Mark Billingham - Scaredy cat

'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.

Cookson wore a moleskin jacket, button-down shirt and chinos. Thorne thought he looked rather preppy. The sound of expensive American loafers kissing the polished floor echoed as Cookson led him up a flight of stairs and down a long, straight corridor. It was a far cry from the lumbering sadists in corduroy jackets or tracksuits that Thorne remembered.

Cookson stared through the window into every classroom they passed. They were looking for Ken Bowles, a math teacher, and the only member of staff who'd been here in the early eighties, at the same time as Palmer and Nicklin.

Thorne wondered why so few teachers from that time were still here. It wasn't much more than fifteen years, after all.

'Teachers used to stick around a lot longer in one place,' Cookson said, 'but not any more. It's easy to… stagnate, and money's always an issue. This is a good school. If you've done a couple of years here, there's a fair chance you can double your money in the private sector. The place up the road poaches a few every couple of years…'

Thorne was leading the way. He looked into the next classroom, saw an old man with tufty white hair, sitting at a desk and staring out of the window. 'What about you?'

'Been tempted, but.., well, I'm still here. Seven years this year, and I'm' already one of the old farts.' Cookson looked past Thorne into the classroom. 'Yep… here we go…'

He knocked on the door, pushed it and held it open for Thorne. 'I'll maybe see you later then…'

Sarah McEvoy took another swig from the bottle on her desk. She'd already got through a couple of bottles, but the water couldn't get rid of the dry mouth or the sour taste at the back of her throat any better than the cigarettes could.

She was still feeling guilty, having harked at a DC five minutes before. She was taking it out on a junior officer, as it had already been taken out on her. She'd arrived late, feeling rough, and a bollocking from Brigstocke had done nothing to help her feel better. The bad mood was being passed around the investigation like a virus, while the man who'd caused it was off at some school chasing ghosts. They should all have been on a high since Palmer had fallen into their laps, but that would have been far too easy for Tom Thorne. It was as if he had some aversion to a morale that was anything except down in the fucking dust. As if every minute that passed without catching the second killer was their fault. As if he wanted to see shame etched onto the face of every officer and a hair shirt hanging in every locker. While he was content to let a murderer walk about, breathing the same air as normal people.