Scaredy cat (20 page)

PART THREE

THE FACE

TURNED AWAY

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.'

'Come on, a policeman's son?'

Holland laughed a little but then began to think of something and the laughter quickly faded. Thorne thought about his own father. He found it hard to remember him as a teenager's dad. Jim Thorne was in danger of becoming for ever associated with worry and duty, and strange conversations.

'Happy Christmas, Dad. Is Eileen looking after you?'

'She overcooked the sprouts...'

'Right. Did you like the video? I didn't know what else to get you.'

'Name all the reindeer.'

'You can watch it later maybe...'

'There's nine of them. Nine reindeer...'

'Dad...'

'Go on. I'll give you Rudolf, that's the easy one. Dasher, Vixen, Comet...'

Thorne closed his eyes and searched for an image of his father from his childhood. He could smell disinfectant, taste semolina, hear the squeak of a plimsoll on a gymnasium floor, but a picture of his old man as a young man was temporarily unavailable. He opened his eyes to find the frightened boy staring at him before quickly looking away again.

Thorne didn't see fear on the faces of kids any more. Not the ones he had cause to talk to. Maybe they just hid it very well or maybe they just weren't scared. What he saw was arrogance and scorn, sometimes even something like pity, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd put the fear of god into a kid.

Thorne looked at the clock above the secretary's door, then back to the boy. 'It's only just gone nine, son. How can you be in trouble already?'

The boy looked up at him and opened his mouth but Thorne would never get an answer to his question. At that moment the door opened and a ludicrously tall man with a shock of white hair stepped from the room.

'I'm Brian Marsden. Come in.'

Thorne and Holland did as they were told.

The next ten minutes were among the most bizarre of the entire case. Marsden knew full well why they were there, knew about Palmer and Nicklin, and yet proceeded to treat Thorne and Holland more like prospective parents than police officers on a murder investigation. He handed them each an expensively produced brochure containing an outline of the current syllabus, details of the school's impressive array of sports facilities and even a sample lunch menu. Before either of them could stop him, he launched into a potted history of the school. It had been a basic state grammar until the late eighties when it became grant maintained. This confirmed several things Thorne already knew: Palmer and Nicklin had both earned their places at the school on merit; Nicklin, despite being brought up by a single parent on a nearby council estate, had passed the necessary exams to get into the best state school in the area. He was a very bright boy. Things Thorne already knew...

A knock at the door stopped Marsden in full flow. He stood up as another teacher entered the room. This" one was short and hesitant, and Thorne thought he looked a little embarrassed to be there at all. Marsden marched across to the door to usher them all out again.

'Andrew Cookson is our Head of English. He'll be showing you round, answering your questions. Perhaps you'll pop in again before you leave...'

Cookson led Thorne and Holland back past the secretary's office and into the main reception area. The place stank of floor polish mingled with a hint of sweat.

'Actually,' Holland said, 'we don't really need the tour.'

Cookson nodded slowly. He looked a little confused. Thorne had other ideas. 'No, it's fine...' Holland looked at him as if he were mad, but Thorne just shrugged. He thought getting a feel of the place couldn't hurt and he actually quite fancied having a look round.

'Right, follow me,' Cookson said. 'There's something you'll want to see in the main hall, then we'll have a quick scoot round and then I'll hook you up with Bowles.' He held out his hands. Fair enough? Thorne nodded and Cookson smiled. Thorne could see instantly that he'd be a popular teacher. The smile was huge and infectious. Thorne also saw, suddenly, that Cookson's dark eyes were mischievous, and that even though he must have been in his late twenties or early thirties, he still had the energy, the vigor, of a child.

As he'd thought he might, Thorne hugely enjoyed being shown around. Cookson's wry commentary was highly entertaining, as was the look of boredom on Holland's face.

'I think your sergeant must have bad memories of his time at school,' Cookson said with a grin. 'What about you?'

Thorne shook his head. 'Sounds a bit swotty, and trust me, I really wasn't, but I bloody loved school.'

The too,' Cookson said. 'Still do...'

King Edward IV had clearly modeled itself on a public school; unavoidable probably, considering the proximity of such a celebrated one. The imitation was a good one, right down to the fives courts, the house system and even the mortar boards and gowns which, Cookson was relieved to say, were strictly reserved for the big occasions. Speech day, prize giving, school photos...

'These are the ones you'll be interested in...'

The entire back wall of the school hall was covered in framed photos, some dating right back to the forties. There were dozens, row upon row of them. Cookson led Thorne and Holland to a group of photos covering the late seventies and early eighties.

'Here we go. 'Eighty-two, 'eighty-three and 'eighty-four.'

Each photo was about three-and-a-half-feet long; the sort where the entire school lined up, kneeling, sitting, or standing on chairs, and the camera panned slowly down the line. Thorne remembered his school photos and a boy named Fox who used to take great delight in waiting until the camera had begun to move, and then legging it round the back to pop up on the other side, so as to appear on both ends of the final photo. He got detention every time, but he always did it anyway...

Thorne stared at the first photo. He spotted Palmer almost straight away. He was a head taller than the boys around him, with the same hair, the same thick glasses. He studied the list of names at the bottom and eventually found Nicklin. The boy had moved as the shot was taken and his face was blurry, but it looked as though he was grinning. By nineteen eighty-three, Palmer and Nicklin were standing together. Palmer stared straight at the camera, his face flat. Nicklin's head, at the level of the taller boy's shoulder, was bowed slightly, but his eyes were up, dark and full of challenge.

Thorne leaned in close to the photograph.

'Hello, Smart...'

After a moment, Thorne moved on to the 'eighty-four picture, pressing his nose up to the glass. Again, Nicklin's head was looking away from the camera as he whispered something to Palmer who stood stiffly beside him wearing an odd smile. Thorne moved on, scanned the 'eighty-five picture, but of course, neither Palmer nor Nicklin were there. He moved back, looked again at the blurred features, the face turned away. He knew that it wasn't possible, but he couldn't help imagining that seventeen years before, Nicklin had been deliberately trying to hide. Even then, as a thirteen year-old boy, he'd somehow foreseen the day when someone like Thorne would be staring at the picture, looking at him. Looking for him.

Cookson turned to Holland. 'Probably a stupid question, but ... this is the first time you've seen him, right?' Holland nodded. 'Well, couldn't you have got pictures off his family?'

It wasn't a stupid question.

Nicklin's family had been traced quickly. Only the mother was still alive; nearly seventy and living in warden-controlled housing. Holland had made the call. The old woman's voice had been a little quivery, but clear. Holland had introduced himself and explained that her son's name had come up in connection with an enquiry and that he had a few simple questions. Her answers had been all but monosyllabic. Had she seen him? No. Had she had any contact with him? No. Holland had had no doubt that she had been telling the truth, but found it disturbing that she seemed to have no interest whatsoever in what her son, missing these last fifteen years, might have been doing or where he might be. She had asked nothing.

It was her answer to Holland's last question, which he had thrown in as if it were an afterthought, that had been oddest. Chilling, even. He'd asked if she wouldn't mind letting them have a few photographs, she'd get them back of course, the most recent would be best, something taken just before Smart had left home maybe... That would not be possible, she'd said. Mrs. Nicklin had explained calmly that she didn't have any photographs at all of her son Smart. Not one. It was strange, but not the end of the world. Thorne had been unconvinced, in light of what Palmer had said, that a fifteen-year-old picture would have been a lot of use anyway. Holland asked the teacher where he could find the nearest toilet and excused himself.