The Burning Girl

by Mark Billingham

  Thinking about it–and he’d had plenty of time to think about it–he’d been wary of getting close to others at school. Changing rooms made him uncomfortable. He’d go home dirty after games rather than jump in the showers with the rest of them. He often wondered if this distance he felt from other kids was why he had ended up in his particular line of work…

  On the show, Trisha asked the woman if she loved her husband, even though she hated him touching her in public. ‘Yeah, I love him sometimes,’ she said. ‘Other times, I could kill him.’

  Rooker laughed along with the studio audience. He knew that the difference between him and most people who said things like ‘I could kill him’ was that he really could do it. He could remember what it was like to put a gun to someone’s head, to pull a knife across a throat, to pour lighter fuel into some poor bastard’s hair…

  The programme finished and he stepped out on to the landing. He could smell lunch coming as he walked down to the floor. You could always smell the food going in one direction or the other.

  ‘DLP going for it this time, d’you reckon? Rooker?’ Alun Fisher had served three years of a five-year tariff for causing death by dangerous driving. He had a history of drug abuse and mental illness. His refusal to eat properly meant that he spent as much time on the prison’s healthcare wing as he did in the VP Unit. ‘Bound to approve you, this time. You’ll be counting the days, yeah?’

  Rooker grunted, stared across at the card school in the corner. He was feeling confident this time. They were bound to go for the deal, considering what he was offering. He could probably afford to pick up one of the pool cues and bash Fisher’s head in and they’d still send a police limo to pick him up.

  ‘You’re going to have it sweet on the outside,’ Fisher said. ‘That’s what everybody reckons. You’ll be looked after ’cos you never grassed.’

  Rooker stared at him.

  Fisher nodded and grinned, the teeth blackened and rotten from years of drug use. ‘Never fucking grassed…’

  ‘The business was Mr Izzigil’s. Our company owns the building which is looked after by a letting agency. I didn’t actually know him.’ Hassan Zarif had the same accent as his father, but the grammar and vocabulary were virtually faultless. Two years here and already their native language had become their second. It was clear that, in all sorts of ways, the Zarif boys were quick learners. ‘My brother popped in occasionally, I think, and perhaps Izzigil would give him a film or two as gifts. Disney films for his children…’

  ‘Right,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Zarif Brothers owns the property, but the video business was Mr Izzigil’s.’

  Holland failed to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘You said that.’

  Zarif cocked his head, put a finger into the empty metal ashtray, and slowly began to spin it on the tabletop. He was in his early twenties–tall, with a mop of thick, black hair which sat high on his head. A pronounced chin marred the brooding looks and was emphasised by the polo neck he wore under a heavy, brown leather jacket with a fur collar. He sighed slightly at having to state the obvious again. ‘He rented out movies.’

  ‘That’s not what paid for his son’s school,’ Thorne said. ‘Or the nice new Audi in his garage.’

  Zarif shook his head, spun the ashtray.

  ‘He had over thirty thousand pounds in a building society “wealth management” service,’ Holland said.

  ‘Some people have no vices…’

  Thorne leaned across, gently nudged the ashtray to one side. ‘So, you’ve no idea at all why anybody would want to put a bullet in his head? And put one in his wife’s head for good measure.’

  Zarif clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if he were trying to decide exactly how to answer.

  Thorne knew that this meeting was as important for the young man sitting opposite him as it was for them. Hassan Zarif knew he was safe, at least for the time being. This was about making impressions. He wouldn’t want to appear obstructive, but he had a natural cockiness, and a place in the world he thought he’d earned the hard way. It was a tricky balance to strike, but while he played the part of concerned local businessman, he also had a message to send. He wanted to let them know, nicely, of course, that neither he nor the rest of them were to be pissed around.

  ‘Maybe he fucked the wrong man’s girlfriend,’ Zarif said.

  From behind the counter, Zarif’s sister began to laugh. Thorne glared at her, none too keen on the joke, but saw that she was actually laughing at something Zarif’s friend was saying to her. He turned back to Zarif. ‘As we told your father, we’re investigating a number of recent murders.’

  ‘It’s a dangerous city.’

  ‘Only for some people,’ Thorne said.

  Zarif smiled, held up his hands. ‘Listen, I’ve got stuff to do, so…’

  Thorne asked his questions, played the game. He had his own message to send and wasn’t overly concerned with subtlety.

  ‘Do you have any information that might assist us in investigating the death of Mickey Clayton?’

  Zarif shook his head.

  ‘Or Sean Anderson?’

  ‘No.’

  The X-Man’s victims. ‘Anthony Wright? John Gildea?’

  ‘No and no.’

  Thorne reached into his jacket, pulled out some change. He dropped a couple of pound coins on to the table. ‘That’s for the coffee.’

  Outside, it was raining. They walked quickly back towards Thorne’s BMW.

  ‘Seems to me,’ Holland said, ‘that we spend a lot of time going to see these fuckers, asking them questions, listening to them tell us they don’t know anything, and then leaving again.’

  Thorne looked into the park as they walked alongside it. The trees were shiny and skeletal. ‘Same as it ever was…’

  ‘He was so full of shit,’ Holland said. ‘ “Disney films for the kids?” They’d have been involved somewhere in supply, delivery, all of it. They’d have taken a massive cut of Izzigil’s earnings, on top of what they got out of the piracy, out of the smuggling operation…’

  Finsbury Park wasn’t Thorne’s favourite green space. He’d been to a few gigs there over the years, though–the Fleadh to see Emmylou Harris, Madstock once with a WPC he fancied. When the Sex Pistols reformed and played there, back when he was still living with his wife, he’d been able to hear every word from their back garden in Highbury, which was over a mile away…

  Holland was grimacing. ‘That coffee was shit as well,’ he said. ‘It tasted like something you’d find in a Gro-Bag.’

  Thorne laughed. ‘It’s an acquired taste.’

  ‘Listen, d’you fancy having a pint later? The Oak, if you like, or we could go into town…’

  ‘Sophie letting you out for the night, is she?’

  ‘Happy to see the back of me, mate. I’m getting on her nerves a bit, I think. Fuck it, I’m getting on my own nerves…’

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

  Holland 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 Holland would go into M&S at some point soon to buy another one that was exactly the same.

  ‘Hot date?’ Holland 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 Millwall 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 wall 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 funfair 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 smell 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 milling around, taking pictures or taking cameras, there were those moving through the square on their way to somewhere more pleasant. West towards Piccadilly 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 partially 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. ‘Billy was under investigation well before things turned nasty. We know near enough everything he gets up to. We know all 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 small 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 gorillas 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 payroll 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 tell 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 well. 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 spilling 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 well try…’

  ‘I wonder what I might find,’ Thorne said, ‘if I were to put you up against that wall 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 collar of Ryan’s overcoat as he spun around. ‘I’ll 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 specifically asked me to say “hello”…’

  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…hello,’ 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 the fuck have you been?’

  Billy Ryan climbed into the car without looking back. He was quickly followed 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 all 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 pulled the door shut and the car moved quickly away from the kerb.

  ‘What was all that “hello” 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 fallout: all 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. Still, Ryan was safe at home now, taking it all out on his wife. She’d be doing what had to be done. She’d be making all the right noises, massaging his ego and anything else he fancied, and thanking Christ that he sti
ll 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 hello, 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 really 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 all 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…