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 amp; 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.
