decision about Billy Ryan.'
Since they'd changed their minds about Gordon Rooker, the joint operation had divided itself, somewhat less than perfectly, into two distinct strands. There was, understandably, a major emphasis being placed on catching the man who'd tried to set light to the girl in Swiss Cottage, but that investigation hadn't turned up anything within the all-important first twenty-four hours. In spite of the time and location of the attack, there wasn't a single useful description. The man's face had been hidden beneath the hood of his anorak, while witness accounts of height and build had varied as much as might be expected, bearing in mind the thick, cold-weather clothing and hunched posture of the attacker.
The girl herself was already back at school, while her mother was cashing in, discussing her daughter's lucky escape and the shocking ineptitude of the police on any TV or radio show that would have her. Her daughter had been selected, as far as anyone could ascertain, completely at random. Another brick wall. It wasn't that the leads weren't going anywhere. There simply weren't any in the first place. Meanwhile, whether he was connected to what had happened in Swiss Cottage or not, there was still Billy Ryan. While a case against him was being built behind prison walls, there was uncertainty about how those on the ground should proceed.
Nick Tughan was all for the softly-softly approach. There was still the dispute with the Zarif brothers to be dealt with, and Tughan didn't think there was anything to be gained by confronting Ryan directly about Rooker, or about Jessica Clarke. For once, Thorne had been largely a spectator when things had come to a head in the middle of the previous week.
'We're working with Rooker,' Tughan had said. 'We're putting the evidence against Ryan together, but while that's happening there's still the minor matter of a gang war going on. My first responsibility is to make sure there's no more killing.'
Brigstocke had gone in studs-up. 'Come on, Nick. This is hardly about saving innocent lives, is it?'
Tughan reacted angrily. 'Tell me Hanya Izzigil wasn't innocent. Tell me Marcus Moloney wasn't.'
Brigstocke had looked at his feet, then sidelong at Thorne. He hadn't got off to a very good start.
'We don't know what Ryan's going to do next.' Tughan had wandered to the window then and looked out across the North Circular. 'He tried to sort Rooker out and he screwed it up. He's going to have to respond to Moloney's murder sooner or later. It's been nearly a fortnight.' He turned and held up a hand before Thorne could say anything. 'Even if it was him who had Moloney killed, it's going to look bloody funny if he doesn't retaliate, isn't it?'
'Why don't we press him on Moloney, then?' Brigstocke had asked. 'Why don't we press the fucker on a lot of things?'
'This isn't just about Ryan, by the way. Whatever happens, I want the Zarifs as well.'
'Obviously, but we're talking about Billy Ryan, and right now there's a lot of sitting about on our arses. We should be trying to disrupt his operations.'
The commanding view of cars and concrete was obviously too much for Tughan to resist. After a few moments' thinking, or pretending to think, he turned back to the window. 'Let's just wait.' Brigstocke had let out a weary sigh. 'Rooker might not be enough, Nick. I think we should get everything we can.' There was only ever going to be one side Thorne was on, and he couldn't resist chipping in for very long. 'You were the one who said Rooker was unreliable.' He had taken a step to his left so that he could at least see the side of Tughan's face. 'Don't you think a jury might agree with you? However good the evidence is, Rooker just might not be a credible witness. Ryan's legal team are going to be doing their best to make him look anything but credible. It can't hurt to go after something else to back him up, can it?'
Brigstocke had held up his hands. 'I don't see how it can.'
'Let's just remind Ryan that we haven't forgotten him,' Thorne had suggested. 'Stir things up a bit.' Now, days later, sitting in his office with Yvonne Kitson, Thorne was still smiling about what Tughan had said next: 'That's what you're good at, isn't it, Tom? Stirring things up. You're a spoon on legs.' Kitson spun her chair around to face him. 'Is Brigstocke winning the argument, d'you reckon?'
'Russell gives as good as he gets,' Thorne said, 'but he needs a prod every now and again. I reminded him that he was a DCI as well, and he got a bit shirty.' Kitson laughed. 'I think he might just go over Tughan's head.'
Thorne looked across at Kitson and suddenly remembered a moment sitting in the same office with her the year before. He'd been watching her eat her lunch, staring as she took her sandwiches from the Tupperware container and unwrapped the foil. He'd thought she had everything under control.
Thorne's stomach growled. Karim was bringing him back a cheese roll from the pub. Surely even the Oak's culinary wizard couldn't fuck that up.
'What are you doing for lunch, Yvonne?'
Before she could answer, there was a knock, and Holland put his head round the door. He came in, followed by Andy Stone, and together they gave Thorne a rundown on the morning's session at Park Royal. Thorne looked at the pictures stills from the tape they'd shown Rooker laid out on his desk in front of him. 'Well, I think we can safely discount the wife, the daughter and the auntie,' he said. Holland pulled a face. 'I'm not being funny, but couldn't any one of them have been passing messages between Rooker and somebody else?' Thorne was not known as the belt-and-braces type. In this case, though, it was better to play it safe. 'Right, sod it,' he said. 'With the exception of the old lady, have a word with all of them.' As he and Holland were leaving, Stone turned back with a grin. 'Are you sure you don't want us to check the old woman out? She looks pretty dodgy to me.'
Thorne nodded. 'Right. The gap between perception and reality.' He looked innocently at Stone. 'I'm sure some of the great philosophers have got plenty to say on the subject, Andy.' Holland fought back a laugh as he quickly stepped out of the room. Stone looked blank as he turned and followed him, leaving Thorne unsure as to whether or not he'd cottoned on.
'What was all that about?' Kitson asked. Thorne was still grinning, highly pleased with himself. 'Just something Holland told me about Andy Stone and his winning ways with the opposite sex.'
'Right. He's a bit of a shagger, isn't he?'
'Apparently. I never seem to meet any, but if some people are to be believed, women are falling over themselves to jump into bed with coppers all of a sudden.'
It took Thorne a second to realise what he'd said, and who he'd said it to. When he looked across at Kitson, the colour had already reached her face.
'Sorry, Yvonne.'
'Don't be stupid.'
He nodded. Stupid was exactly how he felt. 'How is everything?'
'Oh, you know. Shitty.' She smiled and spun her chair towards her desk.
'How're the kids doing?'
The chair came slowly back around again. She obviously wanted to talk.
'The eldest's been playing up a bit at school. It's hard to know whether it's anything to do with what's been happening, but I still manage to convince myself that it is. I try and tell myself not to be so bloody stupid and guilty all the time. Then one of them bangs their head, or twists an ankle playing football, and it feels like it's my fault.'
The phone on Thorne's desk rang, and Kitson stopped talking. It was the security officer at the gatehouse. He told Thorne that somebody had driven up to the barrier and was asking to see him. In point of fact, the woman so the duty officer had explained had not come to see him specifically. He just happened to be the highest-ranking member of Team 3 in the building at the time. It was a piece of luck, both good and bad, that Thorne would reflect on for a long time afterwards.
The woman stood as he came down the stairs into the small reception area. Thorne nodded to the officer on the desk and walked across to her. She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, and tallish, certainly as tall as he was. Her hair was the colour of the cork pin-board on the wall behind his desk, her complexion as pale as the wall itself. She wore smart grey trousers with a matching jacket, and, for no good reason, Thorne wondered if she might be a tax inspector.
'Did you find a parking space?' he asked. On second thoughts, he never imagined civil servants to be quite so attractive. She nodded and held out a hand, which Thorne took. 'I'm Alison Kelly,' she said.
Perhaps the stunned expression on Thorne's face looked a lot like ignorance. She repeated her name, then explained exactly who she was.
