than when the woman had said it.
'I just thought you might like to know that we found a couple more of your missing DVD players,' Thorne said.
Memet smiled, but the effort was obvious. 'Well done.'
'They're turning up all over the place. This lot were working in kitchens and cleaning cars. Maybe one day we'll find out exactly where they came from. What d'you reckon?'
'Good luck.'
'Where's Tan, by the way?'
Memet wiped water from his eyes, grunted a lack of understanding.
'Well, Hassan's out there waiting his turn like a good boy, and I know how close the three of you are, so I was just wondering where the baby of the family had got to?'
'My brother's on holiday.'
'Oh, right.' So, Tan was almost certainly the one who had put six bullets into Donal Jackson. Thorne wasn't hugely surprised. 'A sudden urge to get away, was it? You can get some very good last-minute deals if you shop around.'
'He was upset after what happened. After the shooting.'
'I'm sure it was very traumatic for all of you.' Memet's face darkened suddenly. 'Hassan was nearly killed. In the middle of the day, a man walks in with a gun.'
'I know. Not very sporting, was it? Thank heavens for that mysterious second gunman. You sure it was a gunman, by the way? It couldn't have been Batman or Wonder Woman, could it?'
Memet said nothing. He moved his arm back and forth through the water. The banter was done with.
The plastic tiles squeaked beneath Thorne's shoes as he took a step towards the Jacuzzi. 'So, here's the thing: I think Stephen Ryan's a shit bag and I'm not a great deal fonder of you. In fact, if Ryan was sharing your bathwater right now, I'd be head of the queue to chuck a three-bar fire in.'
'Am I supposed to be upset?'
'You're supposed to listen. There's not going to be any retaliation for what happened in the minicab office, do you understand? It's over. You boys can all put your guns down now.'
'You don't know what you're talking about.'
'I don't care what the 'policy' is on this. I don't give a toss about efforts being concentrated elsewhere, about resources being redistributed or even about the fact that you fuckers are doing us all a favour by killing each other. I'm just telling you this: if any more bodies turn up, if Stephen Ryan's cousin's auntie's best mate's brother- in-law so much as twists his ankle, I'll start making a major nuisance of myself. Whatever the official position on this might be, I'm not going anywhere.'
There was amusement in Memet's voice, but also genuine confusion and curiosity. 'Why are you taking all of this so.. personally?' Suddenly, Thorne felt helpless, like the tiny, impotent figure that he'd imagined his father to be. The words he wanted to say were vast and deafening. They were made to be roared or screamed. To be sucked up and spat like powerful poison. Instead, Thorne heard them departing from his mouth as little more than murmurs, half hearted and sullen.
'Because you don't stop where other people do,' he said. He looked at the floor as he spoke, sweat stinging his eyes. He stared at the strip of grubby mastic where the tiles met the base of the Jacuzzi. 'Because you don't have a line.'
There was a long moment of silence, of stillness, before Memet heaved himself on to the edge of the bath. Water gathered in thick droplets on his round shoulders. It ran through the dark hair clinging to the fat on his chest and belly.
'I will talk to those with some influence in the community.'
'Don't start with that 'pillar of the community' bollocks.' Thorne wasn't murmuring now. 'I heard enough of it at that hotel.'
'My family has done all that was asked of us.'
'Does Mrs. Zarif know about these lunchtime hand-jobs, by the way?'
'You're starting to sound very desperate.'
'Whatever it takes.'
Memet sat and dripped.
'Talk to me about what you do,' Thorne said. 'Here and now, come on. Tell me about the killing, and the buzz or whatever it is, that you get from controlling people's lives. It can't just be about the money.' He paused as Memet climbed to his feet and stared at him, a defiance in his stance, some strange challenge in his nakedness.
'There's nobody worth hiding from in here, is there?' Thorne said. The water was cooling, but the room seemed to be growing hotter by the second. 'It's just the two of us. I'm not writing anything down, my memory's not what it was and I haven't got a tape recorder in my pocket, so it stays in this room. Every bit as discreet as everything else that goes on in here. Talk to me about it honestly. Just once.'
Slowly, Memet reached for the towel that was draped across the arm of the sofa and began to dry himself. 'That day in my father's cafe,' he said. 'You told me to make a wish, remember?' Thorne remembered the lamps hanging from the ceiling, the cigarette smoke dancing around them like a genie. He recalled his parting shot as he'd walked out of the door. 'So, did you make one?'
'I made one, but it didn't come true.' Thorne beat Memet to the punch line. He smiled, but felt the sweat turn to ice at his neck as he spoke. 'Because I'm still here.'
TWENTY-EIGHT
'I knew I should have got a toy or something.'
'Don't worry, I'm sure we can exchange them.'
'You'll be lucky. I've chucked the bloody receipt away.' They spoke quietly, conscious of the baby asleep in a Moses basket beneath the window.
'We can just hang on to them, you never know.' Thorne had known as soon as he'd clapped eyes on Holland's baby that all the clothes he'd bought were far too small. Holland was holding up the tiny outfits, trying and failing to find something positive to say about them.
'What, are you going to have another baby?' Thorne asked.
'Well..' Holland laughed and sipped from a can of lager. Thorne, furious with himself, eventually did the same.
'Sophie's had to nip out and see a mate,' Holland said. 'She'll be sorry she missed you. Said to say 'hello'.' Thorne nodded, feeling himself redden slightly. He knew very well that Holland was lying, that his girlfriend would have done her level best to make herself scarce on learning that Thorne was coming round. For all he knew, she might have been hiding in the bedroom, waiting for him to leave.
They were sitting on the sofa in Holland's living room. The clutter made the first-floor flat seem even smaller than it was. Thorne looked around, thinking that if the rest of the place was as cramped, then Sophie wouldn't have had the room to hide.
Holland read his thoughts. 'Sophie thinks we should find a bigger flat.'
'What do you think?'
'She's right, we should. Whether we can afford to is a different matter.'
'Rack up that overtime, mate.'
'Well I was. God knows whether there'll be any on the cards now.' Though Thorne had brought the beer, he didn't feel much like drinking. He leaned over, put his can down by the side of the sofa. 'Don't worry about it, Dave. The SO7 thing might have gone, but there'll be some nutter out there somewhere putting a bit of work our way soon.' Holland nodded. 'Good. I hope he's a real psycho. We could do with three bedrooms.'
The joke was funny only because of the dark truth that fuelled it. Thorne knew all too well that in a world of uncertainties, in a city of shocking contrasts and shifting ideas, some things were horribly reliable. House prices climbed or tumbled; Spurs had bad seasons or average ones; the mayor was a visionary or an idiot. And the murder
