Ryan took off his sunglasses. As the sun had certainly not gone anywhere, Thorne could only assume that it was some kind of gesture. Maybe Ryan wanted Thorne to see his eyes.
'You don't get to the top in business by walking away when that business is threatened. You stand your ground or somebody takes it.'
'Kevin Kelly walked away,' Thorne said. The sunglasses went back on. 'Before your time, son. You know nothing about it.'
Thorne smiled. 'I know people who were there.'
'Aye, right, course you do. Where is Miss Marple today, anyway?'
'Kevin Kelly walked away and handed the whole shebang over to you. Pretty lucky, considering you hadn't done much to deserve it. The way I understand it, there were others in the firm who might have had a greater claim. Faces who'd done a bit of time, got a decent reputation, you know? Still, it's up to the boss, and when he decides he's had enough, he gives it all to you. You must have done some serious brown-nosing to get the nod, Billy.' Ryan said nothing. The sun highlighted the sheen of lacquer on his hair.
'So, Kevin Kelly buggers off to the country, thankful that his little girl isn't the one who looks like the Phantom of the Opera, and the Kelly family becomes the Ryan family.'
'The old woman's memory must be going,' Ryan said. 'I remember different.'
'What happened at that school, terrible as it was, disgusting as it was, did you a bit of a favour, I'd say.'
Somewhere in the trees at the edge of the green, a dog was barking, but Ryan didn't take his eyes from Thorne. He nodded knowingly. 'I wondered when you were going to bring up Gordon Rooker again.' Thorne looked equally knowing. 'I didn't,' Thorne said. He didn't need to see Ryan's eyes to know that they had darkened. Ryan began walking towards the trees, quicker this time. Thorne stayed a pace or two behind, raising his voice as he followed:
'I don't know whether you heard what happened to Mr. Rooker. You know, seeing as you mention him. He was attacked in prison apparently. Stabbed in the stomach. While he was painting, of all things. He's all right now, in case you were worried. He's safe now.' Ryan stopped. He was trying to smile, but his lips were pursed, his teeth well out of sight. 'Is this official?' Thorne considered the question. He noticed that Ryan was shuffling his feet and remembered that he'd done the same thing outside the arcade, waiting for his car. 'Well, I'm being paid for it.'
'Because there's really no fucking point to it, is there? Whatever it is you're expecting me to say, even if I say it, it won't get you anywhere. Not unless you're recording it and, to be honest, mate, even then, there are people getting paid by me who make sure that kind of shit doesn't stand up. So, I think we're done chatting.'
'I'm not recording anything,' Thorne said. 'Really, I'm just interested in where you stand on a few issues, and I'm trying to be up front about it.' He grinned, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. 'Who can be arsed going round the houses? The term we use is 'being lawfully audacious'.'
'The term I use is 'pushing your fucking luck'.' Ryan stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled as he marched off towards the car. Thorne wasn't sure whether he was whistling for his driver or for his dog. Either way, both came running. Outside, it was cold and dark, and the traffic on the North End Road was nose to tail. Inside the car, Thorne was warm, and in a remarkably good mood.
The rest of the day, back at Becke House, had gone pretty well, notably because Tughan and the rest of the Projects Team were spending it over at Barkingside. Thorne had begun scaling a mountain of paperwork. He'd got up to speed on some of the cases that had been nudged on to the back burner over the past few weeks.
He had also caught up on the investigation Holland and Stone had been making into the visitors on the Park Royal security tape.
'Sod all of any significance,' Holland had said. 'The wife and the daughter are what you'd expect: neither of them's Mother Teresa, but I think they're harmless enough. Philip Simmonds, the prison visitor, is definitely a bit spooky, but most of those types are, if you ask me.'
Stone had nodded, added his own observations: 'Wayne Brookhouse, the youngest daughter's ex-boyfriend, is a bit dodgy. No less than you'd expect from a mate of Rooker's. Nothing worse than that, though. Tony Sollinger's dead. Bowel cancer, three weeks ago.' He'd looked up from his scribbled notes. 'How did it go with Ryan, Guv?' Thorne had been pleased with his afternoon stroll in Finchley, and so too was Brigstocke, having finally succeeded in persuading Tughan that they should at least be letting Billy Ryan know that they were still around. It was predictable that Tughan had needed talking into a slightly more forceful approach. It was also ironic, as in theory that was just what the Projects Team was supposed to have. It was the team's bad luck that its DCI thought 'pro- active' was something you took for constipation.
As it happened, most of the teams that made up the Serious and Organised Crime Unit were pro-active to some degree. The Flying Squad TV's Sweeney were the most well known. Using carefully nurtured intelligence sources, they could occasionally prevent armed robberies from taking place, or even catch the villains with the guns in their hands going across the pavement which was the most highly prized result of all.
For Thorne, and others on murder squads, the situation was slightly different. Those who hunted killers could only ever be reactive. You could find out where a robbery was going to take place or which security van might be getting blagged, but you never knew where a body was going to turn up. Usually, of course, you never knew when, either, but, as things stood, Thorne could hazard a guess that one or more would be turning up sooner rather than later… He was coming down through Belsize Park, past the overpriced delicatessens and organic greengrocers', when he suddenly decided that he was going to have an early dinner. He took a left just before Chalk Farm tube station, then cut across to Camden and pointed the BMW towards the Seven Sisters Road. He called Hendricks as he was approaching Manor House and told him that he would be eating out. The food was delicious, and the size of the portions decidedly non-nouvelle.
Arkan Zarif hovered at the table, watching as Thorne took the first mouthful of his main course. Thorne had chosen a dish he'd never seen before spiced lamb meatballs wrapped in a layer of potato. He chewed, nodding enthusiastically, and the old man beamed with delight. 'I picked out the meat,' he said. 'Of course, I cooked it also, but picking out the meat is the important part.' He watched for a few moments more, his mouth gaping, smiling as another forkful went in.
'OK, I leave you to enjoy your dinner.' Thorne swallowed and pointed to the seat opposite. 'No, please. Join me. It's not often you get a chance to eat with the chef.' Zarif nodded. 'I drink a glass of scotch with you.' He turned and spoke in Turkish to his daughter, who stood, scowling, behind the counter. She looked at Thorne, who smiled sweetly back. The old man frowned as he sat down and leaned across to whisper. 'Sema is permanently miserable,' he said. 'It is not your fault.' Thorne watched her pouring a glass of Johnny Walker for her father, and topping it up with mineral water from a plastic bottle. 'Are you sure?
I do tend to have that effect on women.'
Zarif had a wheezy laugh. He repeatedly slapped a huge hand against his chest until it had died away.
Sema brought the drink to the table, then moved back behind the counter without a word.
'Serefe.' Zarif held up his glass.
Thorne was drinking beer. He raised his bottle of Efes.
'It means 'to-our honour'.'
'To our honour,' Thorne said, as the bottle touched the glass. In the minute or so of silence that followed, Thorne devoured most of what was on his plate. He sliced off huge chunks of the meatball, spooned up the rice, washed it down with the cold beer. Zarif took, small sips of his Scotch and water. 'You like the lady's thigh,' he said.
Thorne looked up, chewing. He grunted his confusion.
'This dish is called kadinbudbu. This means 'lady's thigh'. So, you like the lady's thigh. I joke that if you don't enjoy the kadinbudbu, then maybe you don't like ladies. You see?' The wheezy laugh erupted again.
'What about vegetarians?' Thorne asked. Zarif picked up the menu, gave him a look like that just proved the joke was true. 'All the dishes on the menu mean something. Turkish names always have meaning. What was your starter?'
'The fried aubergine.'
Zarif pointed to the dish on the menu. 'Imam bayildi. This means 'the priest fainted'. You see? When this dish was given to the priest, he enjoyed it so much that he fainted from pleasure.'
'I'm sorry I didn't faint,' Thorne said, 'but it was very good.'
