The boy chucked his cigarette into the road and hissed out a laugh. "I'm winding you up. I'm kidding, like. Terry's all right, plus he's my mate, so I'll square things if he does get a bit funny with you."

Thorne had seen the joke coming, but had let the boy have his moment. "Thanks," he said.

They rounded the corner and Thorne was relieved to see that his sleeping bag and rucksack were still there. He'd decided to risk leaving them for a minute or two while he'd gone to answer the call of nature. The relief must have been clear to see on his face.

"Don't worry, mate, people only tend to nick what they can sell. Nothing valuable in your bag, is there?" Thorne shook his head. "Don't worry about your sleeping bag, though, you can pick one of them up anywhere. Salvation Army's got thousands of the b.l.o.o.d.y things, or you'll just see 'em lying around, so you can help yourself. You want to watch out for scabies, though, that is not f.u.c.king pleasant."

"Cheers . . ."

"Best not to cart that much around at all if you can help it. Leave your stuff somewhere else, you know, one of the day centers or whatever. Trust me, even a plastic bag with some old papers and a pair of socks in it gets dead heavy if you're carrying it around all the time, like."

Thorne climbed the marble steps and sat down in the doorway. "How come you're such a font of all f.u.c.king knowledge? You're only twelve."

The boy laughed again, nodding and spitting out the laugh between his teeth. "Right, mate, you're right, but it's like dog years on the streets, so I'm a lot older than you where it counts, you know?"

"If you say so."

"How long you been around, then? I've not seen you . . ."

"First night," Thorne said.

"f.u.c.k." The boy pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He repeated himself, drawing out the word, respectfully.

"So, what? You're the welcoming committee, are you?"

"Nearest thing to it, yeah, if you like."

Thorne watched the boy rummage beneath the blanket and emerge with another cigarette. He could see that the boy was actually much taller than he'd first appeared. He'd walked with hunched shoulders, eyes down, as though he could tell exactly which way he was going by looking at the cracks in the slabs, by studying the pattern of discarded chewing gum on the pavement.

"You look like the Man with No Name," Thorne said.

The boy finished lighting up, blew out a thin stream of smoke. "You what?"

Thorne pointed toward the blanket around the boy's shoulders. "With that. Like Clint Eastwood in the movie, you know? The Good, the Bad and the Ugly."

The boy shrugged and thought for a minute. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, rocking from side to side. "He the one did those films with the monkey?"

"Doesn't matter." Thorne shoved his feet down inside the sleeping bag. "Good time for your mate Terry to go visiting."

"Why's that, then?"

"One less for this nutter to go after. This loony that's killing rough sleepers."

The boy's cheeks sank into shadow again as he took a deep drag. He held in the smoke until he needed to take a breath. "I suppose. He's still got plenty to choose from." His mood had changed suddenly: fear, suspicion, or perhaps a bit of both. It was hard for Thorne to work out which.

"Did you know any of them?" Thorne asked the question casually, through a yawn. "Any of the blokes who were . . . ?"

"I knew Paddy a bit, yeah. Mad as a snake, like, but totally harmless. Paddy was happy with G.o.d and a bottle."

"So you don't reckon he could have fallen out with somebody? n.o.body had a reason to give him a kicking?"

The boy looked straight at Thorne, but it was as though he'd heard a totally different question. He nodded once, twice, quickly. Repeated what he'd just said: "G.o.d and a bottle . . ."

"Right."

"What's your name?" Another, equally sudden change of mood and tone.

"Tom."

"I'll see you around, Tom . . ."

"What about you? You might look like the Man With No Name, but you must have one."

"Spike. Because of the hair, you know? Like the vampire in Buffy."

Now it was Thorne's turn to be the one on whom a reference was lost. "Okay, but what's your real name?"

The boy c.o.c.ked his head, looked at Thorne as though he, too, were a harmless old nutcase. "Just Spike."

Then he turned, hoiked up his blanket, and began walking north toward Soho.

SEVEN.

The mobile phone Thorne had been issued with was permanently set to vibrate, and had been shoved deep inside the pocket of his overcoat. It had been agreed that Thorne and Holland would talk twice every day, morning and evening. Contact either way could, of course, be made at other times if necessary, and a face-to-face meeting, with either Holland or Brigstocke, would take place, all being well, once a week.

Thorne had already spoken to Holland by the time he walked into the London Lift day center, just after the place opened at nine o'clock. He found himself in a small holding area between the front entrance and a larger gla.s.s door. The young Asian man on duty at the reception desk eyed him through the gla.s.s for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, before pressing the b.u.t.ton that allowed him through the second set of doors.

"All right?" Thorne stepped up and leaned against the counter.

"I'm good, mate. You?"

Thorne shrugged and scribbled his name in the register that had been pa.s.sed across to him. The receptionist, who wore an ID badge that said raj, tapped a couple of keys on his computer and Thorne was buzzed through the steel door into the cafe area.

A fair number of the gray or orange plastic chairs-scattered around tables or lined against the walls-were already taken. Most people sat alone, nursing hot drinks and rolls, and though a few had gathered in groups, the sound of a knife sc.r.a.ping across a plate rose easily above the muted level of conversation. Considering how busy it was, the place was oddly still and quiet. Thorne knew that half as many people would be making twice as much noise in the Starbucks across the road.

He moved to the end of a short queue, studied the price list on the blackboard behind the counter. He saw a familiar figure rise from a table across the room and nod. Spike walked across, moving a little slower than he had done the night before.

"Found this place quick enough, then?"

"I saw an outreach worker," Thorne said. "Came along last night after you left, told me if I got down here first thing, I could get a decent breakfast." The second lie of the day came easily. He'd told the first on the phone half an hour earlier, when Dave Holland had asked him how his night had been.

Thorne looked around. It was a big room, and bright. One wall was dominated by a vast, glossy mural; notice boards ran the length of another.

"You signing on?" Spike asked.

Thorne nodded. He wouldn't be going to the dole office, but he'd taken the decision early to live on the equivalent of state benefit. He would exist on the princely sum of forty-six pounds a week, and if he wanted any more he was going to have to find his own way to come up with it, same as anybody else sleeping on the street.

He took a step closer to the counter, remembering what Brendan had said about "De Niro s.h.i.te."

"The rolls aren't bad," Spike said. "Bacon could be crispier."

"I just want tea."

Thorne's instinct at that moment was to put his hand a little deeper into his pocket and offer to buy tea for Spike, too, but he stamped on the natural impulse to be generous. The idea was to fit in, and he knew d.a.m.n well that, where he was, n.o.body would make that kind of gesture.

They reached the front of the queue and Spike stepped in front of him. "I'll get the teas in."

Thorne watched Spike hand over forty pence for two cups of tea and realized that there was precious little he could take for granted.

They walked over to a table, Thorne a step or two behind Spike, thinking, He must want something. Then, f.u.c.k, I'm doing it again.

"You get much sleep?" Thorne asked.

Spike grinned. "Haven't been to bed yet, like. Busy night. I'll crash for a couple of hours later on."

"Where d'you bed down?"

Spike seemed distracted, nodding to himself. Thorne repeated the question.

"The subway under Marble Arch. I only come into the West End during the day, like, to make some money." The grin again, spreading slowly. "I commute."

Thorne laughed, slurped at his tea.

"It's not bad, this place," Spike said. He leaned down low across the table and dropped his voice. Thorne could just make out the last gasp of an accent. Somewhere in the southwest he reckoned. "There's not many centers around like this, where under-twenty-fives and over-twenty-fives can hang around together. Most of 'em are one or the other. They prefer it if we don't mix."

Thorne shook his head. "Why?"

"Stands to reason, when you think about it. The older ones've picked up every bad habit going, haven't they? You take somebody fresh on the streets. After a couple of weeks knocking about with someone who's been around awhile, he'll be a p.i.s.shead or he'll be selling his a.r.s.e or whatever."

It made sense, Thorne thought, but only up to a point. "Yeah, but look at us two. I've got twentyodd years on you and you're the one that's been around."

Spike laughed. Thorne listened to the breath rattling out of him and looked into the pinp.r.i.c.k of light at the center of his shrunken pupils, and thought: You're the one that's picked up the bad habit . . .

Thorne had seen it the previous night: the glow from a streetlamp catching a sheen of sweat across Spike's forehead, heightening the waxy pallor of his skin. This morning, it was obvious that he'd not long got his fix. Thorne knew that without it he'd have no chance of getting any sleep.

"Can you not get a hostel place?"

"Not really bothered at the moment. When I wake up covered in frost, like, I'll be well up for it, no question, but I'm all right where I am just now. Been in plenty of hostels, but I'm not really cut out for 'em. I'm too . . . chaotic, and that's a technical term. 'Chaotic.' I'm fine for a few days or a week, and then I f.u.c.k up, and end up back on the street, so . . ."

Spike's speech had slowed dramatically, and his gaze had become fixed on a spot above Thorne and to the right of him. Slowly, he lowered his head and turned, and it was as though the eyes followed reluctantly, a second later. "I think . . . it's bedtime," he said.

Thorne shrugged. A junkie's hours.

Spike slid his chair slowly away from the table, though he showed no sign of getting up from it. On the other side of the room voices were raised briefly, but by the time Thorne looked across, whatever had kicked off seemed to have died down again. "Maybe see you back here lunchtime." "Maybe," Thorne said.

"Had enough yet?" Brendan Maxwell asked.

Thorne ignored the sarcasm. "Tell me about Spike," he said.

As soon as the breakfast rush had started to die down, Thorne had wandered out. Holland had told him earlier that Phil Hendricks would be coming in, and Thorne was keen to see him. He'd headed surrept.i.tiously toward the offices. The admin area was on the far side of the top floor and Maxwell had given him the four-digit staff code to get through each of the doors. There were coded locks on every door in the place.

With the open-plan arrangement of offices offering little privacy, Thorne, Maxwell, and Hendricks had gathered in a small meeting room at the back of the building. If anyone wandered in, it would look like a caseworker/client conference of some sort, but Thorne wasn't planning to hang around very long, anyway. It was just a quick catch-up.

Maxwell was perched on the edge of a table next to Hendricks. "He's not quite twenty-five, so Spike's not one of mine yet, but I couldn't tell you anything even if he was."

Hendricks looked sideways at his boyfriend. To Thorne, it seemed like a look that was asking Maxwell to lighten up a little. To bend the rules.

"Come on, Phil," Maxwell said. "You know how it works." He turned back to Thorne. "Look, I had a long chat with your boss about this. There are major confidentiality issues that have to be considered."

"Fair enough," Thorne said. Brigstocke had made the position very clear to him. Unless he had good reason to think it would directly aid the investigation, Thorne would be given no personal information about other rough sleepers.

"It's just the way we do things. I've had Samaritans on the phone trying to trace someone on behalf of parents. People who just want to know if their kid's alive or dead. The person they're looking for might be downstairs drinking tea, but I can't say anything. I can't tell them because maybe they're the reason why the kid's on the street in the first place, you know?"

"Just talk to this kid if you're interested," Hendricks said.

Maxwell nodded his agreement, leaned gently against his partner. "Spike's not shy, I can tell you that much. You'll get his life story if he's in the mood to tell you."

For a few moments n.o.body said anything. Hendricks and Maxwell were usually a demonstrative couple physically, but Thorne sensed that, at that moment, Hendricks was a little uncomfortable with Maxwell's arm resting on his shoulder.

There had been periods in the past when the relationship between the three of them had become somewhat complex. Thorne thought that Maxwell could, on occasion, be jealous of the platonic relationship he shared with Hendricks. At other times, after a beer or three, Thorne was not beyond wondering if it was he himself who was the jealous one. Right that minute, he was too tired to think much about anything at all. He took a moment. He knew that if he was going to last the course, this was a level of tiredness he was going to have to get used to pretty b.l.o.o.d.y quickly.

"So, what's happening?" he asked Hendricks. Having spoken to Holland, he was practically up to speed, but Hendricks's take on things, as the civilian member of the team, was always worth getting. "Anything I should know?"

Hendricks looked thoughtful, then began listing the headlines. "Brigstocke's talking to a profiler. They're recanva.s.sing the area where Paddy Hayes was attacked. Everyone's waiting around for the next body to show up, to be honest. Oh, and Spurs lost threeone at Aston Villa last night."

"Cheers . . ."

There was a knock and a man stepped smartly into the room. He was somewhere in his late forties with neatly combed brown hair and gla.s.ses. He wore jeans that were a fraction too tight and a blue blazer over a checked shirt.

The man took in the scene quickly, then addressed himself to Maxwell. "Sorry, Brendan. Can I have a word when you've got a minute?"

Maxwell pushed himself away from the table, but before he could say anything, the man was already on his way out.

"b.o.l.l.o.c.ks," Maxwell muttered.

Hendricks leaned toward Thorne, spoke in a theatrical whisper. "Brendan's new boss."

Maxwell looked none too pleased. "He's not my boss. He's just the a.r.s.ehole who controls our budget." He walked to the door, stopped, and turned back to Thorne. "I was wrong about it taking a couple of weeks, by the way. You look pretty rough already . . ."

Thorne watched him leave. There'd been a smile on Maxwell's face, but it hadn't taken all the edge off the comment.

"Don't worry about it." Hendricks rubbed his palm rapidly back and forth across his shaved head. "He's just in a s.h.i.tty mood because he isn't getting on with . . ." He pointed at the door.