them tick, what got them off. Not that Thorne was necessarily incorruptible; everybody had their price. Moloney saw it offered and accepted every day. Problem was, Thorne was the sort who would take the dirty money, do what was asked of him for a while and then blow up in everyone's face. Do something stupid because he hated himself. It didn't matter if he was bent or not and it was easy enough to find out. Thorne had to be watched. He was definitely going to cause them trouble.
Moloney drained his glass, waved it to get the barman's attention, and nodded for another. The man on the chair next to him got up and asked where he could find the Gents'. Moloney pointed the way and asked if the man wanted a drink. The offer was graciously accepted. While he waited for the beers, Moloney looked around the crowded bar: plenty of faces. He drank in here pretty often, and one or two of the regulars who knew him had already said hello, or offered to buy him a drink, or held up a glass and waved from the other side of the room. A lot of people wanted to know him.
The fact that none of them did, that so few people really knew him, was becoming harder to deal with lately. He was definitely drinking more, flying off the handle at the slightest thing, on the job and at home. It was all down to this war. Things had ratcheted up once the murders had started. What the Zarifs were doing, what Ryan was going to do in return, was the real test…
The man came back from the Gents' and took his seat at the bar. Moloney handed him his pint of lager. When his Guinness had settled and been topped up, he raised the glass.
'Good health,' Moloney said.
Thorne and Chamberlain had shared a bottle and a half of red wine with their dinner, and the thickening head may have had something to do with his reaction, his over-reaction, when he'd walked into the living room. The smell had hit him the second he'd opened the outer door.
'Fucking hell, Phil. Not in my flat…'
'It's only a bit of weed. I'm not shooting up. Jesus.'
'Do it round at Brendan's.'
Hendricks had needed to make a real effort not to laugh, and not just because he was stoned. 'Take a day off, why don't you?' Thorne stalked off towards the kitchen. 'I fucking wish.' Waiting for the kettle to boil, Thorne had calmed down and tried to decide whether to apologise or just pretend the argument had never happened. He'd recently discovered that, within the City of London, a pregnant woman in need of the toilet was still legally allowed to piss in a policeman's helmet. That dope should still be against the law was, he knew, only marginally sillier.
'Make us a piece of toast while you're in there,' Hendricks had shouted.
'What!?
'I'm kidding.' Then, Hendricks hadn't been able to stop himself laughing any more.
If he was honest, it was the associations that went with dope-smoking that riled Thorne. He'd tried it a couple of times at school and, even then, passing an increasingly soggy joint around and talking about how great the shit was and how they all had the munchies seemed ridiculous to him. The drugs being taken in the corners of playgrounds these days were more dangerous, but there was none of that palaver. The kids just dropped a pill and got on with it.
There was also the fact that his ex-wife had liked the occasional joint, provided, so it turned out, by the creative-writing lecturer she'd later left him for. Thorne had smelled it on him, the day he'd walked up his own stairs and dragged the skinny sod out of his own bed. Why he hadn't punched him or put in an anonymous call to the Drugs Squad was still something Thorne occasionally woke up wondering about.
Thorne had mumbled something approaching an apology as he'd carried his tea into the living room. Hendricks had smiled and shaken his head. They sat listening to the first Gram Parsons album. Thorne was wide awake and watched as Hendricks grew drowsier, then perked up, then began to wilt again.
'The shit we have to deal with is the price we pay for being human,' Hendricks announced, out of the blue.
Thorne slurped his tea. 'Right.'
'The difference between us and dogs or dolphins or whatever.' Hendricks took a drag of his joint. He was starting to sound a little like someone stoned on a sketch-show. 'We're the only animal that has an imagination.'
'As far as we know.' Thorne said.
'As far as we know, yeah. And all the dark, dark shit that gets done to people, the killing and the torture, started off as pictures in some weirdo's head. It all has to be imagined!
Thorne thought about what Hendricks was saying. It made sense, though how some of the horrors they'd both encountered over the years had ever been imagined by anybody was beyond him. 'So?'
'So… that's the flip side of all the beautiful stuff. We get people who imagine great works of art and books and gardens and music, but the same imagination that creates that can also imagine the Holocaust, or setting fire to kids, or whatever.'
'All right, Phil…'
'You want one, you have to live with the other.' They sat in silence for a while.
Finally, Hendricks leaned forward to stub out what was left of the joint, and to sum up: 'Basically you want Shakespeare, you also get Shipman.'
Dark as the conversation had become, Thorne suddenly found the concept strangely funny. 'Right.' He nodded towards the stereo. 'Serial killers are the price we pay for country music'
A massive grin spread slowly across Hendricks' face. 'I think… that… is a very tough choice.'
Moloney had decided to make a night of it. He strutted out into the freezing car park at closing time, full of Guinness and full of himself. 'Don't worry, I know a few places where we can still get a drink.' Moloney chuckled and threw an arm around the shoulder of his new best friend. 'Actually,' he said, 'I know plenty of fucking places.'
His drinking partner expressed surprise that Moloney was planning to drive. He asked him if he was worried about being pulled over. Moloney unlocked the Jag. 'I've been stopped a few times.' He winked.
'It's not normally a problem.'
'After you've been drinking?'
'They tend to look the other way.'
'Nice to have a bit of influence,' said his friend.
'Better than nice. Get in.'
They drove south through Islington, crossing the Essex Road and heading towards the City. The traffic was light and Moloney put his foot down at every opportunity. 'This place I'm taking us, behind the Barbican, there's usually a bit of spare knocking about as well. We lay out a few quid, they'll give us a good night. Up for that?' It was as the Jag was moving far too fast towards the roundabout at Old Street that the man in the passenger seat placed the muzzle of the Glock against Moloney's waist.
'Go left and head for Bethnal Green.'
'What? Fuck.'
The gun was rammed into Moloney hard enough to crack a rib, to push him against the driver's side door. He cried out and struggled to keep his feet on the pedals.
Moloney drove, following the instructions he was given, body seizing up and mind racing. He knew that there was no way he could reach his own gun. He knew that nobody had a clue where he was. He knew, now, that he was not a brave man. Every breath was an effort. Any attempt to speak resulted in another jolt of agony as the gun was jammed hard against the broken rib.
The traffic and the lights melted away behind them as Moloney steered the Jag off a quiet road and on to a narrow, rutted path. They crossed slowly over a stretch of black water, still, like motor oil, on either side of a graffiti-covered bridge.
'Pull up over there.'
As soon as the car was stationary, the man raised the gun and pressed it against Moloney's ear. He leaned across to the dashboard and turned off the headlights.
Moloney closed his eyes. 'Please.' He felt the man's hand reach inside his jacket, move slowly around until it
