The Burning Girl
Page 33
Thorne felt the knots inside tighten a little further. He thought about where lines were drawn. He wondered whether his had just moved further away, or if he’d long since overstepped it and was moving on. Moving to a much darker place where people couldn’t quite make out his face and the lines had disappeared.
He looked at the telephone…
He closed his eyes and saw the face of Gordon Rooker. It was starting to regain its colour, the smugness reddening in the fresh air. Thorne saw the gold tooth catch the light as Rooker bought fruit from a market stall. As he sat with other men around a pub table. As he smiled at something he was reading in a magazine.
And there was always the burning girl.
Her arms windmilling as she tumbled through blackness towards the street.
Her face in the photograph her father had given him; the features ravaged, the smooth skin overwritten by rough, discoloured ridges.
Her voice in the diary. Funny and furious. Deserving to be listened to…
He got up from the sofa and walked across to the table near the front door…
He dialled a Wandsworth number and exchanged a few cursory pleasantries with the man on the other end. He made arrangements to return a diary and some photographs. Then, he told him to get a pen.
Gave him an address.
Thorne turned the music up then, and poured himself a drink. He sat back down on the sofa, pulled his feet up and considered the weight of his soul. He wondered if it might be possible to exercise it, to beef up the soul, to strengthen it by working out spiritually. If so, then bad deeds would surely cost you weight. Those who were truly wicked would wind up with souls that weighed next to nothing.
He reached for the wine bottle.
Wondering, in light of the phone call he’d just made, if his soul had gained a little weight. Or lost it.
May
Ignorance
THIRTY-THREE
It was the day before the Cup Final–a little over a month since the man who used to be known as Gordon Rooker had been found murdered by an intruder in his own home–when Thorne received the call…
Three weeks into May and it was gently drizzling. Everything else was equally as predictable.
While the Zarif and Ryan investigations had become little more than a couple of dozen boxes stacked on metal shelves at the General Registry, other cases had arrived to fill the void. Other victims that cried out for attention, that demanded action. There was never a shortage of rage, or lust, or greed. Or of bodies, when the chemistry that was there to control such things turned everyday feelings into something murderous.
Disfigured them.
Tom Thorne had read the Murder Investigation Manual in an hour and forgotten the whole thing almost as quickly. He knew he was adept at forgetting what didn’t really matter; what there simply wasn’t room for. Every day there were a thousand new pieces of information that needed good, clean space–that needed the chance, however slim, to move together, around and within one another, to spark and create the idea or the ghost of an idea that might just help to catch a killer.
But many other things were far from forgotten. They just got shifted around, crammed into smaller spaces in Thorne’s head and in his heart. And in that other place that there wasn’t really a name for, where the coils just got wound that little bit tighter…
On the couple of occasions he’d seen Carol Chamberlain, or spoken to her, they’d talked happily enough about their respective cases: his ongoing and hers long unsolved. Only their immediate past was jointly understood to be off limits.
Individually, and alone, it was far harder to escape.
Alison Kelly had phoned one afternoon and they’d talked for a few minutes. Thorne had asked her how she was. The talk had been so small, so pathetically prosaic, that he’d almost asked her where she was. As the time passed, he thought of her face and body less than he thought of the knife in her hand, but each time she came into his mind he thought of the inscription carved into the foundation stone of Holloway Prison, where she waited for the trial that was only a matter of weeks away:
‘May God…make this place a terror to evil-doers.’
Thorne knew there was no God-given reason for Alison Kelly to be terrified…
Going home time. Sheltering beneath a concrete overhang in the car park of Becke House, Thorne breathed in the smoke from Holland’s cigarette and watched the rain make a mess of the car he’d cleaned only that morning.
‘Why don’t you come round tomorrow?’ Thorne asked. ‘Watch the game with me and Phil…’
Despite Thorne’s best efforts, Holland’s enthusiasm for football was still no more than lukewarm. ‘I can’t get excited about it,’ he said.
‘Excited? It’s the Cup Final…’ Thorne was conjuring a tirade of sarcastic abuse when his phone rang.
Something in Eileen’s voice froze the smirk on Thorne’s face. Chased the blood from it.
‘Tom…?’
‘What’s happened?’
Thorne started walking towards his car, his pace quickening with every second of silence that passed before Eileen spoke again.
‘There was a fire…’
‘Jesus, again?’ Thorne used a shoulder to press the phone to his ear, dug frantically in his pockets for the car keys. ‘Is he all right?’
From behind him, Thorne could hear Holland shouting something. Thorne raised a hand without turning. ‘Eileen? Is he all right?’
‘I’m sorry, Tom.’ She started to cry. ‘They found him in the bedroom.’ She sounded like a small girl.
Thorne leaned hard against the car. He gasped out his pain, then smothered it quickly, before it became a scream. He was instantly all too aware of how much time he would have. He told himself that, now, Eileen needed to be comforted.
He yanked open the car door and climbed in. ‘Eileen, don’t.’ He stabbed the key into the ignition.
A fire…
He thought about the cooker he’d never got around to removing from his father’s house. It would only have taken a phone call. Five minutes of his time. Victor would have been happy to take care of it. Eileen could have found someone to take the thing away, had offered to, but Thorne had promised that he’d get it organised.
He hadn’t even put a lock on the kitchen door…
It was down to him.
‘Where is he, Eileen? Where have they taken him?’ Thorne listened carefully, but his aunt’s words were fractured by sobs. ‘It’s OK, Eileen. I’m coming…’
Then another thought that hit him like a wrecking-ball. It smashed him back in his seat and held him there, his hand shaking against the steering wheel.
He pictured Arkan Zarif across a table, remembered what had been said when they’d talked about the deal to protect Gordon Rooker.
‘An agreement which I fully intend to honour…’
The agreement had certainly involved a degree of protection. Could it also have included retribution should anything happen to Rooker.
Thorne was sure the tightness across his chest was all that was preventing the contents of his stomach rising into his mouth.
An accident, or one that had been arranged? Would they be able to tell which it was? Would Thorne ever know…?
Either way. Down to him…
He glanced to his right and saw a figure coming towards the car, moving fast through the drizzle. Holland raised his hands, mouthing, ‘Everything OK?’
Thorne felt like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
He nodded slowly and started the car.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In researching this novel I learned a huge amount from two books in particular: Gangland Britain by Tony Thompson (Hodder & Stoughton 1995) and Gangland Today by James Morton (Time Warner Books 2002). My gratitude is due to both these authors.
For their time and patience I am once again grateful to DI Neil Hibberd, and to DCI Jim Dickey as well as to Richard Baldwin, the cemeteries manager for the London Borough of Camden. For their joke, I owe Phil Nichol and C
arey Marx one large drink between them.
Enormous thanks are due to Vedat Suruk Deniz and his brother Sedat Suruk Deniz of the Archgate Café in London N19, for the warm welcome, the good advice and of course for the wonderful sucuk. For his extensive knowledge of the Turkish language and for help with matters of translation I have to thank Hikmet Pala.
In bringing a side of London to the US that the tourists rarely see, HarperCollins and William Morrow continue to astonish me with their faith and brilliance. I especially want to thank Claire Wachtel, Michael Morrison, Lisa Gallagher, Sharyn Rosenblum, George Bick, Kevin Callahan and Angela Tedesco.
And of course, a debt is owed as always to: Sarah Lutyens, Susannah Godman, Lucinda Prain, Mike Gunn, Alice Pettet, Paul Thorne, Peter Cocks and Wendy Lee.
As ever the biggest thankyou goes to my wife Claire, for support and saintly patience.
And coffee.
About the Author
MARK BILLINGHAM is the author of the London Times bestsellers Sleepy-head, Scaredy Cat, and Lazybones. He writes for the BBC and ITV, where he has twice been nominated for Royal Television Society awards. Billingham lives in London with his wife and two children. Visit his website at www.markbillingham.com.
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Praise
Raves for
MARK BILLINGHAM
and
THE BURNING GIRL
“Billingham has such a command of his craft and his characters.”
Chicago Tribune
“Mark Billingham is the new-wave leader…Like the best of British and American crime writing rolled up together and delivered with the kind of punch you don’t see coming.”
Lee Child
“It’s difficult enough to write even one exceptional thriller, but when you consistently turn out engrossing tales, you have one exceptional storytelling talent. Mark Billingham has that kind of talent.”
Denver Rocky Mountain News
“Excellent dark, contemporary crime fiction. Billingham is able to burrow into our deepest fears while offering a sense of hope.”
Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“The Burning Girl is more character-driven than the earlier books…However, where Billingham scores highest is in his ability to write scenes that are genuinely chilling and frightening. Just four books in, he’s up there with the best.”
The Guardian (London)
“One of today’s best (and most innovative) crime writers…Billingham is back on top form, delivering the kind of disturbing mayhem that is his stock-in-trade…
[The Burning Girl] takes familiar police procedural elements and shakes them by the throat, finding new and intriguing twists…A disturbing and ruthlessly compelling novel.”
Sunday Express (London)
Books by
Mark Billingham
THE BURNING GIRL
LAZYBONES
SCAREDY CAT
SLEEPYHEAD
Forthcoming in Hardcover
LIFELESS
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE BURNING GIRL. Copyright © 2004 by Mark Billingham All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2008 ISBN: 9780061873980
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