The Burning Girl-4 (13 page)

They'd reached the car. Thorne unlocked it and climbed in before leaning across to unlock Hol and's door. "Can we do it another night? I'm busy later."

Hol and dropped into the passenger seat. The rain had left dark streaks across the shoulders of his grey jacket and at the tops of his trousers. The suit was starting to look a little tired, and Thorne knew that Hol and would go into MS at some point soon to buy another one that was exactly the same.

"Hot date?" Hol and asked.

Thorne smiled when the engine turned over first time. "Not remotely .. ."

NINE

Leicester Square after dark was right up there with the M25 at rush hour or the Mil wal ground, in terms of places that Thorne thought were best avoided.

The buskers and the occasional B-list film premiere made little difference. For every few smiling tourists, there was someone lounging against the wal outside one of the cinemas, or hanging around in the corner of the green, with a far darker reason for being there. For every American family or pair of Scandinavian backpackers there was a mugger, or a pickpocket, or just a pissed-up idiot looking for trouble, and the crappy fun fair only seemed to bring out the vultures in greater numbers.

"I pity the uniformed lads working round here tonight," Chamberlain said.

There were plenty of places in the city that were alive with the promise of something. Here, there was only a threat. If it wasn't for the stench of piss and cheap burgers, you'd probably be able to smel it.

"The only good thing about this place," Thorne said, 'is the rent you can get for it on a sodding Monopoly board .. ."

A quarter to seven on a Tuesday night, and the place was heaving. Aside from those mil ing around, taking pictures or taking cameras, there were those moving through the square on their way to somewhere more pleasant. West towards Piccadil y and Regent Street beyond. South towards the theatres on the Strand. East towards Covent Garden, where the street entertainment was a little artier, and the average burger was anything but cheap.

Thorne and Chamberlain moved through the square on their way to a brightly lit and busy games arcade, slap-bang between Chinatown and Soho. They passed partial y steamed-up windows displaying racks of Day-Glo, honey-glazed chickens and leathery squid which drooped from metal hooks like innards.

"How sure are you that he's going to be there?" Chamberlain asked.

Thorne ushered her to the left, avoiding the queue outside the Capital Club. "Bil y was under investigation wel before things turned nasty. We know near enough everything he gets up to.

We know al his routines."

Chamberlain quickened her pace just a little to keep up. "If Ryan's half the character I think he is, I wouldn't be surprised if he knows quite a lot about you, too."

Thorne shivered ever so slightly, but gave her a grin. "I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up .. ."

They cut off the square and walked to a Starbucks on the other side of the street from the arcade. They didn't have to wait long before Ryan appeared. Halfway through their coffees, they watched as one of the heavy glass doors was opened for him, and Ryan moved slowly down the short flight of steps towards the street. Marcus Moloney was at his shoulder. A few paces behind were a pair of Central Casting thugs who looked as though they might enjoy shiny objects and the sound of smal bones breaking.

As Thorne approached from across the street heavyset and with his hands thrust into the pockets of his leather jacket Ryan took half a step back and reached out an arm towards one of the goril as behind him. He recovered himself when he recognised Thorne: "What do you want?"

Thorne nodded past Ryan towards the arcade. It was packed with teenagers, queuing to ram their pound coins into the machines. "I was just a bit bored, and I'm a big fan of the shoot-

'em-ups. This one of your places, is it?"

Moloney looked up and down the street. "Looking for a discount, Thorne?"

"Is that how you try to get coppers on the payrol these days? A few free games of Streetfighter?"

Ryan had recognised Thorne, but had failed to recognise the woman with him. "Grab-a-Granny night, is it?" He looked Chamberlain up and down. "Don't tel me she's on the job. I thought coppers were supposed to look younger these days .. ."

"You're a cheeky fucker, Ryan," Chamberlain said.

Then Ryan did recognise her. Thorne watched him grit his teeth as he remembered exactly what had been happening the last time their paths had crossed.

"You looked a bit jumpy a minute ago," Thorne said. He nodded towards the two bodyguards. "These two look a touch nervous as wel . Worried that whoever did Mickey Clayton and the others might come after you, are you, Mr. Ryan?"

Ryan said nothing.

A group of young lads burst out through the arcade doors, the noise from inside spil ing momentarily on to the street with them: the spatter and squeal of guns and lasers, the rumble of engines, the beat of hypnotic techno .. .

Moloney answered Thorne's question: "They can fucking wel try .. ."

"I wonder what I might find," Thorne said, 'if I were to put you up against that wal over there and pat you down."

Moloney looked unconcerned. "Nothing worth the trouble."

"Trouble?"

Moloney sighed heavily and stepped past him. Thorne watched him walk a few yards up the street. He took out a mobile phone and began to stab angrily at the keypad. Thorne turned back to see the pair of heavies stepping up close to their employer, who was looking into the distance. Ryan was trying hard not to look at Carol Chamberlain.

"You remember Carol?" Thorne said. "DI Manley, as she'd have been when you last saw her."

"It took you a moment, though, didn't it?" Chamberlain took a step to her left, placed herself in Ryan's line of vision.

"That would have been the Jessica Clarke case, wouldn't it, Mr. Ryan?"

"I don't think it's quite come back to him," Chamberlain said. "The girl who was set on fire? These things can slip your mind, I understand that."

"It was Gordon Rooker who got sent down for that, wasn't it? I think we were talking about him a few days ago, weren't we, Mr. Ryan?"

The wind was rushing up the narrow street. It lifted the hair from the col ar of Ryan's overcoat as he spun around. "I'l say the same thing I said then, in case your memory's playing up. I haven't had the displeasure of thinking about that piece of shite for a long time."

"That's funny," Thorne said. "Because he's been thinking about you. He specifical y asked me to say "hel o" .. ."

Ryan's mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed. Thorne reckoned it was more than just the wind that was slapping him around the face.

"So .. . hel o," Thorne said.

Thorne saw the relief flood suddenly into Ryan's face. He watched him step quickly past him the instant he heard the noise of the engine. Thorne turned to see a black people-carrier roar up to the kerb and screech to a halt. The door was already open and Stephen Ryan jumped out.

Thorne gave Ryan's son a wave and received a cold stare in return.

Stephen shrugged as his father barged past him. "Sorry .. ."

"Where xhefuck have you been?"

Bil y Ryan climbed into the car without looking back. He was quickly fol owed by his son and the two heavies, who pushed past Thorne and Chamberlain without any delicacy. As Moloney marched up, the driver's window slid down. Thorne recognised the receptionist he'd exchanged pleasantries with at Ryan's office.

"Sorry, Marcus. Traffic's fucked al over the West End."

Moloney ignored him and moved to the rear door. With one foot already inside the car, he looked at Thorne. "Careful you don't get shot.. ."

Thorne opened his mouth, took a step towards the car.

Moloney pointed over Thorne's shoulder towards the arcade: "The shoot-'em-ups .. ." He pul ed the door shut and the car moved quickly away from the kerb.

"What was al that "hel o" business?" Chamberlain asked.

Thorne watched Ryan's car turn the corner and disappear. "Politeness costs nothing. What time's your train?"

"Last one's just before eleven."

"Let's get some food .. ."

Marcus Moloney downed almost half his Guinness in one go. He set the glass down on the bar and leaned back in his chair.

"Tough day, mate?" said the man next to him.

Moloney grunted, picked up the glass again. It wasn't so much the day as the last few hours. First the business outside the arcade, and then the fal out: al the way back to Ryan's place in Finchley, Moloney had been given an earful. Whatever it was that Thorne and the woman had been going on about, it had got his boss very wound up. As if things weren't tense enough already, with everything that was going on. Stil , Ryan was safe at home now, taking it al out on his wife. She'd be doing what had to be done. She'd be making al the right noises, massaging his ego and anything else he fancied, and thanking Christ that he stil hadn't found out about the landscape gardener who was giving her one three times a week.

Moloney downed some more of the Guinness. His pager was on, as always, but his time was his own for a few precious hours and he was keen to unwind a little.

He had known plenty of coppers like Thorne before .. . With the bent ones, it was easy. You knew what made them tick, what got them off. Not that Thorne was necessarily incorruptible; everybody had their price. Moloney saw it offered and accepted every day. Problem was, Thorne was the sort who would take the dirty money, do what was asked of him for a while and then blow up in everyone's face. Do something stupid because he hated himself. It didn't matter if he was bent or not and it was easy enough to find out. Thorne had to be watched. He was definitely going to cause them trouble.

Moloney drained his glass, waved it to get the barman's attention, and nodded for another. The man on the chair next to him got up and asked where he could find the Gents'. Moloney pointed the way and asked if the man wanted a drink. The offer was graciously accepted. While he waited for the beers, Moloney looked around the crowded bar: plenty of faces. He drank in here pretty often, and one or two of the regulars who knew him had already said hel o, or offered to buy him a drink, or held up a glass and waved from the other side of the room.

A lot of people wanted to know him.

The fact that none of them did, that so few people real y knew him, was becoming harder to deal with lately. He was definitely drinking more, flying off the handle at the slightest thing, on the job and at home. It was al down to this war. Things had ratcheted up once the murders had started. What the Zarifs were doing, what Ryan was going to do in return, was the real test.. .

The man came back from the Gents' and took his seat at the bar. Moloney handed him his pint of lager. When his Guinness had settled and been topped up, he raised the glass.

"Good health," Moloney said.

ins

Thorne and Chamberlain had shared a bottle and a half of red wine with their dinner, and the thickening head may have had something to do with his reaction, his over-reaction, when he'd walked into the living room. The smel had hit him the second he'd opened the outer door.

"Fucking hel , Phil. Not in my flat.. ."

"It's only a bit of weed. I'm not shooting up. Jesus .. ."

"Do it round at Brendan's."

Hendricks had needed to make a real effort not to laugh, and not just because he was stoned. "Take a day off, why don't you?"

Thorne stalked off towards the kitchen. "I fucking wish .. ."

Waiting for the kettle to boil, Thorne had calmed down and tried to decide whether to apologise or just pretend the argument had never happened. He'd recently discovered that, within the City of London, a pregnant woman in need of the toilet was stil legal y al owed to piss in a policeman's helmet. That dope should stil be against the law was, he knew, only marginal y sil ier.

"Make us a piece of toast while you're in there," Hendricks had shouted.

"What!?

"I'm kidding." Then, Hendricks hadn't been able to stop himself laughing any more.

If he was honest, it was the associations that went with dope-smoking that riled Thorne. He'd tried it a couple of times at school and, even then, passing an increasingly soggy joint around and talking about how great the shit was and how they al had the munchies seemed ridiculous to him. The drugs being taken in the corners of playgrounds these days were more dangerous, but there was none of that palaver. The kids just dropped a pil and got on with it.

There was also the fact that his ex-wife had liked the occasional joint, provided, so it turned out, by the creative-writing lecturer she'd later left him for. Thorne had smel ed it on him, the day he'd walked up his own stairs and dragged the skinny sod out of his own bed. Why he hadn't punched him or put in an anonymous cal to the Drugs Squad was stil something Thorne occasional y woke up wondering about.

Thorne had mumbled something approaching an apology as he'd carried his tea into the living room. Hendricks had smiled and shaken his head.

They sat listening to the first Gram Parsons album. Thorne was wide awake and watched as Hendricks grew drowsier, then perked up, then began to wilt again .. .

"The shit we have to deal with is the price we pay for being human," Hendricks announced, out of the blue.

Thorne slurped his tea. "Right.. ."

"The difference between us and dogs or dolphins or whatever." Hendricks took a drag of his joint. He was starting to sound a little like someone stoned on a sketch-show. "We're the only animal that has an imagination .. ."

"As far as we know .. ." Thorne said.

"As far as we know, yeah. And al the dark, dark shit that gets done to people, the kil ing and the torture, started off as pictures in some weirdo's head. It al has to be imagined!

Thorne thought about what Hendricks was saying. It made sense, though how some of the horrors they'd both encountered over the years had ever been imagined by anybody was beyond him. "So?"

"So ... that's the flip side of al the beautiful stuff. We get people who imagine great works of art and books and gardens and music, but the same imagination that creates that can also imagine the Holocaust, or setting fire to kids, or whatever."