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 health care 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 MS 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
