Because of the darkness on the other side of the window, it took Thorne a few seconds to realise that they'd entered a tunnel. He checked the phone. This time he had lost the signal. He stared into space for a few minutes, then reached across the aisle for a newspaper that had been discarded on a table. He turned it over and began to read. He was asleep before he'd finished the back page.
NINETEEN
The waitress slid a plate of perfectly arranged biscuits into the middle of the table. She picked up the empty tray and moved back, stopping at the door to cast a somewhat perplexed glance back towards the group of men and women gathered in the conference room. It was certainly an odd collection.
Detective Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond cleared his throat noisily and waited for silence. 'Shall we get started, ladies and gentlemen?' Tea and coffee were poured as Jesmond made the introductions.
There were seven people around the long, rectangular table. Jesmond was at the head, with a Turkish- speaking uniformed WPC adjacent to his right. Further down the same side of the table sat Memet Zarif, who was next to an elderly man, described as a well-respected Turkish community leader. Opposite them sat Stephen Ryan and a smartly dressed woman named Helen Brimson, introduced by Jesmond as the solicitor representing Ryan Properties. The last person to be introduced sat sweating beneath his leather jacket, a pen in his hand and a sheaf of paper in front of him.
'DI Thorne will be taking notes. Keeping minutes of the meeting.'
Helen Brimson sat forward and cut in: 'I presume these proceedings will be subject to a valid Public Interest Immunity Certificate?' Jesmond nodded, and kept on nodding as she continued.
'I want it confirmed that any notes taken will form the basis of an internal police document only, that they will not be disclosed in open court should any action arise at a later date.' Thorne scribbled without thinking, hoping that there wouldn't be too much more of this legal bullshit to wade through.
'This meeting is purely part of an ongoing process of community consultation,' Jesmond said. He held out his arms. 'I'm grateful that everyone has agreed to take part, and to come here this morning.'
'Here was a bland and anonymous hotel just outside Maidenhead. A businessman's hotel, like any one of a hundred others around the M25. Easy enough to reach and far enough away from the spotlight. This was what Tughan had been talking about a little over a week before getting them around the table, trying to put an end to it. Zarif placed a hand on the shoulder of the man next to him, the 'well-respected community leader'. The pair of them wore smart suits and tidy smiles. 'My brothers and I have been asked, through our good friend here, to assist the police in any way we can,' he said. 'I would like to think that we were already doing everything in our power to aid these investigations, but if there is anything else we can do, of course we shall be happy to do it.'
Jesmond nodded. Thorne scribbled. There was clearly going to be a lot of bullshit flying around.
'The same goes for myself,' Stephen Ryan said. A thick gold chain hung at his throat. A pricey suede jacket over the open-necked shirt. 'It goes for my father and for everyone connected with Ryan Properties. An important business meeting has meant that my father can't be here today, but he wanted me to stress his disgust at these killings.' Thorne could barely believe his ears. He thought about Alison Kelly. It had been just over a week since their phone conversation on the train. There had been no contact between them since.
'…and his desire to prevent any further bloodshed.' Ryan looked along the table at Thorne. 'Are you going to write that down?' Thorne thought, I'd like to take this pen and write something across your face, you smug little shitehawk.
He wrote: Ryan. Disgust. Desire.
Jesmond snapped a biscuit in half, careful to shake the crumbs on to the plate. 'I don't need to tell any of you that this is what we want to hear. But we need action if anything's going to change. If this bloodshed you refer to is really going to stop.'
'Of course,' Zarif said.
Ryan held up his hands: Goes without saying.
Jesmond put on his glasses, reached for a piece of paper and started to read the names printed on it. 'Anthony Wright. John Gildea. Sean Anderson. Michael Clayton. Muslum Izzigil. Hanya Izzigil. Detective Sergeant Marcus Moloney.' Jesmond paused there, looked around the table. 'Most recently, Francis Cullen, a long-distance lorry-driver and two as yet unidentified bodies found along with his.' Thorne looked at Ryan, then at Zarif. Both wore serious expressions, suitably sombre in response to the roll-call of victims. Those they had lost. Those they had murdered.
'These are the deaths we know about.' Jesmond said. 'These are the murders we are currently investigating, all of which, to some degree, have involved your families or your businesses.' Ryan's solicitor tried to cut in.
Jesmond held up a hand. 'Have, at the very least, affected your families or your businesses. Miss Brimson?'
'I have advised my client that, for the purposes of this meeting, he should say nothing in relation to any specific case on which you might ask him to comment.'
'Who's being specific?' Thorne asked. He received an icy smile. ''Might', I said. Might.'
'I'll make sure I underline it,' Thorne said. Zarif poured himself a second cup of coffee. 'It's a shame that this is your attitude, Mr. Ryan. It is people's refusal to speak about these things, to get involved, that is so dangerous. It's what makes these murders possible.'
The old man next to him tugged at his beard, nodding enthusiastically.
'There are some in my community who are afraid to speak up,' Zarif said. He looked towards Jesmond. 'We had thought that those in Mr. Ryan's. circle might be a little less fearful.' Zarif was pressing all the right buttons. Ryan's anger was controlled but obvious.
For a long ten seconds no one spoke. Thorne listened to the sound of the cars on the nearby motorway, the rattle of a fan above one of the ceiling vents. The weather had taken a turn for the better in recent days and the room felt arid and airless.
'These killings, whoever and whatever the victims might have been, are simply unacceptable,' Jesmond said eventually. 'They hurt people across a wide range of communities. They hurt people and they hurt businesses.'
Thorne wrote, thinking, They hurt your chances of promotion. Ryan smiled thinly. 'Sometimes they're the same thing.'
'I'm sorry?' Jesmond said.
'People and business.' Ryan leaned forward, looked hard at Zarif across the table. 'Sometimes, your business might actually be people. You know what I mean?'
Now it was Zarif's turn to exercise some control. He knew that Ryan was talking about the people smuggling, about the hijack. He turned to the old man next to him and muttered something in Turkish. When Zarif had finished, the Turkish-speaking officer translated for Jesmond. 'There was some swearing,' she began. Thorne looked at Zarif's face. He wasn't surprised.
'Mr. Zarif said that some people should think a little about what they were saying before they opened their mouths. opened their stupid mouths.'
Thorne looked from Ryan to Zarif, in the vain hope that the two of them might clamber on to the table and get stuck into each other. Go on, he thought, Let's end it here and now.
Jesmond thanked the WPC. Thorne looked across and caught her eye. He'd forgotten her name. He knew that she was there to ensure that any incriminating statement could be noted, however inadmissible it would later prove to be. He knew there was fat chance of anything much that mattered being said by anybody. This was politics and pussyfooting. The whole seemingly pointless exercise was about what was not being said.
'We need to be united in our efforts,' Jesmond said. He looked around the table until he was satisfied that tempers were being held in check.
'There seems little point in continuing', Brimson said, 'if my client has to sit here and be insulted.'
Thorne glanced at her and Ryan. Their arms were touching, and he idly began to wonder if they might be sleeping together. He knew Brimson was only doing her job, but surely there had to be some other reason why the
