Leicester Square after dark was right up there with the M25 at rush hour or the Millwall ground, in terms of places that Thorne thought were best avoided.
The buskers and the occasional B-list film premiere made little difference. For every few smiling tourists, there was someone lounging against the wall outside one of the cinemas, or hanging around in the corner of the green, with a far darker reason for being there. For every American family or pair of Scandinavian backpackers there was a mugger, or a pickpocket, or just a pissed-up idiot looking for trouble, and the crappy fun fair only seemed to bring out the vultures in greater numbers.
'I pity the uniformed lads working round here tonight,' Chamberlain said.
There were plenty of places in the city that were alive with the promise of something. Here, there was only a threat. If it wasn't for the stench of piss and cheap burgers, you'd probably be able to smell it.
'The only good thing about this place,' Thorne said, 'is the rent you can get for it on a sodding Monopoly board.' A quarter to seven on a Tuesday night, and the place was heaving. Aside from those milling around, taking pictures or taking cameras, there were those moving through the square on their way to somewhere more pleasant. West towards Piccadilly and Regent Street beyond. South towards the theatres on the Strand. East towards Covent Garden, where the street entertainment was a little artier, and the average burger was anything but cheap.
Thorne and Chamberlain moved through the square on their way to a brightly lit and busy games arcade, slap-bang between Chinatown and Soho. They passed partially steamed-up windows displaying racks of Day-Glo, honey-glazed chickens and leathery squid which drooped from metal hooks like innards.
'How sure are you that he's going to be there?' Chamberlain asked. Thorne ushered her to the left, avoiding the queue outside the Capital Club. 'Billy was under investigation well before things turned nasty. We know near enough everything he gets up to. We know all his routines.'
Chamberlain quickened her pace just a little to keep up. 'If Ryan's half the character I think he is, I wouldn't be surprised if he knows quite a lot about you, too.'
Thorne shivered ever so slightly, but gave her a grin. 'I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up.'
They cut off the square and walked to a Starbucks on the other side of the street from the arcade. They didn't have to wait long before Ryan appeared. Halfway through their coffees, they watched as one of the heavy glass doors was opened for him, and Ryan moved slowly down the short flight of steps towards the street. Marcus Moloney was at his shoulder. A few paces behind were a pair of Central Casting thugs who looked as though they might enjoy shiny objects and the sound of small bones breaking.
As Thorne approached from across the street heavyset and with his hands thrust into the pockets of his leather jacket Ryan took half a step back and reached out an arm towards one of the gorillas behind him. He recovered himself when he recognised Thorne: 'What do you want?' Thorne nodded past Ryan towards the arcade. It was packed with teenagers, queuing to ram their pound coins into the machines. 'I was just a bit bored, and I'm a big fan of the shoot-'em-ups. This one of your places, is it?'
Moloney looked up and down the street. 'Looking for a discount, Thorne?'
'Is that how you try to get coppers on the payroll these days? A few free games of Streetfighter?'
Ryan had recognised Thorne, but had failed to recognise the woman with him. 'Grab-a-Granny night, is it?' He looked Chamberlain up and down.
'Don't tell me she's on the job. I thought coppers were supposed to look younger these days.'
'You're a cheeky fucker, Ryan,' Chamberlain said. Then Ryan did recognise her. Thorne watched him grit his teeth as he remembered exactly what had been happening the last time their paths had crossed.
'You looked a bit jumpy a minute ago,' Thorne said. He nodded towards the two bodyguards. 'These two look a touch nervous as well. Worried that whoever did Mickey Clayton and the others might come after you, are you, Mr. Ryan?'
Ryan said nothing.
A group of young lads burst out through the arcade doors, the noise from inside spilling momentarily on to the street with them: the spatter and squeal of guns and lasers, the rumble of engines, the beat of hypnotic techno.
Moloney answered Thorne's question: 'They can fucking well try.'
'I wonder what I might find,' Thorne said, 'if I were to put you up against that wall over there and pat you down.' Moloney looked unconcerned. 'Nothing worth the trouble.'
'Trouble?'
Moloney sighed heavily and stepped past him. Thorne watched him walk a few yards up the street. He took out a mobile phone and began to stab angrily at the keypad. Thorne turned back to see the pair of heavies stepping up close to their employer, who was looking into the distance. Ryan was trying hard not to look at Carol Chamberlain.
'You remember Carol?' Thorne said. 'DI Manley, as she'd have been when you last saw her.'
'It took you a moment, though, didn't it?' Chamberlain took a step to her left, placed herself in Ryan's line of vision.
'That would have been the Jessica Clarke case, wouldn't it, Mr. Ryan?'
'I don't think it's quite come back to him,' Chamberlain said. 'The girl who was set on fire? These things can slip your mind, I understand that.'
'It was Gordon Rooker who got sent down for that, wasn't it? I think we were talking about him a few days ago, weren't we, Mr. Ryan?' The wind was rushing up the narrow street. It lifted the hair from the collar of Ryan's overcoat as he spun around. 'I'll say the same thing I said then, in case your memory's playing up. I haven't had the displeasure of thinking about that piece of shite for a long time.'
'That's funny,' Thorne said. 'Because he's been thinking about you. He specifically asked me to say 'hello'.' Ryan's mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed. Thorne reckoned it was more than just the wind that was slapping him around the face.
'So hello,' Thorne said.
Thorne saw the relief flood suddenly into Ryan's face. He watched him step quickly past him the instant he heard the noise of the engine. Thorne turned to see a black people-carrier roar up to the kerb and screech to a halt. The door was already open and Stephen Ryan jumped out.
Thorne gave Ryan's son a wave and received a cold stare in return. Stephen shrugged as his father barged past him. 'Sorry.'
'Where the fuck have you been?'
Billy Ryan climbed into the car without looking back. He was quickly followed by his son and the two heavies, who pushed past Thorne and Chamberlain without any delicacy. As Moloney marched up, the driver's window slid down. Thorne recognised the receptionist he'd exchanged pleasantries with at Ryan's office.
'Sorry, Marcus. Traffic's fucked all over the West End.' Moloney ignored him and moved to the rear door. With one foot already inside the car, he looked at Thorne. 'Careful you don't get shot.'
Thorne opened his mouth, took a step towards the car. Moloney pointed over Thorne's shoulder towards the arcade: 'The shoot-'em-ups.' He pulled the door shut and the car moved quickly away from the kerb.
'What was all that 'hello' business?' Chamberlain asked. Thorne watched Ryan's car turn the corner and disappear. 'Politeness costs nothing. What time's your train?'
'Last one's just before eleven.'
'Let's get some food.'
Marcus Moloney downed almost half his Guinness in one go. He set the glass down on the bar and leaned back in his chair.
'Tough day, mate?' said the man next to him. Moloney grunted, picked up the glass again. It wasn't so much the day as the last few hours. First the business outside the arcade, and then the fallout: all the way back to Ryan's place in Finchley, Moloney had been given an earful. Whatever it was that Thorne and the woman had been going on about, it had got his boss very wound up. As if things weren't tense enough already, with everything that was going on. Still, Ryan was safe at home now, taking it all out on his wife. She'd be doing what had to be done. She'd be making all the right noises, massaging his ego and anything else he fancied, and thanking Christ that he still hadn't found out about the landscape gardener who was giving her one three times a week.
Moloney downed some more of the Guinness. His pager was on, as always, but his time was his own for a few precious hours and he was keen to unwind a little.
He had known plenty of coppers like Thorne before. With the bent ones, it was easy. You knew what made
