Thorne - Lifeless Part 39

"He probably flattered you, right? Told you what a valuable source you were; said that the two of you worked well together. Made you think you were important. Gave you a hard-on, right?"

"He said he'd do nothing with it until after it had all come out . . ."

"So you gave him my name?"

Thorne saw the movement in the gla.s.s: a small nod.

"It was only to be used as part of a bigger story, once the investigation had been completed. Look, I f.u.c.ked up, fair enough? Thorne . . . ?"

Thorne turned, pointed to the files that Norman had taken from the drawers and dropped onto the desk. "Into the box. You've got five minutes."

Norman did as he was told.

"I suppose I should be grateful that you f.u.c.king up didn't get me killed. It was my good luck that it wasn't me who got kicked to death. Very bad luck for you though, because now I'm still here to make sure you answer for the man who was killed."

"Terry Turner."

"Knowing his name won't convince me that you give a s.h.i.+t . . ."

Norman started to move faster, his face for the first time betraying the fear that Thorne might actually do something physical. He used the edge of his hand to drag pens and paper clips from the desktop into the box, then paused to look up. "You were wrong about one thing," he said. "It wasn't me who went to the papers with the undercover story in the first place. I can't make those decisions; you know that. It came from higher up, from an officer on your side of things . . ."

Thorne knew Norman was telling the truth. It made sense. There would have been those who believed, once Thorne himself had been arrested and shot his mouth off, that the operation had been fatally compromised. That one more leak couldn't hurt.

"There was a lot of criticism," Norman said. "A h.e.l.l of a lot of pressure. The body count was going up and it looked like we were getting nowhere. Someone decided it would be a good idea to let people know that the Met was actually doing something."

Someone decided. Jesmond . . .

Thorne turned back to the window, saw the midOctober afternoon turn a little brighter, and decided after a minute or two that he wanted to get out and enjoy some of it. At the door he turned and watched as Norman dropped the photo frame and pen set into the box and sat down heavily in his chair.

"This might well be it," Thorne said. "I haven't really made my mind up. I might leave things as they are. Then again, I might go official with it if I wake up tomorrow in a p.i.s.sy mood. We'll have to see how I feel, Steve. There's always a chance that I might decide to wait awhile, a few weeks or a couple of months say, then turn up unannounced one night. Just pop by, somewhere you aren't expecting me, with a lump hammer or a cricket bat. See how you're getting on . . ."

He didn't wait around for Norman's reaction. He walked back down the corridor, thinking about what Spike had said in the tunnel.

Let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d sweat for a while . . .

Thorne stared at himself, blurry and distorted in the dull metal of the lift doors. The beard was gone. Not just the extra growth from his days on the streets, but the whole thing, revealing the straight, white scar that ran across his chin. His hair was shorter than it had been in a long time. He'd lost a little weight, too, he thought.

He'd had his old man's overcoat dry-cleaned, which had got rid of the smells he'd wanted rid of. And though he'd normally have preferred something a little shorter, and perhaps not as heavy, he thought it looked pretty good. They reckoned there was a cold snap on the way, so he guessed he might have to wear it a good deal from now on, and probably right through the winter. He'd need it most days, like as not.

It would go back in the wardrobe after that, as soon as the weather picked up. He'd hang it up, then maybe look at it again next time the temperature dropped; think about bringing it out next year. It wasn't really his style, after all. But he'd wait and see how he felt.

He'd wait and see how he felt about a lot of things . . .

The lift stopped at the first floor and an officer Thorne recognized got in. They'd worked together five, maybe seven, years before, on a case he could barely remember.

The man looked pleased to see him. Nodded as he reached for the b.u.t.ton, then turned with a smile as the doors closed.

"Tom. You look well . . ."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I began work on this book in September 2003, eight months before the publication of certain photographs, the sacking of a Fleet Street editor, and the scandal surrounding the treatment of Iraqi prisoners. Truth is not always stranger than fiction, but sometimes it's pretty b.l.o.o.d.y close . . .

Current research by organizations such as Crisis and the Ex-Services Action Group suggests that between one in three and one in five homeless people have spent some time in the armed forces. The most recent study revealed that up to 30 percent of those in hostels, day centers, and soup runs, and 22 percent of homeless people surveyed in London on a single night, were ex-services. Despite the best efforts of those working on behalf of the homeless community and the increased awareness and activity of the services themselves, there is little to suggest that these figures are much different today.

There are, of course, many people without whom this book could never have been written. Without whose time, trouble, expertise, and good advice it would have would been lifeless . . .

Terry Walker, Gulf War veteran and author of The Mother of All Battles; Michael Hill; Rick Brunwen of the Ex-Service Action Group (ESAG); Sinead Hanks and Scott Ballantyne, coauthors of Lest We

Acknowledgments.

Forget, the Crisis report into ex-servicemen and homelessness. Above all, I want to thank Neil and Anna and the young people on the street who were willing to speak to me.

From the British army I am hugely grateful to: Simon Saunders and Lieutenant Colonel Peter d.i.c.kPeter at G3 Media Operations, London; Major Alex Leslie (RTR); Major Ian Clooney (RTR); Major Tim David (Directorate of Corporate Communications) and all at the 1st Royal Tank Regiment in Warminster.

The support group: Sarah, Susannah, Alice, Paul, Wendy, Peter, Mike, Hilary.

And Claire. Above and beyond as always.

About the Author.

MARK BILLINGHAM is the author of the London Times bestsellers The Burning Girl, Scaredy Cat, and Sleepyhead. His book Lazybones won the United Kingdom's 2005 Crime Novel of the Year Award, and Lifeless has been nominated for Crime Thriller of the Year at the 2006 British Book Awards. Billingham writes for the BBC and ITV, where he has twice been nominated for Royal Television Society awards. He lives in London with his wife and two children. Visit his website at www.markbillingham.com.

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Enthusiastic praise for MARK BILLINGHAM.

"Mark Billingham is the new-wave leader. . . . Like the best of British and American crime writing rolled up together and delivered with the kind of punch you don't see coming." Lee Child ". . . among the upper echelon of his country's most talented crime novelists." Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel and LIFELESS.

"Billingham has such a command of his craft and his characters."

Chicago Tribune.

"Billingham adds a welcome bit of depth to the genre. . . . [He] knows what he's doing." Detroit Free Press.

" Lifeless is moving, chilling, exciting, and brilliantly atmospheric."

The Times of London.

"Excellent-gritty, realistic, and fascinating. . . . Lifeless is full of action and is overflowing with compa.s.sion." Daily Telegraph (London).

Books by Mark Billingham.

Lifeless The Burning Girl Lazybones Scaredy Cat Sleepyhead Forthcoming in hardcover Buried