The Burning Girl

FOURTEEN

The elegant row of substantial Victorian houses would not have been out of place in Holland Park or Notting Hill, when, in point of fact, it was part of a conservation area in the middle of Finchley. The sunlight could easily have belonged to a warm August day, but the temperature was in single figures, and the first day of spring was still a fortnight away. The man on the green enjoying the afternoon with his dog might have been a pillar of the community. As it was, he was anything but.

Walking towards him, watching him smile as the Jack Russell ran and slid and jumped at his knees, Thorne doubted that Billy Ryan enjoyed as uncomplicated and loving a relationship with any other living creature.

"I'm surprised," Thorne said. I'd've thought a Rottweiler or a Doberman. Maybe a pit-bull."

Ryan didn't look overly concerned to see him. "I've got nothing to prove. I don't have an undersized cock to compensate for. And I like small dogs."

Thorne watched Ryan shake his head and wave to someone behind him. He turned to see his friend the receptionist climbing back into a Jeep parked at the other side of the green. Thorne gave the man a jaunty salute but got nothing very friendly back.

"Afternoon off, Mr. Ryan?"

"Perk of being the boss." He smiled, adjusting the frames of his lightly tinted sunglasses. "I reckon I've earned it."

"Right."

Ryan bent to take a slobber-covered ball from the dog, who growled and wrestled until it was torn from his mouth. Ryan faked throwing the ball in one direction, then threw it in the other. Once the dog had started chasing it, Ryan walked slowly after him. Thorne moved alongside him, nodding towards the car. "Is he all you've got?"

"How d'you mean?"

"I'm sure he's tooled up and all that, but even so. Surely you must think you're a target now, Billy."

Ryan was wearing a long black cashmere coat over a red wool scarf. He pulled the scarf a little tighter to his neck. "Now?" he said.

"After Moloney."

Ryan gave him a sideways look, but turned away again before Thorne could even begin to read anything into it. "That was a shame," he said.

"A shame how he died? A shame that he was killed? Or a shame that he was a copper?"

"Pick one."

"You didn't send a wreath," Thorne said. Moloney had been buried quietly the weekend before. His wife had refused the full Police Service funeral that had been offered.

Ryan shrugged, expressionless. "Shitty way to go, I'll grant you. Not exactly a hero's death. But he did rather put himself in the firing line, wouldn't you say?"

"Who did the firing, do you reckon?"

"I'm not doing your job for you."

The dog had returned with the ball. Ryan hurled it away again and carried on walking.

"Puts you in a tricky position though," Thorne said. "There's obviously a need to strike back, or at least be seen to strike back…"

"Strike back against who?"

"… when, actually, retaliation would be pretty bloody ironic."

"Let's pretend you're not talking bollocks for a second."

"Yes, let's."

"Why would it be ironic?" The soft brogue had hardened suddenly. The end of the word bitten off and spat, as Ryan stopped and turned. Reflected in the lenses of Ryan's aviators, Thorne could see the expanse of green at his back, and the tiny figure of the dog racing towards them. Because it was you who had him killed, you murdering prick. "Because he was a police officer, obviously," Thorne said. This time, Ryan snatched the ball from the dog and stuffed it into his pocket. The terrier yapped a couple of times and then wandered off, its nose to the ground. He wasn't the only one on the scent of something.

"You didn't answer my question," Thorne said.

"Which one?"

"About you being a target for the Zarif brothers."

"The who brothers?

"You seem very relaxed, which is strange, considering you were bleating about protection the other day."

"I've never bleated in my fucking life, and I was talking about my family."

"My mistake."

Ryan took off his sunglasses. As the sun had certainly not gone anywhere, Thorne could only assume that it was some kind of gesture. Maybe Ryan wanted Thorne to see his eyes.

"You don't get to the top in business by walking away when that business is threatened. You stand your ground or somebody takes it."

"Kevin Kelly walked away," Thorne said. The sunglasses went back on. "Before your time, son. You know nothing about it."

Thorne smiled. "I know people who were there."

"Aye, right, course you do. Where is Miss Marple today, anyway?"

"Kevin Kelly walked away and handed the whole shebang over to you. Pretty lucky, considering you hadn't done much to deserve it. The way I understand it, there were others in the firm who might have had a greater claim. Faces who'd done a bit of time, got a decent reputation, you know? Still, it's up to the boss, and when he decides he's had enough, he gives it all to you. You must have done some serious brown-nosing to get the nod, Billy." Ryan said nothing. The sun highlighted the sheen of lacquer on his hair.

"So, Kevin Kelly buggers off to the country, thankful that his little girl isn't the one who looks like the Phantom of the Opera, and the Kelly family becomes the Ryan family."

"The old woman's memory must be going," Ryan said. "I remember different."

"What happened at that school, terrible as it was, disgusting as it was, did you a bit of a favour, I'd say."

Somewhere in the trees at the edge of the green, a dog was barking, but Ryan didn't take his eyes from Thorne. He nodded knowingly. "I wondered when you were going to bring up Gordon Rooker again." Thorne looked equally knowing. "I didn't," Thorne said. He didn't need to see Ryan's eyes to know that they had darkened. Ryan began walking towards the trees, quicker this time. Thorne stayed a pace or two behind, raising his voice as he followed:

"I don't know whether you heard what happened to Mr. Rooker. You know, seeing as you mention him. He was attacked in prison apparently. Stabbed in the stomach. While he was painting, of all things. He's all right now, in case you were worried. He's safe now." Ryan stopped. He was trying to smile, but his lips were pursed, his teeth well out of sight. "Is this official?" Thorne considered the question. He noticed that Ryan was shuffling his feet and remembered that he'd done the same thing outside the arcade, waiting for his car. "Well, I'm being paid for it."

"Because there's really no fucking point to it, is there? Whatever it is you're expecting me to say, even if I say it, it won't get you anywhere. Not unless you're recording it and, to be honest, mate, even then, there are people getting paid by me who make sure that kind of shit doesn't stand up. So, I think we're done chatting."

"I'm not recording anything," Thorne said. "Really, I'm just interested in where you stand on a few issues, and I'm trying to be up front about it." He grinned, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Who can be arsed going round the houses? The term we use is "being lawfully audacious"."

"The term I use is "pushing your fucking luck"." Ryan stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled as he marched off towards the car. Thorne wasn't sure whether he was whistling for his driver or for his dog. Either way, both came running. Outside, it was cold and dark, and the traffic on the North End Road was nose to tail. Inside the car, Thorne was warm, and in a remarkably good mood.

The rest of the day, back at Becke House, had gone pretty well, notably because Tughan and the rest of the Projects Team were spending it over at Barkingside. Thorne had begun scaling a mountain of paperwork. He'd got up to speed on some of the cases that had been nudged on to the back burner over the past few weeks.

He had also caught up on the investigation Holland and Stone had been making into the visitors on the Park Royal security tape.

"Sod all of any significance," Holland had said. "The wife and the daughter are what you'd expect: neither of them's Mother Teresa, but I think they're harmless enough. Philip Simmonds, the prison visitor, is definitely a bit spooky, but most of those types are, if you ask me."

Stone had nodded, added his own observations: "Wayne Brookhouse, the youngest daughter's ex-boyfriend, is a bit dodgy. No less than you'd expect from a mate of Rooker's. Nothing worse than that, though. Tony Sollinger's dead. Bowel cancer, three weeks ago." He'd looked up from his scribbled notes. "How did it go with Ryan, Guv?" Thorne had been pleased with his afternoon stroll in Finchley, and so too was Brigstocke, having finally succeeded in persuading Tughan that they should at least be letting Billy Ryan know that they were still around. It was predictable that Tughan had needed talking into a slightly more forceful approach. It was also ironic, as in theory that was just what the Projects Team was supposed to have. It was the team's bad luck that its DCI thought 'pro-active' was something you took for constipation.

As it happened, most of the teams that made up the Serious and Organised Crime Unit were pro-active to some degree. The Flying Squad TV's Sweeney were the most well known. Using carefully nurtured intelligence sources, they could occasionally prevent armed robberies from taking place, or even catch the villains with the guns in their hands going across the pavement which was the most highly prized result of all.

For Thorne, and others on murder squads, the situation was slightly different. Those who hunted killers could only ever be reactive. You could find out where a robbery was going to take place or which security van might be getting blagged, but you never knew where a body was going to turn up. Usually, of course, you never knew when, either, but, as things stood, Thorne could hazard a guess that one or more would be turning up sooner rather than later… He was coming down through Belsize Park, past the overpriced delicatessens and organic greengrocers', when he suddenly decided that he was going to have an early dinner. He took a left just before Chalk Farm tube station, then cut across to Camden and pointed the BMW towards the Seven Sisters Road. He called Hendricks as he was approaching Manor House and told him that he would be eating out. The food was delicious, and the size of the portions decidedly non-nouvelle.

Arkan Zarif hovered at the table, watching as Thorne took the first mouthful of his main course. Thorne had chosen a dish he'd never seen before spiced lamb meatballs wrapped in a layer of potato. He chewed, nodding enthusiastically, and the old man beamed with delight. "I picked out the meat," he said. "Of course, I cooked it also, but picking out the meat is the important part." He watched for a few moments more, his mouth gaping, smiling as another forkful went in.

"OK, I leave you to enjoy your dinner." Thorne swallowed and pointed to the seat opposite. "No, please. Join me. It's not often you get a chance to eat with the chef." Zarif nodded. "I drink a glass of scotch with you." He turned and spoke in Turkish to his daughter, who stood, scowling, behind the counter. She looked at Thorne, who smiled sweetly back. The old man frowned as he sat down and leaned across to whisper. "Sema is permanently miserable," he said. "It is not your fault." Thorne watched her pouring a glass of Johnny Walker for her father, and topping it up with mineral water from a plastic bottle. "Are you sure?

I do tend to have that effect on women."

Zarif had a wheezy laugh. He repeatedly slapped a huge hand against his chest until it had died away.

Sema brought the drink to the table, then moved back behind the counter without a word.

"Serefe." Zarif held up his glass.

Thorne was drinking beer. He raised his bottle of Efes.

"It means "to-our honour"."

"To our honour," Thorne said, as the bottle touched the glass. In the minute or so of silence that followed, Thorne devoured most of what was on his plate. He sliced off huge chunks of the meatball, spooned up the rice, washed it down with the cold beer. Zarif took, small sips of his Scotch and water. "You like the lady's thigh," he said.

Thorne looked up, chewing. He grunted his confusion.

"This dish is called kadinbudbu. This means "lady's thigh". So, you like the lady's thigh. I joke that if you don't enjoy the kadinbudbu, then maybe you don't like ladies. You see?" The wheezy laugh erupted again.

"What about vegetarians?" Thorne asked. Zarif picked up the menu, gave him a look like that just proved the joke was true. "All the dishes on the menu mean something. Turkish names always have meaning. What was your starter?"

"The fried aubergine."

Zarif pointed to the dish on the menu. "Imam bayildi. This means "the priest fainted". You see? When this dish was given to the priest, he enjoyed it so much that he fainted from pleasure."

"I'm sorry I didn't faint," Thorne said, 'but it was very good."

"Hunkar begendi! Zarif stabbed at the menu again. "This is a dish I make very well. Diced lamb in white sauce. This means "the Emperor loved it"."

"Did he love it as much as the priest?" Zarif didn't get the joke. "All names mean something, but some have bad translations. Funny translations, you see? We have English customers who ask why the names are always in Turkish. I tell them if they were in English, my menu would have dishes called rubbish kebab and stuffed prostitute!

Thorne laughed.

"No, really this would put people off."

"Only some people," Thorne said. "Others might come in specially." Zarif laughed loudly, slapping his chest again, the drink spilling over the edge of his glass.

Thorne suddenly thought about his father. He thought about how much he would have enjoyed this conversation. He pictured him laughing, scribbling down the names of the dishes…

"What about people's names?" Thorne said. "Do they always mean something?"

Zarif nodded. "Of course."

Thorne had finished eating and pushed away his plate. "What does Zarif mean?"

The old man thought for a few seconds. "Zarif is… "delicate"." Thorne blinked and saw a breath of blood across Anaglypta wallpaper. The body of Mickey Clayton bent over a kitchen chair. Gashes across his back…

"Delicate?" he asked.

Zarif nodded again. He waved to get his daughter's attention, and, when he had it, spoke quickly to her in Turkish. The scowl grew more pronounced as she moved across to a small refrigerated cabinet to one side of the counter.

"Now, my first name, Arkan? This is the best joke of all. It has two meanings, depending on where you are, how you say it. It means "noble blood" or "honest blood". This sounds nice, you see? But it also means "your backside". It means "arse"." Thorne laughed, swilling the last of the beer around in the bottle. "My name means different things to different people as well."

"Right." Zarif waved his fingers in the air, searching for the words.

"A thorn is small, spiky."

"Irritating." Thorne drained the bottle. "And it can be difficult to get rid of."

Sema arrived and put down a dish in front of Thorne. He looked at Zarif for explanation.

"That is suklac. On the house."

It was a simple rice pudding set thick, creamy and heavily flavoured with cinnamon.

"This is gorgeous," Thorne said.

"Thank you."

Thorne saw the old man's expression change the second he heard the door open. He half turned and from the corner of his eye saw two men enter. The look on Sema's face told him that the two Zarif brothers he had yet to meet Memet and Tan had popped in to introduce themselves. Arkan Zarif stood and walked over to the counter, where the men took it in turn to lean across and kiss their sister. They began talking in Turkish to their father. Thorne watched them while pretending to look around. He stared at the ornate arrangements of tiles, mounted and hanging on the walls next to Health and Safety certificates in cheap clip-frames.

Both brothers, unlike Hassan and their father, had very little hair. Memet, who Thorne put somewhere in his early forties, had a receding hairline and had chosen to wear what little he had left very short. He also had a goatee, thicker than Thorne's, but also more clearly defined, and like Thorne's, failing to hide a double chin. Tan, younger by maybe fifteen years, was shorter, and whip-thin. He wasn't losing his hair but had shaved it anyway aping his eldest brother, Thorne guessed. He too had facial hair, but it was little more than a pencil-line running along his top lip and around the edge of his chin, in the style George Michael had worn for a while until someone pointed out that it looked ridiculous. Tan clearly fancied himself as something of a hard man and stared across at Thorne while Memet did all the talking.

Knowing that Thorne wouldn't understand, Memet Zarif made no attempt to lower his voice as he spoke to his father. He smiled a lot and patted the old man's shoulder, but Thorne could hear a seriousness in the voice.

At the mention of his name Thorne glanced up. He remembered what Carol Chamberlain had said when she'd been talking about Billy Ryan. About these people knowing as much about you as you did about them. Knowing more… Thorne returned Tan's thousand-yard stare for a second or two before going back to his pudding.

It was disconcerting, exciting even, to think that one of these men – Thorne was putting his money on Memet Zarif – had probably given the order to have Mickey Clayton and the others executed. If he, or his brothers, thought that the law was going to go easier on them because they hadn't wielded the gun or the knife themselves, they hadn't learned as much as Thorne presumed they had. And, though Thorne had his own ideas, the received wisdom was that the Zarif brothers were also responsible for the death of DS Marcus Moloney. Whatever he thought of Nick Tughan, Thorne knew that he would make Memet, Hassan and Tan pay for that.

When Thorne looked up from his suklac again, Memet and Tan were at the table.

"What is it you want?" Memet Zarif asked. Thorne took another mouthful, then loaded his spoon again. When he answered the question, it was as if he'd just that second remembered he'd been asked it. "I wanted some dinner, which I'm actually still having, so maybe you should think about being polite and leaving me in peace to finish it. If you want me to get as annoyed as I should be and cause a scene in your father's restaurant you know, maybe turn over a table or two I suggest you carry on with the attitude." He turned to the younger brother. "And if that look is supposed to be intimidating, you'd better get a new manual, son. You just look like a retard." Thorne turned away before the two men had any chance to react. He leaned round them, caught their sister's eye, and scribbled in the air the universally accepted gesture when asking for the bill.

Memet and Tan walked to a table in the corner, where they were quickly joined by another man, who came scuttling from the back of the room. Sema brought them coffee and biscuits dusted with sugar. They lit cigarettes and spoke a mixture of Turkish and English in hushed voices.

Arkan Zarif carried Thorne's bill across on a plate. "You will stay for some coffee..?"

Thorne took a piece of Turkish delight from the plate and examined the bill. "No, thank you. Time to go, I think." He dug around in his wallet for some cash.

Zarif looked towards the table in the corner, then back to Thorne. "My sons are suspicious of the police. They have bad tempers, I know that, but they stay out of trouble."

Thorne chewed the sweet, and decided that the old man's thinking was only marginally less divorced from reality than that of his own father. He dropped a ten and a five on to the plate. "Why the suspicion of the police?" he said.

Zarif looked uncomfortable. "Back in Turkey, there were some problems. Nothing serious. Memet was a little wild sometimes."

"Is that why you left and came here?"

Zarif waved his hands emphatically. "No. We came for simple reasons. All Turkish people want is bread and work. We came to this country for bread and work."

Thorne stood and picked up his jacket. He thanked the old man, praised the food, then walked towards the door, thinking that you could work for bread, or you could just take somebody else's. Common sense told his feet to keep on walking past the table in the corner, but another part of his brain was still thinking about names. Irritating. Difficult to get rid of.

The three men at the table fell silent and looked at him. The blue-grey smoke from their cigarettes curled up towards the ceiling, floating around the hanging lamps like the manifestation of a dozen genies.

Thorne pointed upwards at the swirls and strands of smoke, then leaned down to address Memet Zarif. "If I was you, I should start making wishes."

He was still smiling as he made his way back to the car, taking out his mobile and dialing the number as he walked.

"Dad? It's me. Listen, I've got a great one for you. Actually, we can do a whole list, if you like, but I think you should do this one as a trivia question first. Right, have you got a pen? OK, what sort of… No, make that: where would you be if you ordered a stuffed prostitute?"