beer and tasty barmaids were involved.
When he felt the phone buzz in his pocket, Thorne moved quickly across to the hand-dryer. There was precious little power and the air was cold. He wiped his hands on the back of his trousers and reached into his jacket.
The message from Marcus Brooks he’d known was coming.
Thorne leaned against the sink and played the video clip. He watched as a man walked a small, black dog along a dimly lit street; tossed a cigarette butt into the gutter; waited while the dog sniffed around the base of a tree.
Thorne recognised the man straight away. He’d had bigger shocks.
The police officer who had once called himself ‘Squire’ would not be getting away with anything for very much longer.
THIRTY-THREE
Thorne sat in a quiet corner of the canteen with a phone pressed to his ear. The meal in front of him was hardly making his mouth water, but the conversation was one he was certainly looking forward to. One he’d been anticipating since his conversation with Sharon Lilley a week and a half before. That was when things had begun to get difficult; when the case had started to smell as bad as his chicken curry.
It was time to wash the stink off.
‘I got sent another message,’ he said, when the call was answered. ‘What kind of dog is that you’ve got?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Marcus Brooks knows where you are.’
Thorne had expected a pause, but he’d hoped it might be longer.
‘That’s nice for him.’
‘Actually, I wasn’t sure you’d be around to answer the phone. I mean, he didn’t waste much time with Paul Skinner, did he? With “Jennings”.’
‘Who’s Jennings?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t bother.’
There was silence for a few seconds. Thorne could hear a door being closed. ‘Well, it’s good of you to call, but some of us are working, so…’
‘Every time we talked, you were just trying to find out what I knew, where the case was going.’
‘Doing my job, that’s all.’
‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier.’
‘You were hardly being honest yourself though, were you, Tom? I knew you were up to something.’
A sergeant who Thorne had worked with for a few months walked past the table. They exchanged smiles. ‘Why “Squire”? Did you pick it at random? What’s the first name, just out of interest? Seeing as we’re mates and everything.’
‘Is there a point to any of this?’
‘I thought I should let you know, that’s all,’ Thorne said. ‘Forewarned is forearmed, right?’
‘I’ll consider myself warned, then.’
‘You should consider yourself in very deep shit, one way or the other.’
Now there was a longer pause. ‘So, why is it you calling me, then? Why don’t I see the heavy mob kicking my door in?’
‘You should hope that’s who it is when it happens.’
‘Not flying solo on this one, are you?’
‘I’m giving you a chance.’
A laugh. ‘Go on…’
‘Strikes me you might want to think about getting yourself some protection. Taking a walk – no,
‘Or…?’
‘Or somebody else is going to tell them.’
The man on the other end of the phone sucked in his breath fast. It was meant to sound sarcastic; an indication that he wasn’t remotely threatened. But Thorne could hear that he was rattled.
‘Why the fuck should I do anything at all?’
‘Well, why don’t we start with the fact that this conversation is being recorded?’
Thorne hung up, and laid his old mobile phone down on the table. He picked up a fork, then put it down again when it began to rattle against his plate. Pushed the tray away.
He’d pop into The Oak on his way to meet Kitson at Colindale; pick up a cheese and tomato roll.
Maybe get a stiff drink to go with it.
Kitson had explained to Hakan Kemal and Gina Bridges that another officer would be sitting in on the interview. She made the introductions informally, then again for the tape. She asked Kemal if he was feeling OK; if there was anything that he needed before they started. He just shrugged.
‘He’s fine,’ Bridges said. ‘But until such time as you have any hard evidence, we really are doing you a favour here.’
‘We appreciate that,’ Kitson said. ‘Mr Kemal wouldn’t be here at all had his name not been passed on to us by someone intimately acquainted with this offence.’
Kemal looked up.
‘How well did you know Deniz Sedat?’ Thorne asked. Kemal stared back, weighing him up. Thorne had no problem with that. He had the man’s attention at any rate. ‘Perhaps you did business with him?’
‘No,’ Kemal said quickly.
‘But you knew him.’
Kemal looked away again. He was chewing at the inside of his mouth.
‘This is not about drugs, or money-laundering,’ Thorne said. ‘The way things stand, we’re not particularly interested in your business affairs.’
Another good, long look from Kemal. He seemed to come to a decision. ‘Yes, I knew who Deniz Sedat was,’ he said. ‘And where his money came from.’
A glance from Kitson. It looked as though she’d been right: Kemal appeared to be happier talking to a man. ‘So, you weren’t friendly with him?’
‘He
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He took me to clubs and casinos. Flashing his money around.’
‘This was after he started going out with your sister?’
‘Made out like we were family, just because he was seeing her.’
‘You didn’t like him?’
Kemal’s expression was answer enough.
‘So, I presume you weren’t very happy when he started going out with Harika.’
Opposite him, Kemal sat back in his chair, his lips whitening. Thorne wondered if he was turning on the silent act again.
‘It’s understandable,’ Thorne said. ‘I’ve got a younger sister myself. Claire’s a year or two older than Harika, and no man’s good enough for her. Doesn’t matter who he is, what he does… I don’t think I’m ever going to like it.’ Thorne was aware of Gina Bridges sighing; scribbling something. ‘I
Thorne stared ahead, trying to avoid catching Kitson’s eye. She knew very well he had no siblings.
‘Sedat was not so unpopular with our parents,’ Kemal said. ‘He was Turkish, which is important to them, and
