The Burning Girl

by Mark Billingham

  Thorne lifted his eyes to the window, saw that it was rapidly darkening outside. ‘I thought it would do me some good,’ he said.

  The baby began to stir, crying softly and kicking her pudgy legs in slow motion. Holland moved quickly to her and squatted down next to the basket. Thorne watched as he pulled the dummy from his daughter’s mouth, gently pushed it back in, and repeated the action until she was peaceful again.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Thorne said.

  Holland returned to the sofa. He picked up his beer. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t involve nappies.’

  ‘There’s a rumour going around…’

  Thorne hadn’t bothered taking his jacket off. It was warm in the flat, but he’d been unsure how long he would be staying. Suddenly, it felt as stifling as it had been standing next to that jacuzzi a few hours earlier.

  ‘Right…’ Thorne said.

  ‘Did you have a thing with Alison Kelly?’

  A variety of images, hastily constructed denials and straightforward lies flashed through Thorne’s head in the few seconds before he spoke. Where had the rumour come from? It didn’t really matter. There was only a headache to be gained from worrying about it, or trying to work it out…

  Thorne didn’t want to deceive Dave Holland. He didn’t want to look him in the face and make shit up. In the end, though, he chose to tell the truth because he couldn’t be arsed to lie, as much as anything else. ‘I slept with her, yes.’

  Holland’s expression rapidly changed from shock to amusement. Then it became something different, something ugly, and that was when Thorne decided to tell him everything else. He wouldn’t stand for Holland sitting there looking impressed.

  When Thorne had finished the story, when the words had moved from the simple repetition of things said over a pub table to those that best described Billy Ryan’s body, bleeding on a kitchen floor, they sat and watched Chloe Holland sleep for a minute or two.

  Holland drained his can, then squeezed it very slowly out of shape. ‘Are we just talking here? This is off duty, right?’

  ‘If you mean “Can we forget about rank?” then yes.’

  ‘Right, that’s what I mean…’

  The sick feeling that came with thinking he shouldn’t have said anything was, for Thorne, becoming horribly familiar. ‘Don’t forget that it’s only temporary, though, or that I can get pissed off very quickly, all right?’ He was smiling as he spoke, but hoped that the seriousness beneath was clear enough. He knew that Holland thought he was every bit as much of a fucking idiot as Carol Chamberlain had, but he didn’t want to hear it again…

  Holland weighed it up and did what Thorne had repeatedly failed to do. He kept his mouth shut.

  Thorne spent most of the drive back from the Elephant and Castle thinking about Alison Kelly. Bizarrely, it had not occurred to him until now, but he began to worry about whether she would say anything to anyone. He began to ask himself what might happen if she did…

  If she were to mention to her solicitor the conversation with a certain detective inspector, they would certainly recommend that she go public with the information. After all, it could only strengthen a diminished-responsibility plea. Wasn’t it reasonable to conclude that the balance of a person’s mind might be disturbed after they’d just been told that their ex-husband had tried to have them burned to death when they were fourteen years old? That he’d been responsible for setting fire to her best friend? Wouldn’t that make most people go ever so slightly round the twist?

  Mutterings from the public gallery and nodding heads among the jury…

  Why on earth should the accused have believed such an outlandish tale?

  Well, Your Honour, she was told it by one of the police officers who was investigating her ex-husband. Told it, as a matter of fact, in that very police officer’s bed…

  Gasps all around the courtroom…

  In reality, Thorne had no idea what would happen to him were the truth to get out. He certainly felt in his gut that there would be some form of action taken against him, that he should probably resign before that could happen. Another part of him was unsure exactly what rule he’d broken. Maybe there were guidelines in that manual he’d never bothered to read. He could hardly go to Russell Brigstocke and ask.

  The more he thought about it, the simpler it became. Would she tell anyone? Would Alison Kelly, either alone or on the advice of others, sacrifice him in return for a lower sentence, or even a nice cushy number in a hospital?

  He thought, as he drove across Waterloo Bridge, that she might well.

  Going around Russell Square, he decided that she probably wouldn’t.

  By the time Thorne pulled up outside his flat, the only thing he knew for certain was that he would not blame her if she did.

  All thoughts of Alison Kelly flew from his mind as he approached his front door, then stopped dead with his keys in his hand. He stared at the scarred paintwork and pictured the face of Memet Zarif, the water running slowly through the heavy, dark brows. He stared at the gashes in the woodwork, at the ridges and clinging splinters picked out by the glow from the nearby streetlamp. He felt again the chill at his neck, and knew that Memet had made a decision. When wishes were not enough, action needed to be taken.

  Thorne stared at his front door; at the ragged ‘X’ carved deep into it.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Thorne was dragging the car around and flooring it back towards the main road within a minute, spitting his fury out loud at the windscreen as he drove. His heart was dancing like a maniac in his chest, his breathing as rapid as the baby’s he’d been watching only an hour before.

  It was important to try to stay calm, to get where he was going in one piece. He had to hold on to his anger, to save it up and channel it against Memet Zarif when he finally got hold of the fucker…

  He shouted in frustration and stamped on the brake, his cry drowning out the squeal as the wheels locked and the BMW stopped at the lights with a lurch. He watched his knuckles whiten around the wheel as he waited for red to turn to green.

  Watching a taxi drive past. Feeling his chest straining against the seat-belt over and over. Listening to the leather move against the nylon, the spastic thumping of his heartbeat…

  The realisation was sharp and sudden, like a slap, and Thorne felt the stinging certainty spread and settle across him. Slowly, he leaned forward and flicked on his hazard lights, oblivious to the cars snarling round him and through the traffic lights.

  A taxi…a minicab…

  He recalled the face he’d barely registered that morning behind the wheel of a black Omega–the driver outside Zarif’s place on Green Lanes who’d asked if he needed a cab. He remembered where he’d seen that face before.

  Thorne waited until the lights had changed again, turned the car around and cruised slowly back towards his flat.

  Why was this man driving a cab for Memet Zarif? Would he still be working this late in the day? It was certainly worth a try…

  Thorne’s mind was racing every bit as fast as it had been before, adrenalin fizzing through his system, but now a calmness was making its presence felt, too, flowing through him where it was needed.

  The calmness of decision, of purpose.

  He was dialling the number before the BMW had come to a standstill outside the flat. He listened to the call going through as he stepped out on to the pavement.

  The phlegm-hawker who answered was no more polite on the phone than he had been in person.

  ‘Car service…’

  ‘I need a cab from Kentish Town as soon as you can,’ Thorne said.

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Listen, I need a nice one, a good-looking motor, you know? I’ve got to impress someone. You got a Merc or anything like that?’

  ‘No mate, nothing like that.’

  Thorne leaned back against his car. ‘You must have something nice. A Scorpio, an Omega, that kind of thing. I don’t mind paying a
bit over the odds…’

  ‘We’ve got a couple of Omegas.’ The man sounded like he resented every syllable of the conversation.

  ‘Yeah, that’s great. One of those. Which driver is it?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  Was there a hint of suspicion in the question? Thorne decided it was probably just a natural sourness. ‘I had one of your lot a couple of weeks ago and he wouldn’t shut up…’

  Thorne was told the driver’s name and felt the buzz kick in. ‘That’s perfect,’ he said.

  ‘What’s your address, mate?’

  Thorne stared at the ‘X’ on his front door. There was no way he was going to give them an address they would clearly be all too familiar with. The very last thing he wanted was for the driver to know who he was picking up. He named a shop on the Kentish Town Road, told the dispatcher he’d be waiting outside.

  ‘Fifteen minutes, mate…’

  Thorne was already on his way.

  The fifteen minutes was closer to twenty-five, but the time passed quickly. Thorne had plenty to think about. He couldn’t be certain that when the driver had spoken to him that morning outside the minicab office, he hadn’t done so knowing exactly who he was. Thorne could only hope that the man he was now waiting for had simply been touting for business, and that he’d just been viewed as a potential customer.

  When the Omega pulled up, Thorne looked hard at the driver. He saw nothing that looked like dissemblance…

  Thorne climbed into the back of the car, knowing full well that he’d been wrong about these things before.

  ‘Where to?’ the driver asked.

  It was the one thing Thorne hadn’t considered. ‘Hampstead Garden Suburb,’ he said. It was a couple of miles away from them, beyond Highgate. Thorne was hoping it was far enough away, that he’d have got what he needed well before they arrived…

  The driver grunted as he steered the Omega into the traffic heading north along the Kentish Town Road.

  They drove for five minutes or more in complete silence. Perhaps the dispatcher had mentioned that the customer was not fond of chit-chat. Perhaps the driver had nothing to say. Either way, it suited Thorne perfectly. It gave him a little time to gather his thoughts.

  He’d recognised Wayne Brookhouse–had finally remembered his face–from the CCTV tape of Gordon Rooker’s visitors. He remembered Stone and Holland laying out the black-and-white stills on his desk. Brookhouse, if that was his real name, wasn’t wearing the glasses any more and his hair was longer now than it had been when he’d last visited Rooker. He was supposed to be the daughter’s boyfriend, wasn’t he? Or ex-boyfriend, maybe…

  What had Stone said about Brookhouse after he’d been to interview him? ‘A bit dodgy’? Thorne had good reason to believe that the young man driving him around was rather more dodgy than anyone had thought.

  The soft leather seat sighed as Thorne relaxed into it. ‘Busy day, Wayne?’

  Brookhouse looked over his shoulder for as long as was possible without crashing. ‘Sorry, mate, do I know you?’

  ‘Friend of a friend,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Oh…’

  Thorne watched the eyes move back and forth from road to mirror. He could almost hear the cogs whirring as Brookhouse tried to work out who the hell he’d just picked up. Thorne decided to give him some help…

  ‘How’s your love life, Wayne? Still giving Gordon Rooker’s daughter one? What’s her name again?’

  Thorne watched Brookhouse’s back stiffen, felt him struggle to figure out what might be the ‘right’ answer, given the circumstances. Thorne was starting to doubt that Brookhouse had ever even met Gordon Rooker’s daughter.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Brookhouse said. He’d clearly decided that aggression was his safest option.

  ‘You won’t be seeing a tip with an attitude like that…’

  ‘Right, that’s it.’ Brookhouse indicated and began to pull over to the kerb.

  ‘Keep driving,’ Thorne said. His tone of voice made it obvious that he did not respond well to aggression.

  Brookhouse swerved back towards the centre of the road and they drove on past the tennis courts at the bottom of Parliament Hill.

  ‘Who put you up for the part?’ Thorne asked. ‘I can’t work out whether you were already one of Memet’s boys and he suggested you to Rooker, or whether you did have some kind of connection with Rooker and he was the one who found you the job driving the cab.’ He waited for an answer. Didn’t get one.

  ‘It’s not vital information,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m just curious. Either way, you were clearly just passing messages backwards and forwards. Popping in to see Rooker, playing the part of the harmless tearaway who used to shag his daughter, giving him messages from Memet…’

  There were still a great many questions that needed answering, but Thorne had worked one thing out: whatever deal Rooker had been trying to strike with him, he had been busy setting up another with Memet Zarif. If he was going to hand over Billy Ryan, Rooker had clearly decided to play it very safe indeed.

  ‘Rooker told us you were a car mechanic. Is that bollocks, Wayne? Would you know a big end from a Big Mac? You certainly convinced my DC when he interviewed you…’

  ‘You’re Thorne.’

  ‘Spot on. And you’re fucked…’

  Through the gap between the seats, Thorne watched Brookhouse’s hand slide across, reaching for something on the passenger seat. Thorne leaned forward, grabbed a good handful of Brookhouse’s hair and pulled his head back.

  ‘Ow, Jesus!’

  Thorne looked and saw that Brookhouse had been reaching for a mobile.

  ‘Look, I was just pretending to be a visitor,’ he said. His voice had risen an octave or two. ‘Like you said, I was just delivering a bit of information, nothing important, I swear. I know fuck all about fuck all, that’s the truth.’

  Thorne stared at the tiny mobile phone, small and shiny, nestled in the folds of a dark blue anorak that had been neatly laid across the seat. Wayne Brookhouse had posed as a car mechanic, and as the ex-boyfriend of Gordon Rooker’s daughter. Thorne suddenly wondered if he might not have played another role.

  ‘Now you can pull over,’ Thorne said. ‘Anywhere…’

  ‘What for?’

  Thorne barely registered the cry as he dragged Wayne Brookhouse’s head a little further back. ‘I need to make a call…’

  Chamberlain reached for the phone, both eyes still on the TV programme she was trying to lose herself in.

  Thorne’s voice concentrated her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, hello, Tom…’

  Thorne spoke quickly and quietly, and her expression changed when she heard the edge in his tone. From his armchair, Jack looked across at her, concern in every line of his face. He pointed the remote control, turned down the volume on the TV.

  Thorne told her to listen.

  Chamberlain smiled at her husband and shook her head. It was nothing…

  Thorne pressed the handset hard against Brookhouse’s ear until he began to moan in pain.

  ‘Now, say it again,’ Thorne said. ‘Like you mean it.’

  Brookhouse winced and took a deep breath. ‘I burned her…’

  Thorne yanked the phone away, his fingers still clutching Brookhouse’s hair. Something in the near silence on the line, a horror in the gentle hiss, told him that Carol Chamberlain had recognised the voice.

  ‘Carol…?’

  ‘There’s a train from here in less than fifteen minutes,’ she said. ‘I can be there in an hour and a half…’

  Thorne felt a second or two of doubt, but no more. He had been fairly sure what Chamberlain’s reaction would be as soon as he’d decided to make the call. ‘Give me a ring when you’re coming in,’ he said. He flicked his wrist sharply to one side, smacking Brookhouse’s head against the window. ‘There’ll be a cab there to meet you.’

  THIRTY

  Wayne Brookhouse’s face–open and attractive beneath the mop of thick, dark hai
r–broke into a smile. He looked relaxed and happy. Only the redness, livid around his right ear, and the expressions on the faces of the two people sitting opposite him indicated that anything might be out of the ordinary.

  ‘How much longer we going to carry on with this?’ Brookhouse said.

  It was not far short of midnight, and in the two hours since Thorne had first confronted him, in the time spent waiting for Carol Chamberlain to arrive and travelling back to Thorne’s flat, Brookhouse had recovered his confidence.

  ‘Hadn’t really thought about it,’ Thorne said.

  ‘That much is fucking obvious…’

  Chamberlain looked at Thorne. They were sitting next to each other on kitchen chairs. Brookhouse was a few feet in front of them in the middle of the sofa. ‘I don’t think there’s any time limit, is there?’ she said.

  Thorne shook his head, stared for a few seconds at Brookhouse before speaking. ‘Tell us how it worked between you, Rooker and Zarif.’

  Brookhouse’s smile didn’t falter. ‘They clearly aren’t paying you enough,’ he said, looking around. ‘This place is shit.’

  ‘Why were you pretending to be responsible for the attack on Jessica Clarke?’

  Thorne knew this was not going to be easy. In the time that Brookhouse had honed his cocky act, Thorne had put a few pieces of the puzzle in place. He was now working up to the really important questions by asking a few to which he already knew the answers.

  ‘It smells as well,’ Brookhouse said. ‘It stinks of curry…’

  Whoever had put the idea together–and right now Thorne’s money was on Gordon Rooker–had been intent on putting the ball into the police’s court. Drawing the police to him. And, like mugs, they’d come. Brookhouse had made the calls and, sent the letters and sure enough, eventually some idiot had gone along to have a word with Gordon Rooker and started the ball rolling. They’d pressed Rooker until, finally, he’d confessed his innocence, and told them about Billy Ryan. Then he had them…