As if he’d spoken, Havers replied in a low voice, “It’s me, sir, not you. They’ve got rozzer radar, this lot. They knew who I was straightaway when they saw me earlier.” She glanced his way. “But you c’n act like my driver if you want. We still might be able to pull the wool. Let’s start with a fag. You c’n light it for me.” Lynley shot her a look. She grinned. “Just a thought.”
They made their way through the silent group to a flight of iron stairs that climbed the back of the building. On the first floor, a broad green door bore “Colossus” inscribed on a small plaque of polished brass. A window set high above this showed a bank of lights along a corridor within. Lynley and Havers entered and found themselves in a combination gallery and modest gift shop.
The gallery constituted a pictorial history of the organisation: its founding, its development of the site that housed it, and its impact on the inhabitants of the area. The gift shop-which was essentially a single display case of reasonably priced items-offered T-shirts, sweatshirts, caps, coffee mugs, shot glasses, and stationery, all with identical logos. These consisted of the organisation’s mythological namesake surmounted by dozens of tiny figures who used his massive arms and shoulders as a means to cross from destitution to achievement. Beneath the giant was the word together, forming a half circle that was completed by Colossus, which created the other half above him. Within this case also was a signed photograph of the Duke and Duchess of Kent, lending their royal patronage to some event connected with Colossus. This, apparently, was not for sale.
On the far side of the display case, a door led into the reception room. There, Lynley and Havers found themselves being immediately eyed by three individuals who fell into silence the moment they approached. Two of the three-a slender, youngish man in a EuroDisney baseball cap and a mixed-race boy perhaps fourteen years old-were playing cards at a low table between two sofas. The third-a large young man with neat ginger hair and a wispy beard, nicely trimmed but still barely covering pockmarked cheeks-sat behind the reception desk, a turquoise cross dangling from one earlobe. He wore one of the Colossus sweatshirts, and at the otherwise spotless desk, he’d apparently been making notations in blue pencil upon a calendar while soft jazz came from speakers positioned above him. He did not look friendly once his glance took in Havers. Next to him, Lynley heard the DC sigh.
“I need a bloody makeover,” she muttered.
“You might want to lose the shoes,” he suggested.
“Help you?” the young man asked. From beneath the desk he brought forth a bright yellow bag with “Mr. Sandwich” printed on it. From this he took a sausage roll and crisps, and he set about eating without further ado. Cops, his actions telegraphed to them, would not get in the way of his daily routine.
Although it appeared to be entirely unnecessary, Lynley produced his ID for the ginger-haired young man, ignoring the two others for the moment. A plastic nameplate at the desk’s edge indicated he was introducing himself and Havers to one Jack Veness, who seemed to be deeply unimpressed that the two rozzers standing before him were representing New Scotland Yard.
Giving a glance to the cardplayers, as if for approval, Veness simply waited for more to be said. He chewed his sausage roll, dipped into his crisps, and glanced at the wall clock above the door. Or perhaps it was to the door itself that he looked, Lynley thought, through which Mr. Veness might be waiting for rescue. He seemed all right superficially, but there was an air of unease about him.
They were there to speak to the director of Colossus, Lynley told Jack Veness, or, for that matter, to anyone else who could talk to them about one of their clients…if that was the proper term, he added: Kimmo Thorne.
The name had just about the same effect as a stranger walking into a barroom in an old-time American Western. In other circumstances, Lynley might have been amused: The two cardplayers ceased their game altogether, setting their cards on the table and making no secret of the fact that they intended to listen to everything that was said from that moment on, while Jack Veness ceased chewing his sausage roll. He set it on its Mr. Sandwich bag and pushed his chair away from his desk. Lynley thought he intended to fetch someone for them, but instead he went to a water cooler. There, he filled a Colossus mug from the hot spigot provided, after which he grabbed a tea bag and gave it a few douses inside.
Next to Lynley, Havers rolled her eyes. She said, “’Scuse us, mate. Your hearing aid just blow a fuse or something?”
Veness returned and put his mug on the desk. “I c’n hear you lot fine. I’m just trying to decide if it’s worth giving you an answer.”
Across the room, EuroDisney gave a low whistle. His companion ducked his head. Veness looked pleased that he’d managed to obtain their approval. Lynley decided this was enough.
“You can make that decision in an interview room if you like,” he said to Veness.
To which Havers added, “We’re happy to oblige. Here to serve and all that, you know.”
Veness sat. He wadded a hunk of sausage roll into his mouth and said past it, “Everyone knows everyone else at Colossus. Thorne included. That’s how it works. That’s why it works.”
“That goes for you as well, I take it?” Lynley said. “Regarding Kimmo Thorne?”
“You take it right,” Veness agreed.
“What about you two?” Havers asked the cardplayers. “Did you know Kimmo Thorne as well?” She took out her notebook as she asked the questions. “What’re your names, by the way?”
EuroDisney looked startled to be suddenly questioned at all, but he said cooperatively that he was called Robbie Kilfoyle. He added that he didn’t actually work at Colossus like Jack but merely volunteered several days each week, this being one of those days. For his part, the boy identified himself as Mark Connor. He said he was in day four of assessment.
“That makes him new round here,” Veness explained.
“So he won’t have known Kimmo,” Kilfoyle added.
“But you did know him?” Havers asked Kilfoyle. “Even though you don’t work here?”
“Hey, you know, he didn’t say that,” Veness said.
“You his brief?” Havers retorted. “No? Then I expect he can answer for himself.” And again to Kilfoyle: “Did you know Kimmo Thorne? Where do you work?”
Unaccountably, Veness persisted. “Drop it. He brings in the bloody sandwiches, all right?”
Kilfoyle scowled, perhaps offended by the dismissive tone. He said, “Like I said already. I volunteer. On the phones. In the kichen. I work in the kit room when things pile up. So I saw Kimmo round. I knew him.”
“Didn’t everyone,” Veness said. “And speaking of which…There’s a group going out on the river this afternoon. D’you have time to handle that, Rob?” He gave Kilfoyle a long look, as if some sort of double message were being sent.
“I c’n help you, Rob,” Mark Connor offered.
“Sure,” Kilfoyle said. And to Jack Veness, “You want me to set things up now or what?”
“Now would be brilliant.”
“Well, then.” Kilfoyle gathered up the cards and, accompanied by Mark, he headed for an interior door. Unlike the others, he wore a windbreaker rather than a sweatshirt, and instead of “Colossus” written on it, it bore a logo of a stuffed baguette with arms and legs and the words “Mr. Sandwich” below it.
The departure of these two effected a complete change in Jack Veness for some reason. As if an unseen switch had been suddenly turned off-or on-in him, the young man altered on the head of a pin. He said to Lynley and Havers, “Right then. Sorry. I can be a real streak of piss when I want. Y’know, I wanted to be a cop, but I couldn’t make it. It’s easier to blame you than to look at myself and work out why I didn’t cut it.” He snapped his fingers, offered a smile. “How’s that for instant psychoanalysis? Five years of therapy and the man is cured.”