he stood. It had been explained to him through appropriate channels that, in the immediate aftermath of Billy Ryan's murder, his peace of mind was pretty low on everybody's list of priorities.
Now, face to face with Thorne for the first time since Ryan's death, Rooker was still looking for an answer. Well? What level do I get?' Thorne sniffed, nodded thoughtfully. 'I think maybe a more basic method of disguise, as opposed to a completely new identity, and perhaps some means of raising the alarm should you feel threatened.'
'Come again?'
Holland smirked. 'A wig and a whistle.'
'Oh, fuck off and behave yourselves.' On a practical level, no one had so much as decided where Rooker should even go. He was still on the protected witness wing in Salisbury, which did seem pretty stupid. He could be transferred back to the VP wing at Park Royal or even, it had been suggested, back into the general prison population elsewhere, now that he was obviously in no danger from Billy Ryan. This idea had thrown Rooker into such a furious panic that the solicitor who'd passed on the information had briefly feared for his physical safety. In the end, unable to make a quick decision, they'd decided to leave him where he was. It was where he wanted to be, but Rooker still seemed far from content..
'I don't understand,' Holland said. 'I thought you'd be delighted that Billy Ryan was six feet under.'
Rooker sucked his teeth. 'Ten feet would be better. Yeah, if I had one, I'd've raised a glass to Alison Kelly for sticking a knife in the cunt, course I would. Shame it wasn't a paintbrush.'
'So, why are we here?' Thorne asked. 'Frankly, we've got better things to do.'
'How d'you know I'm not still a target?' Thorne pretended to rack his brains. 'Oh, I don't know. Maybe because Billy Ryan's pushing up daisies in St. Pancras Cemetery.'
'What about Stephen?'
'What about him?' Holland said.
'Nobody knows what he's likely to do.' Thorne glanced at Holland. He had to admit that Rooker had a point. Since his father's murder, a great deal of time had been spent fruitlessly speculating as to exactly how Stephen Ryan was going to react.
'He might decide to play the big man,' Rooker said. 'Come after me because of his father.'
Holland picked at a fingernail. 'Can't see it, Gordon. I know Steve's not the sharpest tool in the box, but even he knows you didn't top his old man.'
Rooker's eyes narrowed. 'You know perfectly fucking well what I mean.'
Holland's mood changed in an instant. 'Watch your mouth.'
'Sorry. Look, I just think that now might be a good time to tie up a few loose ends, you know? And I think they'll use someone a bit more reliable than Alun Fisher next time.'
'I really don't think so,' Thorne said. 'We aren't the only ones with better things to do. Stephen Ryan's got quite enough to worry about at the moment..'
The man on the motorbike pulled over to the pavement and waited. He sat letting the traffic move past him, revving the bike for no good reason. Letting his breathing grow shallower.
It was a hot day and he'd have been sweating under his gear anyway, but in those places where the leather met flesh, the two skins slid across each other on a sheen of perspiration.
He raised the dark visor just a little and took a few gulps of air that was anything but fresh. He swallowed petrol fumes and hot tar. He could taste the flavoured grease from the seemingly endless parade of fast-food outlets on this stretch of the Seven Sisters Road. The bike, which had been his only since that morning, had cut easily through the traffic, and he was well ahead of schedule. He thought about parking up and grabbing a Coke but knew that he'd be taking a stupid risk. He had a bottle of water in the box on the back, along with a few other bits and pieces. There'd be somewhere better to stop up ahead. Maybe he could take a stroll around Finsbury Park, kill some time before delivering the message.
This was a big job, his biggest yet. He'd told his wife to pack for a spring break. All the swimming things and plenty of high-factor sun cream for the kids. He'd told her that it was a surprise, knowing that she'd be thrilled to bits with the amazing place he'd booked for them all in the Maldives. Four weeks, fully catered, would make a big hole in what he was getting for the job, but there'd still be a decent amount left for other things. They'd been talking about shelling out to send their eldest private. The secondary schools in his part of Islington were a disgrace, and going private was a damn sight cheaper than upping sticks and moving. They'd have enough to cover three or four years at least, and still have some left over to tart up the house a bit. A conservatory maybe, or a loft conversion. He knew a few builders, people who'd give him a good price and still do a top-notch job.
Doing a good job without charging silly money. It was simple really. He thought that he could build a decent reputation for himself by doing the same thing. He knew there were others, a few foreigners especially, who asked for more, but he believed that pitching yourself somewhere in the middle was the best policy long term. He flicked on his indicator, edged the bike's front wheel towards the road.
Not the cheapest, but one of the best: that was what he wanted people to think. All anyone really wanted was to believe they were getting value for money, wasn't it? Everyone loved a bargain. A lorry's horn blared as it rumbled by him. He pulled out into the stream of traffic, accelerated, and overtook it within seconds. Rooker was standing. Maybe he thought it gave him some authority. 'We had an agreement,' he said.
Thorne leaned back in his chair. He knew exactly how much authority he had. 'I'm a police officer, and, unless I'm much mistaken, you're a convicted felon. This is a prison, not a gentleman's club, and the only part of you I'd ever consider shaking is your neck. Are we clear?'
Rooker ground his teeth.
'Any agreement you might have thought you had is worth precisely less than fuck all,' Holland said.
Thorne shrugged. 'Sorry.'
Rooker sloped across the room, dragged back his chair and sank on to it. He pushed a palm back and forth across white stubble, the loose skin beneath his chin shaking gently. 'There's stuff I know,' he said.
'Stuff about plenty of people. I told some of it to DCI Tughan's boys, but there's other bits and pieces. There's a few things I kept back.'
'Why was that, then?' Thorne asked.
'Because I wasn't sure you lot were being completely straight with me.'
Holland laughed. 'Straight with you?'
'I was right as well, wasn't I?' Rooker smiled thinly. His tongue flicked the spit away from his gold tooth.
Thorne could well believe that Rooker hadn't told them everything. He could equally well believe that Tughan had kept a few pieces of information back from the team himself. Thorne didn't really give a toss on either score.
'Whatever you may, or may not, have told SO7, the deal was based on you helping to put Billy Ryan away.'
Holland took over. 'Now that he's been put away for good, you're not a great deal of use.'
'I want to talk to Tughan.'
'You can talk to whoever you like,' Thorne said. 'I'm sick of listening to you.' He reached behind for the leather jacket that was draped across the back of the chair.
Rooker slid a hand forward, slapped a palm down on the scarred metal tabletop. It was a gesture of frustration as much as anger. 'I need to get out. I was supposed to get out.'
'You'll be out soon enough,' Holland said. Rooker spoke as if his mouth were filled with something sour, with something burned. 'No. Not soon enough.'
'Unfortunate turn of phrase, Holland.' Thorne pulled on his jacket.
'Without your say-so I'll never get through the DLP next week. Those evil bastards'll make sure I die inside.'
'You'll get out eventually,' Holland said. 'Think how much more enjoyable it'll be. Things are always better when you've looked forward to them for a while.'
Thorne tried to catch Rooker's eye. The irises, green against off-white, darted around like cornered rats. 'Especially now you don't have to worry about Billy Ryan paying someone to put a bullet in your spine.'
'Well you certainly won't be worrying about it,' Rooker said. Holland stood, tucked in his chair. 'I reckon you've probably still got time to do something useful,' he said. 'Why not squeeze in a quick degree? Come out with
