FIFTEEN
Rooker had been moved earlier that week to HMP Salisbury, one of a handful of prisons in the country with a protected witness wing. He'd pronounced himself delighted with the move. Now he was rattling around with only half a dozen other cons for company and not a paintbrush in sight.
'How did Billy Ryan first approach you?' Thorne asked. 'How was the idea of killing Alison Kelly first brought up?' The purpose-built interview suite had freshly decorated pale yellow walls, but was still a lot less glamorous than it sounded. Whoever had designed and equipped the place hadn't put in a long day: a table, chairs, recording equipment, an ashtray.
Rooker cleared his throat. 'I'd met Ryan a couple of times.'
'Like when you got the original contract on Kevin Kelly?'
'I'm not talking about that.'
'Ryan hired you for that as well, though, didn't he?'
'I thought we'd got past this.'
'It's amazing he came back to you after you'd messed that one up.' Rooker sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He looked like a sulky kid.
'Listen,' Thorne said. 'This is going to get brought up in court. Ryan's brief is going to be all over you, doing as much as he can to discredit your statement. You're not exactly a model citizen, are you?'
Rooker leaned forward slowly, pulled his tobacco tin across the table and began to roll up. He was a different character from the one Thorne had first met at Park Royal a month before. It was clear that he had still not fully recovered from the stabbing, but also that his initial cockiness was far from being the whole story. Thorne knew very well that survival in prison was all about front. All about what others thought you were. Pretence could be every bit as useful as a phone card or a stolen chisel.
'The point is that I was perfect,' Rooker said. 'The word was that I had been the one hired to do Kevin Kelly the year before.'
'Right. The word.'
'Like I said, that's what everyone thought. Which made me the ideal choice for Billy Ryan when he decided to do the daughter.'
'The perfect cover.'
'Exactly.'
Rooker's cigarette was already alight. Thorne watched the smoke rise, remembering the words he'd spoken to Memet Zarif a week before, envious now, as he had been then. As he was around anyone who still had the joy of smoking. Some of Thorne's more prosaic dreams were filled with smoke-rings and nicotine and the glorious tightening in the chest as it hits.
'So, how did Ryan make the approach? He couldn't risk being seen with you.'
'Not straight away, no. It was all arranged by a third party. A face called Harry Little. He's dead now.'
'In suspicious circumstances?'
'Not as far as I know. He was in his late fifties back then, I think.'
'Go on.'
'We met in a pub in Camden. It might have been the Dublin Castle, I can't remember. Anyway, Harry was all over me. Very friendly. We'd never been particularly matey, so I knew he was after something, and I knew it was something heavy because he had a reputation, you know? He starts talking about Billy Ryan, going round the houses with it. I mean, we're getting through a fair few pints, know what I mean?
Eventually, he says that Billy wants a meet, and that he'd be in touch with when and where and what have you, and it was obvious even then that this was something a bit special.' He saw enough of a change in Thorne's face to qualify what he'd said. 'Special as in different-, you know? From the normal run of things.'
Thorne nodded. The normal run of things. Putting a bullet in the back of somebody's head, or throwing them out of a window, or beating them to death… 'Where did the meet with Ryan take place?' Rooker stubbed out his fag and pushed his back chair. 'Listen, can we take a quick break? I really need to have a piss…' While Rooker was gone, Thorne stood and stretched his legs. He walked to the far wall, leaned against it and closed his eyes. The faces shifted around in his mind, jockeying for position: Billy Ryan, Memet Zarif, Marcus Moloney, Ian Clarke, Carol Chamberlain. The dead faces of Muslum and Hanya Izzigil. The face of their son, Yusuf. The two faces of Jessica Clarke.
A prison officer opened the door and ushered Rooker back into the room. Thorne rejoined him at the table.
'Have you got any children, Mr. Thorne?'
'No.'
Rooker sat and shrugged, as though whatever he was going to say was no longer relevant, or would not make any sense.
Thorne was curious, but keener still to crack on. To get out. He hit the red button on the twin-cassette recorder that was secured to the wall. 'Interview commencing again at… eleven forty-five a.m.' He looked at Rooker. The lid was already off the tobacco tin again. 'Tell me what happened when you met with Billy Ryan.'
'It was a track through Epping Forest, up near Loughton. I just got the call from Harry Little one night and drove up there.'
'There were just the two of you?'
Rooker nodded. 'We sat in Ryan's car and he told me what he wanted.'
'He told you that he wanted you to kill Kevin Kelly's daughter, Alison.'
Rooker looked directly into Thorne's eyes. He knew this was the important stuff. 'Yes, he did.'
'What did you think?'
Rooker seemed confused.
'Well, like you said, this was different from the normal run of things.'
'Everybody knew that Ryan was a bit mental.'
'But still, a child?'
'He wanted a war. He wanted to do something that would send the whole fucking lot spinning out of control, you know?' Thorne blinked and remembered Ryan's face close to his own, the cheeks almost as red as his scarf. The eyes glassy. The faintest quiver around the small mouth as he spoke: 'I think we're done chatting.'
'Was it Ryan's idea?' he asked. 'The burning?'
'Christ, yes.' Rooker ran a hand through his hair, sending a shower of tiny white flakes floating down to the table. 'He thought that since it was something I'd done before, I might be more comfortable with it.'
'Comfortable?'
'I told you. He was mental.'
'It was something you were known for, though? The fire? The lighter fluid? So, when Ryan suggested it as a method, didn't you hear any alarm bells?'
'What?' Rooker grinned. 'Fire-alarm bells, you mean?' Thorne's face was blank. 'Look at me, Gordon. I'm pissing myself.'
'Sorry.'
'Weren't you even a little bit suspicious?' Rooker took a long drag, then another, held the smoke in.
'Come on, it was obviously going to point to you, wasn't it? Are you seriously telling me that while you were busy thinking how mental Ryan was, you didn't for one moment think that he might be planning to set you up?'
The smoke drifted out on a noisy sigh. 'Later I did. I realised afterwards, after it had happened and I was being fingered for it anyway. Yeah, then it was fucking obvious, and I knew I'd been stupid, but it was a bit late. I was in the frame and Ryan had his excuse to come after me. By then, of course, I knew damn well that he really needed me out of the way to shut me up.'
'So, what did you think when he asked you?'
'I thought, No fucking way.'
'Because it was risky?'
'Because it was a fucking kid.'
