waiting to be saved. Chewing on his fat bottom lip and blushing like a girl. What do you want from Santa, Martin?
My head on a plate? My name on an arrest sheet, so that you can slope away to prison, just that little bit less guilty?
Sorry, Mart…
He thought about sending him a message to cheer him up. Christmas e-cards were very popular after all. Something seasonal and simple. A picture of a robin perched on the handle of a snow covered spade and a short message.
I'm thinking about you…
It was a tempting idea but he knew he was just being dramatic. There was no way they could trace it, he was sure about that, but even so it was probably not the right time. He'd get Christmas out of the way first, let things settle down a bit. Then he'd decide what to do next.
Assuming that the decision wasn't made for him. It was starting to rain.
Thorne flagged down a black cab on Abbey Road. He was not a million miles from the zebra crossing the Beetles had so famously strolled across more than thirty years before, McCartney barefoot and out of step.
He opened the door. 'Kentish Town…'
The driver didn't even look at him. 'Triple time now, mate. That all right?'
Thorne smiled at the strip of tinsel wrapped around the cab's aerial. Maybe the gesture was ironic. He nodded and climbed in. 'Yeah, whatever…
'I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday' was blasting out of the radio. It was a song Thorne loved, one guaranteed to have him rushing out to buy holly and advocaat, but for the first time in his life, he wanted Christmas to be over and done with. Christmas and New Year, condensed, compressed. He wanted, no, he needed, to be shot of them…
He thought about Charlie Garner.
Would the boy be lying in bed now, listening out for reindeer on the roof, unable to sleep? Or had he been unable to sleep for the last month, and was he lying in bed now listening to his mother screaming?
The taxi rumbled through Swiss C6ttage, down damp, deserted streets, towards Chalk Farm. The cabbie was talking to him, throwing meaningful glances over his shoulder, but Thorne wasn't listening. A boy called Stuart Anthony Nicklin…
Thorne wished the fortnight ahead gone not because of how he was likely to be spending it, nor because of his father, nor Charlie Garner. He needed a leap forward in time to move the case on. There was an outside chance that there might be a break over the Christmas period but he seriously doubted it. What he was sure of was that there would be pressure from Jesmond, and from Brigstocke on his behalf. The Powers That Be would demand to know what was happening. When was this stupid idea of his going to yield anything significant bar an astronomical overtime bill?
The taxi squealed to a halt at some lights. A gaggle of drunken revelers crossed the road in front of them, waving and singing. The cabbie waved back, muttering, 'Wankers.'
The cab roared away from the lights and swung right into Camden. Thorne leaned back and closed his eyes. Two weeks mollifying the PTB would at least kill the time, and he wanted it killed. He wanted it stone dead.
If he was going to get pro-active, he couldn't do it while the rest of the world was on holiday. And some people took longer holidays than others…
Thorne had decided that in order to move forward, he needed to go back.
He was going to go back to where it had all started.
PART THREE
THIRTEEN
The school stood in a quiet, leafy part of Harrow, only a mile or so from a slightly more famous school – one with its own theatre, farm and golf course – which boasted Byron, Nehru and Churchill among its former pupils. As the car moved slowly up the drive towards the main building, Thorne knew that King Edward IV School for Boys would soon have even less reason to be proud of its Old Boys.
A week into 2002. The investigation in dire need of a kick up the arse.
The fortnight or so since Christmas had gone much as Thorne had feared: very little progress, lots of grief. The holidays had covered a multitude of sins – the inactivity in the case would have been exposed to a far greater degree at any other time, but coupled with the demands on manpower, it still drew unwelcome attention from the Powers That Be.
Brigstocke was clearly copping it from above and he seemed to take great delight in passing it on to those beneath him.
'Patience is running out, Tom.'
'Theirs or yours?'
'Same thing.'
'Right. Got it. Look, as soon as the schools go back, I'm-'
'What? Going to check Nicklin's truancy records? See if he got into detention much'
'You got any better ideas?'
'You're the ideas man, Tom. We're just waiting to see one of them fucking amount to anything…'
'Is this still about the arse on the fence remark? Look, I'm getting fired of saying sorry.'
'Well I'm not fired of hearing you say it, OK?'
Pupils were moving aside to let the car through as Thorne drove slowly up the long drive and swerved into the car park. The boys looked smart in grey trousers and blue blazers trimmed with claret piping. If the school had an inferiority complex, it didn't show from the outside.
Holland stepped out of the car, widening his eyes.
'Not like my school…'
Nor mine, thought Thorne. He pictured a short, stocky lad jumping off the bus, thoroughly delighted with his feather cut, his new, five-button bags and his star jumper. Thorne watched him trudging up the hill singing 'Blockbuster' and 'Mama Weer All Crazee Now', wearing platforms instead of beetle crushers, needing that extra inch or so. He smiled as the boy swaggered into the playground and chatted to his mate. Making up stuff about the weekend, swearing, talking about music and Saturday's results.
The school bell rang, and as Thorne followed Holland towards the entrance, he glimpsed the same boy again, disappearing into the distance. Thirteen-year-old Tom Thorne was hoisting his dirty green rucksack across his shoulder. The canvas was emblazoned with the names of bands and footballers – Slade and Martin Chivers – the bag crammed with games kit and Marmite sandwiches, and maybe even the odd exercise book covered in wallpaper… The school secretary was like every school secretary that Thorne remembered or had ever imagined. Maybe they bred them somewhere, taught them how to put their hair in a bun and look down their pointed noses, before sending them out into the world with a pair of big glasses, a fondness for tweed and something uncomfortable up their backsides.
'Mr. Marsden won't be a minute. He knows you're here.'
Thorne smiled at her. 'Thank you so much.'
He and Holland were seated on brown plastic chairs outside the headmaster's office. Opposite them sat a boy of about twelve, looking absolutely terrified. Thorne made eye contact, but the boy looked away.
'This takes me back,' Holland muttered.
'What, sitting outside the beak's office? Can't imagine you were ever in too much trouble, Holland.'
'I had my moments.'
