Mark Billingham - Scaredy cat

The taxi squealed to a halt at some lights. A gaggle of drunken revelers crossed the road in front of them, waving and singing. The cabbie waved back, muttering, 'Wankers.'

The cab roared away from the lights and swung right into Camden. Thorne leaned back and closed his eyes. Two weeks mollifying the PTB would at least kill the time, and he wanted it killed. He wanted it stone dead.

If he was going to get pro-active, he couldn't do it while the rest of the world was on holiday. And some people took longer holidays than others…

Thorne had decided that in order to move forward, he needed to go back.

He was going to go back to where it had all started.

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.