Scaredy cat Read Free Page B

often to be seen in a corner somewhere, his pale blue eyes peeking out enviously from behind a book, observing the assorted games he had no part in. He was a big kid, at least a foot taller than most of the others in his year and brainy as hell, but he was slow in all the ways that counted. He probably hadn't done anything specific to piss Bardsley off, but that wasn't really the point. The older boy watched, smiling as a brown plastic comb was produced and dragged through the sandy hair, dislodging pieces of playground grit. He had a comb himself of course, but it was a metal one; far cooler, and used mostly for the lunch-time comb fights of which he was the acknowledged champion. These fights were a more brutal version of 'Slaps' or 'Scissors, paper, rock' and could leave a hand dripping with blood within a few seconds. He was the champion, not because he was quicker than anybody else, but because he could stand the pain for longer.
    He could put up with a great deal of pain when he had to. The sandy-haired boy carefully put away his comb in the inside pocket of his blazer, cleared his throat nervously and produced a rarely seen smile. It quickly disappeared when it was not reciprocated. In its place, a hand, notably free of scratches and scabs, was extended.
    'Thank you for.., doing that. I'm Palmer. Martin...'
    The wiry black-haired boy, the mad boy, the boy who would do anything, nodded. He ignored the hand and spoke his name with a sly smile, as if revealing a dirty secret.
    As if giving a gift that was actually worth far more than it looked.
    'Nicklin.'

TWO

    'A few less questions, when it's all over, even one less than when a case begins and you're doing all right...'
    Thorne smiled as he carried his coffee through to the living room, remembering Holland's reaction when he had first passed on this pithy piece of homespun wisdom. It had also, he recalled, been the first time that Thorne had managed to get him inside a pub. An auspicious day.
    Questions...
    In the pub, Holland had smiled. 'What? You mean questions like,
    "Why didn't I study harder at school?" and, "Isn't there anybody else available?"'
    'I think I preferred you when you were an arse-licker, Holland...'
    Thorne put his mug on the mantelpiece and bent down to light the flame-effect gas fire in the mock-Georgian fireplace. The central heating was up as high as it would go but he was still freezing. And his back was playing up. And it was pissing down...
    There were plenty of questions that needed answering right now. Were the two killings genuinely connected? Apart from the date and the fact that both women were strangled, there seemed to be no other link, so was the station thing just a coincidence? King's Cross threw up other possibilities. Had he mistaken the second victim for a prostitute? Why kill one at home and one on the street?
    And the biggest question of the lot: did he kill twice on the same day because he was out of control, or was killing multiple victims actually the pattern? Blood lust or compulsion? Right now, Holland and McEvoy were earning overtime trying to find out, but whichever it was, the answer was not going to be pleasant. In the eight months or so that the team had been together, they had only really worked on two major cases that were truly their own. Most of the time they'd been seconded - either individually or together - on to other investigations with other units, and then been reconvened when needed.
    The aftermath of the terrorist atrocities of September 11 had seen the teams from Serious Crime involved in an operation unlike any before. Some had expressed surprise that repatriating bodies from New York should be down to them, but it made sense to Thorne. These were British citizens. They had been murdered. It wasn't complicated. The phone calls had been the hardest: thousands of people eager to trace husbands and wives, sons and daughters who hadn't been in touch and who may or may not have been in the area. So far, of