Holland shook his head. "I thought there'd be a lot more than half a dozen."

"Soldiers leave," Poulter said. "For many reasons. We lose a lot of men after a major conflict, a lot of them. It's all about pressure, at the end of the day. Pressure from others and pressure inside your own head. If you're lucky enough to have a family, then nine times out of ten they'll want you out. You've been and done your bit, you've been out there and risked your neck, so why the h.e.l.l go back and do it again? If you were lucky enough to make it back in one piece, the att.i.tude of your nearest and dearest is 'Why push your luck? Get out while the going's good.' "

"Understandable," Kitson said.

"Of course it is, but that's the easy pressure. And having that kind of support system makes it easy to readjust afterward. For those without that system, and even for many who do have loving families, it's not quite so cut-and-dried. You come back, your head's still buzzing, you're in constant turmoil, and I'm not necessarily talking about men who've fought hand to hand or anything like that. Any length of time spent in a combat situation, or spent in constant readiness for such a situation, is going to leave a good number of men in a fragile mental state."

"Like post-traumatic stress disorder?"

"In some cases yes, but for many others it takes a different form. Some just crave the adrenaline high they experienced during combat. Back here, they just can't get it, can they? You can see the signs. Silly b.u.g.g.e.rs signing up for parachute jumps and what have you. Anything to get the rush. These guys have got ten, maybe fifteen years of skills and drills, then they come back from combat and they've got sod-all to do with them. That's why so many go wild, land themselves in trouble, and end up in prison. It's why they end up on the street, like with this case of yours . . ."

The office door was held open by a tank sh.e.l.l. Kitson watched the smoke from Poulter's cigarette drift upward, and then out into the corridor. "You must have to do a lot of recruiting after a war, then," she said.

Poulter barked out a smoky laugh. "Quite the opposite. The numbers go through the b.l.o.o.d.y roof for some reason. Good job as well."

"Why didn't you leave?" Holland asked. "If you don't mind me asking . . ."

Major Poulter took a moment, then leaned forward to grind out his cigarette into a tarnished metal ashtray. " 'Mind' is putting it a tad strongly. But I can't see that it's strictly relevant." He was trying to smile, but his eyes seemed to have grown smaller suddenly. "I'm more than happy to answer what I understand to be the important question, which is whether I remember your man Jago, or any of the men in his tank crew. I'm afraid I don't."

"Fine," Holland said. "Thank you."

"I've already explained how things worked out there."

"You made it very clear."

"I may not have come within fifty miles of that crew, and even if I did, it was rather a long time ago . . ."

Holland grimaced and saw Kitson do the same as an engine was cranked up to a deafening roar just outside the window. Poulter said something Holland couldn't hear, but he nodded anyway. The noise explained why so many of the soldiers he'd seen had been carrying ear protectors, which they kept tucked into the belts of their blue coveralls.

It had become obvious that there was little to do but wait for the list of men who'd been in the Gulf, however small that turned out to be. They weren't likely to get any more useful information out of Poulter, but Holland decided to ask a question or two anyway, just for himself. They had time to kill, after all . . .

"It strikes me that the army does precious little to help these men after they leave." Holland cleared his throat, spoke up over the noise that was dying as the vehicle moved away. "It's like they fight for their country, then you wash your hands of them, just when they need the most help."

"There's a comprehensive army pension system."

The major had spoken as if it were the end of the conversation, but Holland saw no reason to let it lie. Besides, he'd been doing a little reading up. "Not if you leave too early, there isn't," he said. "Unless you've been wounded, you only get a pension if you do twelve years. That's right, isn't it?"

Poulter reached for another Silk Cut. "Look, I can't say I completely disagree with you, but I do think the army does its level best in difficult circ.u.mstances. No, at the end of the day, pastoral care is probably not top priority, but you have to understand that the army has been doing things the same way for an awfully long time." He summoned up a smile again as he leaned across the desk for something, then waved it around for them to look at. "I still carry a b.l.o.o.d.y riding crop around, you see? We wear black tie at dinner and we still get issued with mess kits." He lit his cigarette. "Basically, we're still Victorian . . ."

Holland returned the smile. "Well, the system for keeping records certainly is."

The lid of the Zippo was snapped shut. "Some would say that we've got rather more important things to do."

The slightly awkward pause might well have gone on much longer if Sarah Cheshire had not appeared in the doorway brandishing a piece of paper.

"Come on in, Sarah," Poulter said.

She walked over to the desk. "It's not a long list, I'm afraid. There are seven men who served in Gulf War One who are still with the regiment."

Poulter looked pleased with himself. "I was more or less spot on, then . . ."

"Three of these are presently away on attachment elsewhere, leaving four, including Major Poulter, on site at this moment."

Cheshire handed the list to Poulter, who looked at it, then pa.s.sed it across the desk to Kitson.

"Thanks for that," Holland said. He was pleased when Lieutenant Cheshire held his gaze a little longer than was necessary; then embarra.s.sed when he felt himself start to redden.

"You already know that I can't help you," Poulter said, "but you're more than welcome to talk to the others on the list. You might be able to cross-reference any useful memories, but I have to say I think you'll be very lucky . . ."

"We haven't had a lot of luck so far," Kitson said.

"As I explained earlier, these men might not have served together, and even if they did, it was a fair while ago." He turned to Holland. "How long have you been with the Met, Detective Sergeant?"

For some reason, Holland felt his blush deepen. "Just over ten years."

"Right, ten years. And how many of your fellow cadets can you remember?"

Holland could do little but shrug. Poulter had a very good point.

Cheshire took half a step forward. "I did have one idea," she said. She directed her suggestion toward Poulter. "I was wondering about the war diaries . . ."

"That's good thinking," the major said. He turned to explain to Holland and Kitson. "The squadron adjutant would have routinely kept log sheets, which would then have been collated into a digest of service. They're usually archived somewhere at HQ, aren't they?"

Cheshire nodded.

"They might mention Jago and his crew, but only if any of them were commended or listed as casualties."

"Right, thanks." Kitson felt fairly sure that neither of those things would apply.

"Thinking about it, old doc.u.mentation might prove to be your best bet." Poulter was warming to his theme. "A lot of soldiers do hang on to stuff. You'd be surprised . . ."

"What about letters home?" Cheshire asked. "If the men on this list are still with the same wives or girlfriends, they might still have the letters they wrote to them from the Gulf."

"Right, that's another good thought. Soldiers often talk about their mates, or moan about the ones in the troop they can't stand, or whatever. If it's just the names you're after, that might be worth a try."

Kitson agreed, of course, that anything was worth a try, but suddenly everything was starting to feel like a straw to be clutched at.

Once again, she thanked them for their suggestions. It was polite and it was politic, but with the mood she was in-as dark as the shadow that was moving rapidly across the whole investigation-it was hard to tell if they were genuinely trying to help.

Or simply trying to look as if they were.

They boarded the train back to London early; made sure they got themselves a table. Each of them had bought something to eat and drink on the concourse, and as they waited to leave, both seemed happy to sit in silence, to concentrate on taking sandwiches from wrappings and stirring sugar into coffee. It wasn't until the train was pulling out of the station that Yvonne Kitson pa.s.sed what would prove to be the journey's most pertinent reflection on their day.

"Nothing's ever f.u.c.king easy," she said.

While Kitson tried to sleep Holland leafed through a magazine, but nothing could stop him thinking about Thorne for too long. Late the night before, Holland had taken the call from the custody sergeant at Charing Cross. He'd pa.s.sed on the news-along with the irritation at being woken up and the alarm at what Thorne had done-to Brigstocke, who had, presumably, pa.s.sed it on in turn to Trevor Jesmond. It was a chain of conversations into the early hours that might well be used later to string up Tom Thorne . . .

Holland thought back to when he'd last seen him, walking away from the London Lift after they'd sat and watched the Gulf War tape. Thorne had seemed right enough at the time. Then Holland remembered how badly he himself had needed a drink; how much he'd appreciated the chance to sit in the pub with Yvonne Kitson and pour some of it out. He doubted if Thorne had anyone he could have shared a drink with and discussed what he'd seen. Anyone who could have told him that he'd drunk enough . . .

Against all prevailing wisdom, Thorne had been someone he'd looked up to since he'd first begun working with him, but even Holland had to admit that the DI's future was looking far from rosy. He might well be taken off this case straightaway, and even if he was allowed to carry on, what would he come back to when it was all over? He'd been shunted off to the Yard when it became obvious that he hadn't recovered from the death of his father; that he wasn't himself. This latest misadventure wasn't going to help his case for returning to the Murder Squad, which, as anyone with any sense could see, was always going to be an uphill struggle. There were plenty for whom Thorne's presence on the MIT was even more unwelcome when he was himself.

Stupid, stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d . . .

Holland stared out of the train window and realized that they'd stopped moving; that the train had been stationary for several minutes. He looked at his watch. He'd rung home to say he would be back late, and now it was getting later all the time. Sophie wouldn't be overly bothered, he knew that. He felt increasingly that she was happier when he wasn't around. But he'd be annoyed if he missed out on seeing Chloe before she went to bed.

The train began moving with a jolt. Kitson opened her eyes for a second, then closed them again. Rain was streaking the window, and some t.o.s.s.e.r in the seat behind was talking far too loudly on his mobile phone.

Later, Holland would call and tell Thorne how things had gone at the regiment. Find out how things had gone for him, too. How the daft sod was doing . . .

He flicked through the pages of Loaded, staring at pictures of scantily clad soap stars until he started to feel something other than irritation. He picked up the magazine, slid out from behind the table, and walked toward the toilet.

TWENTY.

Over the years, Thorne had felt more than his fair share of rage and regret, of l.u.s.t and loathing, but he'd never been overburdened with guilt. He guessed it was because he spent his working life trying to catch those who should have been eaten up with enough of it for everyone. Many who had done the very worst things felt nothing, of course, but most people, even those without a shred of religious conviction, at least accepted that they should. For Thorne, it used to be that clear-cut.

It wasn't that he never felt guilt at all; it was just that it was usually of the vaguely delicious variety that followed over indulgence of one sort or another. Its more corrosive strain was one that never burned within him for very long. It could be neutralized by making the call he'd forgotten to make; by stepping forward; by having that awkward conversation he'd been putting off. The pain was short-lived and easily dealt with.

These days, though, Thorne could feel little else . . . He'd spent most of the afternoon mooching around the Strand; begging for a couple of hours, chatting to a pair of old boys who drank near the Adelphi, and hanging around at a lunchtime soup run. Now, as the day turned from gray to charcoal, he moved quietly among the few tourists still left in the courtyard at Somerset House. This eighteenth-century riverside palace had, at one time or another, been home to the Inland Revenue, the Register of Births, Deaths and Marriages, and Oliver Cromwell's New Model Army. Now it was just another of the city's attractions: a place for visitors to take snapshots of history, or for families to gather in winter, when the water fountains were replaced with a skating rink. Thorne remembered that they'd filmed an ice-skating sequence here for that stupid film with Hugh Grant as the prime minister. Yeah, right. Another one of those picturepostcard movies where London looked dreamy in beat-bobby blue and Routemaster red. Where the snow never turned to slush, and the ethnic communi ties were mysteriously absent. Where, if there was no one sleeping rough, it wasn't because they'd been swept off the streets or were being kicked to death.

When Holland had rung the night before, Thorne had put on a good enough display of frustration and annoyance: at the way things had gone down in Somerset; at the polite inquiries about how they'd panned out for him at Charing Cross nick. In reality, he'd been feeling guilty as h.e.l.l. He was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g things up, and not just for himself.

He'd heard it in Holland's concern every bit as much as it had been there, loud and clear, in Brigstocke's curses. In that final comment from the doorway of the interview room when he'd talked about Thorne looking the part.

Thorne accepted that he wasn't always completely honest with himself. But why had he ever thought that his going undercover would be a good idea? Had he only convinced himself as a reaction to those who made it clear what a terrible idea they thought it was?

Maybe everything that had happened in the last year-what he'd done and what had been done to him in return-had skewed his judgment permanently, made it no more reliable than if he were the one now suffering from dementia . . .

When he was eleven or twelve, his father had taken him skating a couple of times. Thorne had hated it. The Silver Blades at Finsbury Park was n.o.body's idea of a romantic location, with the frequent stabbings as much a feature of the place as the ice itself. Thorne remembered struggling around the outside of the rink, cultivating blisters, and getting knocked on his a.r.s.e by older boys with earrings and feather cuts. He remembered getting to his knees, pulling in his hands quickly as the blades flashed by, then looking across to see his dad rushing onto the rink. He'd been embarra.s.sed because his father had broken the rules by coming onto the ice in his shoes. He remembered the look on his father's face, the blush that had spread across his own, as Jim Thorne had skidded toward the boy who'd knocked him down and shoulder-charged him into the barrier. He remembered his dad pulling him off his knees, and brushing away the slivers of ice. Taking him over to hand in his skates. Across to where they could buy hot dogs and limeade . . .

Thorne knew very well that guilt caused such memories to bubble up and burst, the air inside permanently fouled. Guilt poisoned a well that it should have been sweet to drink from.

"I'm fine honestly, Victor. I really didn't ring to talk about him."

" 'Course you didn't . . ."

It took Thorne a few seconds to work out that the vibration in his pocket was his phone ringing. He moved to a corner and stole a glance at the handset; saw that the missed call was from Phil Hendricks. More concern from a friend, and more false a.s.surances. Another small measure of poison.

Thorne needed to find somewhere secluded from where he could return the call. He walked back out onto the Strand and turned east toward Fleet Street. The City would be emptying rapidly now, as the rush hour took its grip on the streets. A hundred yards along, he stopped at a stall selling the late edition of the Standard. Stunned, he read what was on the h.o.a.rding, then stepped closer to look down at a front page.

After no more than a few seconds, the man behind the stack of papers leaned across. "Buy one or p.i.s.s off . . ."

Thorne just stared at the headline.

He woke up, cold and clammy, and certain that he'd been crying in his sleep.

The copy of the Standard that Thorne had sh.e.l.led out for was flapping, two steps down from his doorway, the headline partially revealed as the page caught the wind: rough sleeper killings: met goes undercover.

A few steps farther down, Spike was sitting, much as he'd been two nights previously, just before the trouble had started. He looked high and happy, and he stared at Thorne for a full ten seconds before seeming to notice that he was awake. He pointed toward Thorne's sleeping bag. "New . . ."

"Yeah. Not new new, but . . ."

"S'nice, like. Brown . . ."

By the time Thorne had got back to his pitch after being released from Charing Cross, his sleeping bag-which had been left in the street during the melee-was nowhere to be found. He'd picked up this newer secondhand one from the Salvation Army center on Oxford Street.

Spike stretched out an arm for the newspaper and dragged it toward him. Thorne watched, wondering what his response should be if Spike were to say anything about the headline. As it was, he turned straight to the back and began to flick very slowly through the sports pages.

"You follow a team?" Spike said eventually. "Spurs, because I'm stupid. What about you?" "Southampton. Not properly for a few years, like . . ."

"Is that where you're from?"

Spike lowered the Standard, then folded it. "Not far away. Just some s.h.i.tty little seaside town." He ran his hand slowly back and forth along the crease he'd made in the paper. Stared at a spot approximate to where Thorne was sitting. "Couldn't wait to get the h.e.l.l out of it, tell you the truth. And they couldn't wait to get rid of me . . ."

It sounded like Spike had got himself into trouble before he'd come to London. It was the same story to one degree or another in most provincial towns. Kids reached a certain age, ran out of things to do, and looked around for something to combat the boredom. It was usually drink, drugs, crime, or a combination of all three. Some got out and got lucky. Others were drawn to those places where their blighted lives might flourish among like-minded souls. Many were destined to fare no better in London, Manchester, and Edinburgh than they had at home, but they would not be short of company; equally doomed perhaps, but not quite as freakish.

"They let you out on police bail, right?" Spike asked.

"Right . . ."

"But what if you needed to be bailed out? If you needed someone to come and get you, to pay to get you out. Would you have anybody?"

Thorne said nothing. Thinking it would probably be Hendricks; Holland at a push. But beyond them . . .

"It'd be my sister, I think," Spike said. "It'd have to be. She bailed me out a year or so back, when I got caught with my stuff as well as Caroline's and this other bloke's, and they done me for dealing. So my sister stumped up the bail and gave me some extra cash on top of that." His head dropped, and when he raised it again a smile was smeared across his face. His eyeb.a.l.l.s were starting to roll upward, creamy under the streetlight and cracked with red. "She wanted to set me up for a bit, you know? To tide me over. I told her I was going to try and get myself clean, but I went straight out and used the money she gave me to score. Surprise, surprise, right? I think deep down she knew I would, 'cause she knows well enough what I'm like. She knows me better than anyone." He stared at Thorne for half a minute, blinking slowly. "She knows, right?"

Thorne nodded. From a club somewhere nearby came the deep thump of a ba.s.s line. It was not 2 a.m. yet.

"I'd really have to be in the s.h.i.t before I'd ask her for help again. Really deep in it. D'you know what I mean? Because I know b.l.o.o.d.y well I'd only let her down, and life's hard enough without feeling guilty all the time, right? It's not like she can't afford it, mind you. She's done brilliantly. She's got a really posh job, got herself a flash car and a sw.a.n.ky flat in Docklands and all that. It's just like it's become dead important for me not to ask my sister for anything. I'm f.u.c.ked, right? I know I am. We're all completely f.u.c.ked. But whatever happens, I'm not going to disappoint her again . . ."

Spike unfolded the paper and turned it over. He stared down at the front page, mouthing the first few words of the headline. Thorne was looking down at him from six feet away, but even if he'd been eyeball to eyeball, there would have been no way to tell if Spike was really taking in what was in front of his face.

If he was, something in the story made him suddenly laugh out loud. He cackled and hissed, chortled to himself for the next minute or more.

Thorne could only wish he found it that funny.

TWENTY-ONE.