‘That must have come on suddenly.’ Thorne shifted his position to try and get comfortable, then gave up. ‘Not long after we spoke, wasn’t it?’
‘Some kind of virus,’ Rahim said.
Thorne nodded then turned towards the stereo. ‘What was that you were listening to before?’ Rahim had turned the music off as soon as he’d shown Thorne in.
‘You wouldn’t know it.’
‘Probably not,’ Thorne said. ‘Didn’t sound like my kind of thing.’
Rahim just looked at him. Thorne could see that he was nervous but nevertheless unwilling to make casual conversation. Bright enough to know that Thorne was not there for that.
‘You like music then? Go to a lot of clubs and stuff?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Not really.’
‘Sure?’
Rahim sat forward, said, ‘What’s this about?’ but it was clear from his expression that he already knew.
‘You were arrested as part of a raid on the Crystal Rose in Brewer Street five months ago,’ Thorne said. ‘Cautioned for possession of cocaine.’
The boy was probably aiming for something like insouciance, but he could not control the nervous reflex. That soft red moccasin tapping fast against the floor. ‘So?’
‘So, were you there for the music?’
‘It’s a nice club,’ Rahim said. ‘I just went out with some friends.’
Thorne leaned forward, happy to see that Rahim leaned that little bit further away as he did so. ‘I don’t give a toss about the drugs,’ he said. It was no longer a conversation, no longer casual. ‘What’s interesting is that it wasn’t even the drug squad that made the raid. It was actually part of a vice operation. They’d been tipped off that certain individuals were using the Crystal Rose as somewhere they could go to pick up underage boys.’ He waited, but Rahim just stared at the floor, both his feet now working together against the stripped and varnished boards. ‘I’m talking fourteen-or fifteen-year-olds here,’ Thorne said. ‘You understand? Nothing disgusting enough to get the “dirty paedo” brigade too hot under the collar, but, unfortunately for some of the customers, illegal enough to do time for, and these are the kind of men who really can’t risk a quiet stroll around the alleyways off Piccadilly Circus in the early hours. Professional types, you know what I’m saying, Rahim? Respectable. I mean, who in their right mind wants to risk getting ripped off, or having their head kicked in by some junkie, when all he wants is a quick hand-job from someone with nice smooth hands?
‘So, somewhere like that club you were in… well, it’s a godsend, don’t you reckon? The perfect place to find what they’re looking for without any hassles. A few drinks and a slow dance, and no need for money to change hands until they’re safely back in their nice comfy “bachelor” pads or hotel rooms. Then the really sad ones can kid themselves that whoever they’ve brought home with them actually wants to be there. They can do what the hell they like then and take their time about it. They can relax and take off their business suits… and fuck teenage boys like you to their hearts’ content.’
Rahim eventually raised his eyes from the floor. Now, he looked as unwell as he had previously been pretending to be.
‘You remember what we talked about earlier,’ Thorne said. ‘So, bearing in mind that I’m pushed for time and that it’s Amin I’m really interested in… I was wondering what you might be able to tell me about that.’
‘Nothing,’ Rahim said.
‘Not good enough.’
‘ I’m not underage.’
‘You were,’ Thorne said. ‘And so was Amin.’
Rahim stood up. ‘I want you to go.’
‘Considering what you haven’t told your parents, I’m guessing that they don’t know about your arrest.’ Thorne stood up too, stepped towards Rahim. ‘About the drugs.’
‘So tell them,’ Rahim said.
‘I will if I have to.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Yes, you do.’ Thorne stared until the boy’s bravado began to fall away, until his head sank and it looked as though he might drop backwards on to the sofa. Thorne knew that he was being a bully. He had treated killers, rapists, better than this in the past, but then he had been granted the luxury of time, and a team behind him to gather evidence. He looked at the boy’s face and hated himself, but he could not afford to spare anyone’s feelings, and thinking about what Helen Weeks was going through, what Amin Akhtar had suffered, he fought the temptation to push Rahim against one of his tastefully decorated walls and press an arm across his throat until the boy told him what he knew.
‘We went to parties,’ Rahim said. ‘Me and Amin.’
‘What kind of parties?’
‘Parties with men, OK?’ He spat the words out. ‘Like the ones you were talking about. Respectable men.’
‘And these men paid you and Amin for sex?’
Rahim nodded slowly. ‘Some boys did it because they needed drugs, but we just did it for the money. Our parents were not rich, do you understand? Most of the time the men were… clean, and we were looked after.’
Most of the time.
Thorne waited.
‘It was… exciting too,’ Rahim said. ‘We liked it, the fact that we were not like the other Asian kids, spending every minute swotting to be doctors and lawyers and all that. Living to keep their mothers and fathers happy. We were in control, you know?’
‘You really think so?’
‘It felt like that.’
‘Where did these parties take place?’ Thorne asked.
Rahim hesitated. ‘Different places. The City. A penthouse on the river. Highgate sometimes.’
‘I need addresses.’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Tell me about these men, Rahim.’
‘I’ve told you-’
‘You need to give me some names.’
‘No.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Thorne shouted, ‘one of these men might have killed Amin.’
The boy shook his head and kept shaking it, and Thorne’s breathing grew more ragged with every refusal. He knew there was little point in dragging him down to an interview room, with no valid reason to hold him and even less chance of getting the answers he was looking for. Once again, he felt ready and willing to beat the information from him. The bruises would fade a damn sight quicker than grief, and Thorne would live with whatever consequences came his way. Then, as quickly as the urge for violence had come over him, it went again, as Thorne looked into Rahim Jaffer’s eyes and saw that he would be happy to take it.
Would welcome it.
Instead, Thorne lashed out at the brushed chrome shade of the lamp that hung low to the side of him. He sent it swinging and bouncing across the room on its spindly metal neck; the pool of light washing back and forth across the boy’s face as Thorne walked out of the door.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Peter Allen spent a lot more time in the pub these days. He had always liked a drink, but lately it had been less about enjoyment and more like a simple need to get wasted. To sink into the beer or the cider or whatever and lose himself. Ironic, he supposed, considering how he’d earned the money to pay for it.
The Victoria on the Queensbridge Road wasn’t quite his local. That honour belonged to an old man’s boozer
