Lifeless by Mark Billingham is the fifth book of the Tom Thorne mystery series, set in contemporary London. Thorne has been ousted from Homicide squad; officially due to grief over his father's death, but in reality his career is on the skids. He goes undercover as a "rough sleeper" in hopes of catching a serial killer murdering "rough sleepers" (homeless who sleep on the streets). A grim story with plenty of detail about life on the streets. "Hopeless" would be a fitting title.
The pivotal clue is a mysterious tattoo pattern. Once the police learn what it means, earlier chapters of violence with unidentified perpetrators and victims are explained (warning: very creepy).
The cafe was a greasy spoon with ideas above its station. The sort of place that thought a few cheap sandwich fillings in Tupperware containers made it a delicatessen.
They'd come out of the Yard, turned up toward Parliament Square, and walked into the first pub they'd come to. The food was bog-standard--chili con carne that was welded to the dish in some places and tepid in others--but they had decent crisps and Stella on draft.
He and Thorne began to speculate on just how s***** you'd have to look to be refused entry to various London restaurants.
He'd seen a film set in a prison once, and while everyone else was getting brutalized, they tended to leave the loonies alone. Most people were a bit scared of them. So he let them all think it was harmless and that he was communicating with aliens, or receiving transmissions from God, or whatever.
The homeless community had its divisions like any other; its imagined hierarchies. There were, by and large, three main groups: drug addicts, drinkers, and those with mental-health problems. As might be expected, there were one or two who could claim membership in all three groups, but on the whole they stayed separate. And, those with mental-health problems tended to keep themselves to themselves, so any antagonism festered mainly between the drinkers and the addicts.
That was what was really going on, he thought, when couples stayed together because of the children. The truth was that they were just too exhausted to leave.
Things had been made nice and easy for him. All the killer had to do was wait, and watch for the people that the rest of the world avoided.
He reckoned he knew his friend pretty well: Phil Hendricks would sell state secrets for a blow job or a Thierry Henry hat trick.
If there was any information out there to be gathered, people were keeping it to themselves. The latest death had only led those who might still be at risk to close ranks even further.
There were a surprising number of places that gave out free food if you knew where to go and when. Spike had given him the lowdown early on, and Thorne had thought that it was quite an achievement to keep all those different names, places, and times in your head. On any one day in the very center of London alone, you could get a free breakfast, lunch, or dinner in one of a dozen different churches, hostels, and ad hoc street cafes.
"You get whatever you can, whenever you can, 'cause there's not a lot to go round," Spike said. "Yeah?"
There were some, with appetites all but destroyed by drugs, who would go all day without eating and get by on two or three bowls of soup; trudging between the various locations with the weary resignation of those for whom eating has long ceased being a pleasure.
Time could heal some wounds, 'course it could, but others were always going to fester.
Thorne wondered if the problems of many of those who left the army each year stemmed from an inability to deal with the chaos, with the lack of any pattern to their lives in the real world.
Thorne remembered reading somewhere that more British soldiers had committed suicide since returning from the Falklands than had been killed during the entire conflict.
He had come to understand just why so many of those with drink and drug problems had turned in desperation to such comforts after they'd begun sleeping rough. If anything--bottled or burned--could numb the pain of hours that spread like tumors, or speed up the ticking steps, then Thorne saw clearly that it was something to be clutched at and cherished.
It was hard to tell if they were genuinely trying to help. Or simply trying to look as if they were.
Holland had the pleasing knack of being able to punch through the hard shell of a black mood with one glib comment or seemingly innocent inquiry; with a stupid question in too cheery a voice. There were occasions, if Thorne was feeling particularly arsey, when he put this down to insensitivity on Holland's part, but more frequently he saw it to be the exact opposite.
All his years of experience should have told him there were only two chances the day would finish up as well as it had started. Slim and none.
The major then went round the houses for a while, chatting about this, that, and every other thing.
He was aching to get out of the building; to get home and collapse onto a sofa. He wanted nothing more than to open a bottle and let a few children clamber over him for a while.
Once darkness had fallen, though the subways themselves were well lit for the most part, anyone with any sense would risk sprinting across four lanes of traffic rather than venturing underground.
It was one of those bizarre, early-autumn afternoons that couldn't make up its mind: sunshine, wind, and rain in a random sequence every half an hour or so.