The Burning Girl Thorne 4

by Mark Billingham

  "Dick-ins of a completely different sort," Phil Hendricks had said. They parked in front of a snooker hall behind Camden Road Station, a few streets away from Billy Ryan's office. Thorne was hugely relieved to escape from Tughan's car, deciding that, although his own taste in music had irritated a few people in its time, he wouldn't wish Phil Collins on his worst enemy. The man was perhaps second only to Sting in terms of smugness and his capacity to make you pray for hearing loss. As they walked towards Ryan's place, Thorne couldn't help wondering if gangland enforcers ever considered using a Phil Collins album as an alternative to pulling people's teeth out and drilling through their kneecaps.

  Getting in to see the managing director of Ryan Properties was much like getting in to see any other successful businessman, save for the fact that the receptionist had tattoos on his neck.

  "Wait there," he said. Then, "Not yet." And finally, "Go in." Thorne wondered whether he spoke only in two-word phrases. When he and Tughan eventually strolled into Billy Ryan's office, Thorne gave the receptionist a pithy, two-word phrase of his own. He watched as Billy Ryan stood and greeted Tughan like a respected business rival. Tughan shook Ryan's hand, which Thorne thought was distinctly fucking unnecessary, and when he himself was introduced he did no such thing, which Ryan seemed to find amusing.

  Thorne recognised the two other men present from photos. Marcus Moloney had risen quickly through the ranks and was known to be one of Ryan's most trusted associates. The younger man was Ryan's eldest son, Stephen.

  "Shall we crack on, then?" Ryan said. As the five men sat Tughan and Thorne on a small sofa and the others on armchairs and while drinks were offered and refused, Thorne took the place and the people in. They were in one of the two rooms above an office furniture showroom from which Ryan ran his multi-million-pound empire. It was spacious enough, but the decor and furnishings were shabby ironic, considering what they knocked out from the premises downstairs, which, of course, Ryan also owned. Thorne wondered whether the man was just tight or genuinely didn't care about high-quality leather and chrome.

  In his twenty-five years on the job, and never living more than a mile or two away from where he now sat, Thorne had come across the name William John Ryan with depressing frequency. But, up to this point, he had miraculously avoided any direct dealings with him. Staring at him in the flesh for the first time, across a low table strewn with a variety of newspapers and magazines the Daily Star, House & Garden, the Racing Post, World of Interiors Thorne was grudgingly impressed by the way the man presented himself.

  Ryan's complexion was ruddy, but the mouth was small and sensitive. When he spoke, his teeth remained hidden. The red cheeks were closely shaved and looked as if they might have been freshly boiled. The scent of expensive aftershave hung around him, and something else hairspray, maybe, judging by the way the sandy hair, turning to white in places, curled across the collar of his blazer. Thorne thought he looked a little like a well-preserved Van Morrison.

  "I presume you've made no progress in catching this maniac," Ryan said.

  Ryan's Dublin accent had faded a little over the years but was still strong enough. Tughan turned his own up a notch or two in response. Thorne couldn't tell if it was deliberate or not.

  "We're following up a number of promising leads," Tughan said.

  "I hope so. There needs to be a result on this, you know."

  "There will be."

  "This man has butchered friends of mine. I have to assume that, until he's caught, members of my own family might well be at risk."

  "That's probably a fair assumption."

  Moloney spoke for the first time. "So do something about it." His voice was low and reasonable, the face blank and puffy below thinning, dirty-blond hair. "It's fucking outrageous that you aren't offering Mr. Ryan's family any protection."

  Ryan spotted the look on Thorne's face. "Something funny?" he asked.

  Thorne shrugged. "Not laugh-out-loud funny." He looked at Moloney.

  "More ironic, seeing as it's Mr. Ryan's family that's normally offering the protection. Then again, "offering" isn't really the right word."

  Now it was Stephen Ryan's turn to chip in: "Cheeky cunt!" The son was thought by many to have become the muscle of the Ryan operation. Though he had his old man's features, as yet unsoftened, the voice was very different, and not just in tone. Thorne knew very well that Stephen had been sent to an exclusive private school. His accent was pure Mockney.

  Thorne smiled at Stephen's father. "Nice to see that the expensive education was well worth it."

  Ryan returned what in some lights could be mistaken for a smile. He looked at Tughan, nodded at Thorne: "Where did you find this one?" Tughan glanced at Thorne as if he were wondering the same thing himself. "We'll make this quick, Mr. Ryan," he said. "We just wanted to check that nothing else has cropped up at your end since we last spoke."

  "Cropped up?"

  "Any other thoughts, you know? Theories about who might be ... attacking your business."

  "I told you last time, and every time before that."

  "You might have thought of something since then. Heard something on the grapevine, maybe."

  Ryan leaned back in his chair, spread his arms wide across the back of it. Thorne could see that his shoulders were powerful beneath the cashmere blazer, but, looking down, he was amazed at the daintiness of the feet. Ryan was supposed to have been a fair amateur boxer in his younger days but also, bizarrely, had something of a reputation as a ballroom dancer. Thorne stared at the small, highly polished loafers, at the oddly girlish, silk socks.

  "I don't know who's doing this. I wish I did." Thorne had to admit that Ryan lied quite brilliantly. He even managed to plaster a sheen of emotion something like sadness on to his face, masking what was clearly nothing more noble than anger, and a desire for brutal vengeance. Thorne glanced at Moloney and Stephen Ryan. Both had their heads down.

  "I have no bloody idea who it is," Ryan repeated. "That's what you're supposed to be finding out."

  Tughan tugged at the material of his trousers, crossed one leg over the other. "Has anybody else remembered anything? An employee, maybe?"

  It was 'employee' that made Thorne smile this time. If Ryan spotted it, he didn't react. He shook his head, and for fifteen seconds they sat in silence.

  "What about these leads you mentioned?" Stephen Ryan looked at Thorne like he was a shit-stain trodden into a white shag pile.

  "Thank you," Thorne said. "We'd almost forgotten. Does the name Izzigil mean anything at all?"

  Shaking heads and upturned palms. Stephen Ryan ran a hand across his closely cropped black hair.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Is this now a formal interview?" Moloney asked. "We should get the brief in here, Mr. Ryan."

  Ryan raised a hand. "You did say this was just a chat, Mr. Tughan."

  "Nothing sinister," Tughan said.

  Thorne nodded, paused. "So, that's a definite "no" on Izzigil, then?" He nodded to Tughan, who reached into his briefcase and took out a couple of ten-by-eights.

  "What about these?" Tughan asked.

  Thorne pushed aside the papers and magazines, took the pictures from Tughan and dropped them on to the table. "Does anybody recognise these two?"

  Sighs from Stephen Ryan and Marcus Moloney as they leaned forward. Billy Ryan picked up one of the pictures, a still from CCTV footage on Green Lanes, taken nearly three weeks earlier: a fuzzy shot of two boys running; two boys they presumed to have been running away from Muslum Izzigil's video shop, having just hurled a four-foot metal bin through the window.

  "Look like any pair of herberts up to no good," Ryan said. "Ten a fucking penny. Marcus?"

  Moloney shook his head.

  Stephen Ryan looked over at Thorne, eyes wide. "Is it Ant and Dec?" He cackled at his joke, turning to share it with Moloney. Tughan gathered up the pictures and pushed himself up from the sofa.

  "We'll get out of your way, then." Moloney and Stephen Ryan stayed where they
were as Billy Ryan showed Tughan and Thorne out. The receptionist gave Thorne a hard look as he passed. Thorne winked at him.

  Ryan stopped at the door. "What this arse hole doing, the cutting, you know? It's not on. I've been in business a long time, I've seen some shocking stuff."

  "I bet you have," Thorne said.

  Ryan didn't hear the dig, or chose to ignore it. He shook his head, looking thoroughly disgusted. "Fucking "X-Man"." It didn't surprise Thorne that Ryan knew exactly what it was that the killer did to his victims. Three of them had been found by Ryan's own men, after all. The nickname, though, was something else something that, as far as Thorne was aware, had been confined to Becke House. Obviously, Ryan was a man with plenty of contacts, and Thorne was not naive enough to believe that they wouldn't include a few who were eager to top up a Metropolitan Police salary.

  Thorne asked the question as if it were an afterthought. "What does the name Gordon Rooker mean to you, Mr. Ryan?" There was a reaction, no question. Fleeting and impossible to define. Anger, fear, shock, amazement? It could have been any one of them.

  "Another arse hole Ryan said, eventually. "And one who I haven't had to think about for a very long time."

  The three of them stood, saying nothing, the smell of aftershave overpowering close-up, until Ryan turned and walked quickly back towards his office.

  The light had been dimming when they'd arrived. Now it had gone altogether. Turning the corner into the unlit side-street, Thorne was disappointed to see that the Rover didn't at least have a window broken.

  "Who's Gordon Rooker?" Tughan asked.

  "Just a name that came up. I was barking up the wrong tree." Tughan gave him a long look. He pressed a button on his key ring to unlock the car, walked round to open the driver's door. "Listen, it's almost five and I signed us both out for the rest of the day anyway. I'll drop you at home."

  Thorne glanced through the window and saw the empty cassette box between the seats. The idea of a balding millionaire bleating about the homeless for another second was simply unbearable.

  "I'll walk," he said.

  SEVEN

  Thorne cut up Royal College Street, where a faded plaque on a flaking patch of brickwork identified a house where Verlaine and Rimbaud had once lived. By the time he came out on to Kentish Town Road it had begun to drizzle, but he was still glad he'd refused Tughan's offer of a lift.

  As Thorne walked past some of the tat tier businesses that fringed the main road, his thoughts returned to Billy Ryan. He wondered how many of the people who ran these pubs, saunas and internet cafes were connected to Ryan in some way or another. Most probably wouldn't even recognise the name, but the working lives of many, honest or not, would certainly be touched by Ryan at some stage.

  He thought of those who looked up to Ryan. Those in the outer circles who would be looking to move towards the centre. Did those likely lads, keen to trade in their Timberland and Tommy Hilfiger for Armani, have a clue what they might be expected to do in return? Could they begin to guess at what the softly spoken ballroom dancer had once been might still be capable of?

  "I've seen some shocking things."

  Just before the turning into Prince of Wales Road, Thorne nipped into a small supermarket. He needed milk and wine, and wanted a paper to see what the Monday night match was on Sky Sports. Queuing at the till, he became aware of raised voices near the entrance and walked over. A uniformed security guard was guiding a woman of forty or so towards the doors, trying to move her out of the shop. He was not taking any nonsense, but there was still some warmth in his voice: "How often do we have to do this, love?"

  "I'm sorry, I can't help it," the woman said. The security guard saw Thorne coming over and his eyes widened. We've got a right one here .

  "Do you want a hand?" Even as Thorne said it, he hadn't quite decided who he was offering the help to.

  Though the woman had three or four fat, plastic bags swinging from each hand, she was well dressed. "It's something I feel compelled to do," she said, revealing herself to be equally well spoken.

  "What?" Thorne asked.

  The security guard still had a hand squarely in the middle of the woman's back and was moving her ever closer to the door. "She pesters the other customers," he said.

  "I tell them about Jesus." The woman beamed at Thorne. "They really don't seem to mind. Nobody gets annoyed."

  Thorne slowly followed the two of them, watching as they drifted towards the pavement.

  "People just want to do their shopping," the security guard said.

  "You're holding them up."

  "I have to tell them about Him. It's my job."

  "And this is mine."

  "I know. It's fine, really. I'm so sorry to have caused any trouble."

  "Don't come back for a while this time, OK?" With a shrug and a smile, the woman hoisted up her bags and turned towards the street. Thorne moved to the exit and watched her walking away.

  The security guard caught his eye. "I suppose there are worse crimes."

  Thorne said nothing.

  He'd arrived home to a note from Hendricks saying that he was spending the night at Brendan's. Thorne had put the frozen pizza he'd picked up from the supermarket in the oven. He flicked through the Standard, watched Channel Four News while it was cooking . Now, five minutes into the second half, Newcastle United and Southampton appeared to have settled for a draw. It was chucking it down on Tyneside and the St. James' Park pitch was slippery, so there were at least the odd hideously mistimed tackle and some handbags at ten paces, but that was as exciting as it got.

  Thorne snatched up the phone gratefully when it rang.

  "Tom?"

  "You not watching the football, Dad?" Time was, the TV coverage of a match would be swiftly followed by ten minutes of amateur punditry over the phone with the two of them arguing about every dodgy decision, every key move. That all seemed a lifetime ago.

  "Too busy," his dad said. "Different game I'm concerned about, anyway. You got your thinking cap on?"

  "Not at this very moment, no."

  "All the ways you can be dismissed at cricket, if you please. I've made a list. There's ten of them, so come on." Thorne picked up the remote, knocked the volume on the TV down a little. "Can't you just read them out to me?"

  "Don't be such a cock, you big fucker." He said it like it was a term of endearment.

  "Dad."

  "Stumped and hit wicket, I'll give you them to start." Thorne sighed, began to list them: "Bowled, LBW, caught, run out. What d'you call it... hitting the ball twice? Touching the ball?"

  "No. Handling the ball."

  "Right. Handling the ball. Listen, I can't remember the other two."

  His father laughed. Thorne could hear his chest rattling. "Timed out and obstructing the field. They're the two that people can never remember. Same as Horst Bucholz and Brad Dexter."

  "What?

  "They're the two in The Magnificent Seven that nobody can ever remember. So, come on then. Yul Brynner, I'll give you him to start."

  Southampton scrambled a late winner five minutes from the final whistle, just about the time when Thorne's dad began to run out of steam. Not long after, he put down the handset, needing to fetch a book, to check a crucial fact. A minute or two into the silence that followed, Thorne realised that his father had forgotten all about the call and wasn't coming back. He'd maybe even gone upstairs to bed. Thorne thought about shouting down the phone, but decided to hang up instead.

  EIGHT

  An attractive young woman placed menus on the table in front of them.

  "Just two coffees, please," Thorne said.

  Holland looked a little disappointed, as if he'd been hoping to put a spot of breakfast on expenses. After the waitress had gone, Holland scanned the menu: "Some of this stuff sounds nice. You know, the Turkish stuff."

  Thorne glanced around, caught the eye of a dour, dark-eyed individual sitting at a table near the door. "I can't see us eating here too regularly, can you
?"

  When the coffees arrived, Thorne asked, "Is the owner around?" The waitress looked confused. "Is Mr. Zarif available?"

  "Which?"

  "The boss. We'd like to speak to him." She picked up the menus and turned away without a word. Thorne watched her drop them on to the counter and stamp away down the stairs at the back of the room.

  "She can say goodbye to her tip," Holland said. The cafe was at the Manor House end of Green Lanes, opposite Finsbury Park, and not a million miles away from where Thorne had once been beaten up by a pair of Arsenal fans. It was small maybe six tables and a couple of booths and the blinds on the front door and windows made it a little gloomier than it might have been. The ceiling was the only well-lit part of the room, the varnished pine coloured gold by the glow from dozens of ornate lanterns glass, bronze and ceramic dangling from the wooden slats and swinging slightly every time the front door opened or closed.

  Holland took a sip of coffee. "Maybe he's got a thing about lamps." Thorne noticed the slightly incongruous choice of background music and nodded towards the stereo on a shelf behind the counter. "And Madonna," he said.

  They both looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. The man who emerged around the corner and walked towards their booth was big bulky as much as fat and round-shouldered. A blue-and-white-striped apron was stretched across his belly, and his hands were tangled in a grubby-looking tea-towel as he struggled to dry them.

  "Can I help you?"

  Thorne took out his warrant card and made the introductions. "We'd like to have a word with the owner."