was to sleep surrounded by giant black- and-white photographs of actors and extravagant quotes testifying to their skill and comic timing, Thorne figured
