Private London - James Patterson [66]
‘It’s like that old guy from Greek legend, you know?’ he asked me as we sat by the window in a Middle Eastern café on Old Compton Street, drinking cups of coffee you could have stood up a spoon in and watching half the world throng past.
I nodded. I knew exactly who he meant – we had had this conversation many times before. He continued anyway.
‘Sisyphus, the old geezer punished by the gods for killing travellers and visitors. He had to roll this huge rock up a big hill and, before he could reach the top, it would roll all the way back down and he had to start all over again.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘And you know what the ironic thing is?’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s not the travellers or the visitors who die out there on those cold streets …’
I looked out of the window at the heat shimmering off the pavement. Today might have been a preternaturally hot day. But the streets of London could certainly get cold.
Cold enough to kill.
Mark Smith knew that better than most. He was part of the Westminster Police’s Safer Streets’ Homeless Unit, the SSHU. They dealt with about sixteen thousand or so homeless people who slept rough on the streets each year. No matter what the weather. Up to two hundred a night sometimes.
I passed the photo across the small ridged aluminium-topped table and he picked it up and looked at it. Mark fumbled in his pocket and produced a slim spectacle case, sliding out a pair of reading glasses and setting them on the end of his nose.
He nodded almost immediately. ‘That’ll be the Major,’ he said.
‘Major?’
‘He’s certainly been in the service sometime. That’s how he got the name, plus the fact that he’s from an educated background.’
‘Which is rare on the streets.’
‘More common than you might think.’
Mark was right, of course.
People ended up on the streets for all kinds of reasons. Mental-health issues. Children running away from abusive homes, adults fleeing from the demons they could no longer confront. Many of the homeless people on the streets of London were like the Major – ex-servicemen and women battling with alcohol and depression. A vicious circle of self-medication that spiralled out of control.
I finished my coffee and stood up. ‘You know where he is?’
Constable Smith looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a good idea.’
I tossed a five-pound note on the table which just about covered the tip and two coffees, and headed out into the bustle of the metropolis.
I slipped on my pair of Ray-Bans and slung my jacket over my shoulder, following the tall policeman as he led me along Charing Cross Road towards Tottenham Court Road.
Chapter 83
THERE ARE A number of soup kitchens, plus day and night drop-in centres, for the homeless in London. If you know where to go.
Part of PC Mark Smith’s job was to let people know. Some people were made homeless through a change of circumstances – the breakdown of a relationship or the loss of a job, for example. Their homelessness could often be a temporary state, but for others it was a way of life. For these people there was a pattern to their lives on the street and Mark Smith got to know them pretty well.
Not all the centres were open on a Sunday, but St Joseph’s off Tottenham Court Road ran a soup kitchen on Sunday afternoons, between services.
Sure enough, the Major was where PC Smith expected him to be. A number of people, young and old, were gathered around the van which was parked outside the church.
The man was instantly recognisable. Had a dark brown tartan picnic blanket from Aquascutum draped over his shoulders, despite the heat. He was sitting on the church step, sipping on a large styrofoam cup of soup.
He looked up at us as we approached. His eyes seemed sharp, focused – he could have been forty or he could have been sixty. He had long grey curly hair and an unruly beard and, although he was ill-kempt, he looked clean. He took care of himself as best he could, that much was evident.
He nodded to PC Smith, gave me an appraising look and then saluted me. I smiled. It was a good sign. I saluted him back.
He nodded, pleased. ‘I thought you