THIRTEEN.

A few years before, a major inquiry had been launched as to why the murderer of two young girls had been allowed to work as a school caretaker, having been investigated for serious s.e.xual offenses on a number of previous occasions. This inquiry revealed a nationwide system that was both unwieldy and seriously flawed. The country's police forces were supposed to be able to cross-reference, check and liaise with one another and with external bodies, yet the inquiry found that effective communication was thwarted at nearly every turn.

This was hard to believe, three decades on from the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper-a man who had been questioned several times, eliminated on each occasion, and then caught by accident. Mistakes of this nature were understandable, back in those dark days of card indexes, and case notes exploding from mountains of overstuffed files, but now?

However many officers were sent on IT courses, and despite the many millions that were spent on tailor-made software and state-of-the-art networking, people still f.u.c.ked up. Sometimes it wasn't inept.i.tude so much as incompatibility. Not only were some police computing systems not able to communicate with those of a.s.sociated services, but often they could not even talk to each other. There were firewalls and brick walls; there were untraceable programs and intractable machines. While a perfectly diligent and proficient detective could store the complete works of Shakespeare on a key ring and send naked pictures of his girlfriend round the world with the click of a mouse, he might easily find himself unable to access intelligence on another floor of the same building.

Computers had become smaller, of course, and lighter, but there were still plenty of police officers who didn't trust them as far as they could throw them. In this brave new world, the Met got through as much paper as ever . . .

Hendricks didn't know if there was a name for the electronic equivalent of red tape. He did know it was a reality of British policing, and that it was easy to get caught up in. To get lost in. This had been at the back of his mind when he'd decided to do some detection on his own: to switch on a single, steam-powered PC and go looking for tattoos.

Much to his own amazement-less than twentyfour hours after his testy conversation with Tom Thorne, he got lucky. He'd accessed the site postings and e-mail from his office at Westminster Hospital. There were several dozen new responses. A couple looked like they might be worth following up, most were at least trying to be helpful, and a couple were downright weird.

And Graham Hipkiss, fellow of the Royal College of Pathologists, had left a phone number.

Hendricks reached across his desk for the phone. "This is Phil Hendricks. I saw your note on the RCP message board . . ."

"Right. I think I've a tattoo that might interest you."

Dr. Hipkiss was a consultant pathologist at a hospital in Nottingham. He described the tattoo, one of several he'd seen on a hit-and-run victim found on the outskirts of the city six months earlier. Though the man-who appeared to have been sleeping rough-had been found alive, he'd died from multiple injuries on the way to hospital. Neither the driver nor the car had been traced, and the police had fared little better in putting a name to the victim. Appeals had been made on Midlands Today and in the Nottingham Evening Post, but no one had come forward to claim the body. Six weeks after he'd been found in the road, the John Doe was given a simple, Social Services funeral.

Hendricks was certainly interested. He pushed aside a sheaf of student papers and began scribbling down the letters in his notebook, arranging them as Hipkiss read from his original postmortem notes. They chatted for a few minutes more before Hendricks requested a copy of the postmortem and thanked Hipkiss for his time.

Then he looked down at the tattoo : B+.

S.O.F.A.

The top row was different from that found on the body of the unknown man in the mortuary downstairs. Hendricks laid out the original tattoo underneath: AB.

S.O.F.A.

Seeing them together, it became obvious. He flicked quickly through the Rolodex, furious with himself, until he found Russell Brigstocke's direct line.

Thorne pressed his mouth close to the handset, spoke quietly. "Don't let Hendricks get bigheaded about this," he said. "It's good news, but it only leaves us with another question. And we still don't know what the rest of it means."

"Maybe the bottom bit's a club of some sort," Holland said. "Maybe the A is for a.s.sociation. Something Something Football a.s.sociation?"

"We'll figure it out."

"We need someone who does crosswords, like Inspector Morse."

"Inspector Morse never slept in a doorway or got thrashed at table tennis by a heroin addict."

"Sorry?"

"I've got to go," Thorne said. "Listen, I wanted to wish Chloe a happy birthday. I couldn't get her anything, obviously."

"How the h.e.l.l did you remember that?"

It was a very good question. Thorne pushed open the cubicle door and stepped out. "I've absolutely no idea . . ."

When Thorne returned from the toilet, Spike was sitting on the edge of the pool table, his legs dangling.

"I've not moved any of the b.a.l.l.s, honest," he said. Thorne didn't think for a minute that he had. There was no more need for Spike to cheat at pool than there had been on the table-tennis table half an hour earlier: he'd already been four b.a.l.l.s ahead when Thorne had felt the phone vibrate in his pocket and excused himself.

"My shot, right?" Thorne lined up a yellow ball. Missed it by six inches.

There were several people watching. Each duff shot was greeted with a certain amount of halfhearted jeering and a less-than-flattering commentary.

"No mercy," Spike said. He put away the remaining red b.a.l.l.s, then slammed in the black, acknowledging the apathy of the onlookers by raising the cue above his head and cheering himself.

"Jammy f.u.c.ker," Thorne said.

"You need to take me on later in the day, mate. When I'm a bit shakier . . ."

Two men who might have been anywhere between twenty and forty stepped forward to play. Spike asked if they fancied a game of doubles and was impolitely refused.

"The facilities are pretty good in here," Thorne said.

They walked away up a short flight of whitewashed steps, heading back toward the cafeteria.

"Yeah, not bad."

"Not bad?" They walked past the TV room, then another that had been converted into a chiropodist's surgery. A woman stepped out, asked if either of them needed anything doing. They kept going up toward the ground floor, the walls of the winding staircase covered with AIDS-awareness and drug-counseling posters.

"Junkies don't want a f.u.c.king chiropodist," Spike said. "There's nothing worth nicking in there, for a start. How much gear d'you think you can get for a box of corn plasters and some verruca ointment?"

"It doesn't mean no one wants to use it, though, does it?"

Spike shrugged. "Nah, I suppose not. Maybe some of the old boys, like . . ."

The center would soon be closing for the afternoon and there were only a handful of people left in the cafeteria. Thorne and Spike stopped at a large notice board, stared at the jumble of printouts, leaflets, and handwritten messages.

"You ever hear of rough sleepers tattooing their blood groups on themselves?" Thorne asked.

"Eh?"

"Their blood groups. You know, AB negative, O positive, whatever. As a tattoo."

Spike stuck out his bottom lip, thought for a few seconds, then shook his head. "I've seen most things, like, but . . ."

"It doesn't matter . . ."

Spike pointed at the notice board. "You're right about this place, though, about the facilities. Look at all this stuff."

There were notices about computer-training sessions, film showings, and book groups. There were adverts for the latest performances by an opera company called Streetvoice, a homeless theater group, and a free course of DJ workshops.

"Pretty impressive," Thorne said.

Spike pulled out a small bottle of water from his pocket, unscrewed it, and took a swig. "There's a place in Marylebone that's even better, but it's a bit further out, isn't it? They do some strange s.h.i.t there, like. They were giving people free acupuncture last week, which is a bit over-the-top, if you ask me. I mean, I like needles, don't get me wrong . . ." He cackled, offered Thorne the water.

Thorne took a drink then handed it back. "Don't some people get a bit p.i.s.sed off, though? Like it's all too good."

"Oh yeah." Spike spread his arms. "They reckon laying all this on is encouraging the likes of me to stay on the street. Like there's no incentive for us to get off our a.r.s.es . . ."

These were the same people, Thorne guessed, who thought life was too cushy in prison. That it was a soft option for many of those inside. He knew that when it had come to certain prisoners, he'd been one of those people himself.

"Most places are f.u.c.k all like this, though," Spike said. "You wait till you've been inside a few of the other centers. Some of them are well rough. You been in any of the wet places yet?"

"I don't think so . . ."

"Wet. Means you can take booze in with you. Good from that point of view, like, but they're s.h.i.tholes, most of them."

Spike crushed the empty water bottle in his hand. They moved away from the notice board and walked slowly toward the exit.

"They can get a bit naughty as well, so you need to be careful. You look like you can take care of yourself, though . . ."

A few months ago, Thorne might have agreed with him. Right now he felt weak and incapable. Then he remembered the anger that had boiled up as he'd dragged Moony from one side of the street to the other . . .

Near the door that led from the cafe into the reception area, a trophy cabinet was mounted on the wall. There were a number of highly polished cups and shields, and a note taped to the gla.s.s showing the position of the center's five-a-side team in the Street League.

Spike turned to Thorne as though divine inspiration had struck. "I knew some football fans who had 'em. What you were asking about before. A couple of Chelsea boys who had tattoos with their blood group or what have you. They had blue dotted lines an' all, tattooed around their wrists and necks, saying 'cut here' . . ."

Thorne thought about what Holland had been saying on the phone: Something Something Football a.s.sociation. He found it hard to believe that either of the men with the mysterious tattoos was a football hooligan, but it might still be worth considering. ***

It wasn't as if she hadn't thought he might be dead . . .

While he was talking to Susan Jago, Stone told himself that it could have been an awful lot worse. It wasn't exactly a bolt from the blue. They were the ones n.o.body wanted.

I'm sorry to have to tell you that your son/daughter/husband/wife . . . I'm afraid there's been an accident . . . I think perhaps you might want to sit down.

Every copper he knew had their own way of handling those awkward moments, his or her own style. The death message was usually delivered in person, of course, but as this was more of a confirmation than anything, it was decided that a phone call would not be improper. Even so, he'd been annoyed when Holland had palmed the job off on him, but, all in all, it hadn't gone too badly. He'd told Susan Jago about the hit-and-run; about the scar on the dead man's arm that had been detailed in the postmortem report, and led them to believe that the victim had been her brother . . .

"I don't understand why they couldn't get hold of any of us when they found him."

"Your brother had no identification, Miss Jago. There was no way to-"

"How b.l.o.o.d.y hard did they try?"

"I couldn't possibly say, I'm afraid."

Sam Karim walked past Stone's desk and raised his eyebrows. Stone shook his head, puffed out his cheeks.

"It's just the thought that n.o.body was with him," she said. "You know?"

"Of course. We understand, and we're all very sorry for your loss." It was a phrase he'd picked up from American cop shows.

"Couldn't they have put something in the press and on TV? Like they did with the man I thought was Chris?"

"They did. Locally . . ."

Susan Jago repeated the word on an exasperated breath. There was a pause and Stone waited, expecting there to be tears. They didn't come.

"Right, well, I'm sorry to be . . . you know, the bearer-"

"It's all right. It's a relief in a funny sort of way."

"I forgot to say, about the tattoos. We know now that some of the letters are a blood group. Your brother had his blood group tattooed on his arm. We wondered if you had any idea why."

"I'm afraid I don't."

Stone began to doodle in the corner of his notebook. "So you don't know what it means?"

"I have to go now. I've got to try and find out where they've buried my brother."

"Right. I'm sorry . . ."

There was another pause. Then: "Will you remember to thank Dr. Hendricks for me?"

Brigstocke was clearly still on his diet.

"You need to get a few pork pies down you, Rus sell. You're starting to look gaunt."

"I can't say that you're looking too good yourself . . ."

Thorne and Brigstocke had arranged to meet up in Chelsea, a good distance south of the West End. They stood together outside the Royal Hospital, lingering awkwardly for a few minutes like spies who've forgotten their code words, before they started to walk. "I was going to ask," Thorne said. "That fascinating report I did so much work on at Scotland Yard. I do hope someone's polishing it up."

"I think they binned it," Brigstocke said. "Excellent . . ."

They walked through the grounds of the hospital-still an almshouse for more than four hundred red-coated Chelsea Pensioners-past the National Army Museum and down toward Albert Bridge. "I bet Phil Hendricks is pleased with himself,"

Thorne said.

"Actually, he's p.i.s.sed off because he didn't see it before. AB negative is the rarest blood group of the lot, and even though he typed those letters out himself several times on the postmortem report, he never made the connection with the tattoo."

"Tell him well done from me, but that he shouldn't make a habit of it. If he carries on playing detective, I might have to start slicing up corpses."

Brigstocke laughed. "Quite right, too. G.o.d forbid he should make us look like we don't know what we're doing . . ."

"Did you see the PM report on Jago?"

"It was faxed over this morning, and I managed to get hold of the original SIO in Nottingham." "And?"

"It was a hit-and-run. As to whether it was a deliberate hit-and-run . . ."