The Burning Girl

FIFTEEN

Rooker had been moved earlier that week to HMP Salisbury, one of a handful of prisons in the country with a protected witness wing. He'd pronounced himself delighted with the move. Now he was rattling around with only half a dozen other cons for company and not a paintbrush in sight.

"How did Billy Ryan first approach you?" Thorne asked. "How was the idea of killing Alison Kelly first brought up?" The purpose-built interview suite had freshly decorated pale yellow walls, but was still a lot less glamorous than it sounded. Whoever had designed and equipped the place hadn't put in a long day: a table, chairs, recording equipment, an ashtray.

Rooker cleared his throat. "I'd met Ryan a couple of times."

"Like when you got the original contract on Kevin Kelly?"

"I'm not talking about that."

"Ryan hired you for that as well, though, didn't he?"

"I thought we'd got past this."

"It's amazing he came back to you after you'd messed that one up." Rooker sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He looked like a sulky kid.

"Listen," Thorne said. "This is going to get brought up in court. Ryan's brief is going to be all over you, doing as much as he can to discredit your statement. You're not exactly a model citizen, are you?"

Rooker leaned forward slowly, pulled his tobacco tin across the table and began to roll up. He was a different character from the one Thorne had first met at Park Royal a month before. It was clear that he had still not fully recovered from the stabbing, but also that his initial cockiness was far from being the whole story. Thorne knew very well that survival in prison was all about front. All about what others thought you were. Pretence could be every bit as useful as a phone card or a stolen chisel.

"The point is that I was perfect," Rooker said. "The word was that I had been the one hired to do Kevin Kelly the year before."

"Right. The word."

"Like I said, that's what everyone thought. Which made me the ideal choice for Billy Ryan when he decided to do the daughter."

"The perfect cover."

"Exactly."

Rooker's cigarette was already alight. Thorne watched the smoke rise, remembering the words he'd spoken to Memet Zarif a week before, envious now, as he had been then. As he was around anyone who still had the joy of smoking. Some of Thorne's more prosaic dreams were filled with smoke-rings and nicotine and the glorious tightening in the chest as it hits.

"So, how did Ryan make the approach? He couldn't risk being seen with you."

"Not straight away, no. It was all arranged by a third party. A face called Harry Little. He's dead now."

"In suspicious circumstances?"

"Not as far as I know. He was in his late fifties back then, I think."

"Go on."

"We met in a pub in Camden. It might have been the Dublin Castle, I can't remember. Anyway, Harry was all over me. Very friendly. We'd never been particularly matey, so I knew he was after something, and I knew it was something heavy because he had a reputation, you know? He starts talking about Billy Ryan, going round the houses with it. I mean, we're getting through a fair few pints, know what I mean?

Eventually, he says that Billy wants a meet, and that he'd be in touch with when and where and what have you, and it was obvious even then that this was something a bit special." He saw enough of a change in Thorne's face to qualify what he'd said. "Special as in different-, you know? From the normal run of things."

Thorne nodded. The normal run of things. Putting a bullet in the back of somebody's head, or throwing them out of a window, or beating them to death… "Where did the meet with Ryan take place?" Rooker stubbed out his fag and pushed his back chair. "Listen, can we take a quick break? I really need to have a piss…" While Rooker was gone, Thorne stood and stretched his legs. He walked to the far wall, leaned against it and closed his eyes. The faces shifted around in his mind, jockeying for position: Billy Ryan, Memet Zarif, Marcus Moloney, Ian Clarke, Carol Chamberlain. The dead faces of Muslum and Hanya Izzigil. The face of their son, Yusuf. The two faces of Jessica Clarke.

A prison officer opened the door and ushered Rooker back into the room. Thorne rejoined him at the table.

"Have you got any children, Mr. Thorne?"

"No."

Rooker sat and shrugged, as though whatever he was going to say was no longer relevant, or would not make any sense.

Thorne was curious, but keener still to crack on. To get out. He hit the red button on the twin-cassette recorder that was secured to the wall. "Interview commencing again at… eleven forty-five a.m." He looked at Rooker. The lid was already off the tobacco tin again. "Tell me what happened when you met with Billy Ryan."

"It was a track through Epping Forest, up near Loughton. I just got the call from Harry Little one night and drove up there."

"There were just the two of you?"

Rooker nodded. "We sat in Ryan's car and he told me what he wanted."

"He told you that he wanted you to kill Kevin Kelly's daughter, Alison."

Rooker looked directly into Thorne's eyes. He knew this was the important stuff. "Yes, he did."

"What did you think?"

Rooker seemed confused.

"Well, like you said, this was different from the normal run of things."

"Everybody knew that Ryan was a bit mental."

"But still, a child?"

"He wanted a war. He wanted to do something that would send the whole fucking lot spinning out of control, you know?" Thorne blinked and remembered Ryan's face close to his own, the cheeks almost as red as his scarf. The eyes glassy. The faintest quiver around the small mouth as he spoke: "I think we're done chatting."

"Was it Ryan's idea?" he asked. "The burning?"

"Christ, yes." Rooker ran a hand through his hair, sending a shower of tiny white flakes floating down to the table. "He thought that since it was something I'd done before, I might be more comfortable with it."

"Comfortable?"

"I told you. He was mental."

"It was something you were known for, though? The fire? The lighter fluid? So, when Ryan suggested it as a method, didn't you hear any alarm bells?"

"What?" Rooker grinned. "Fire-alarm bells, you mean?" Thorne's face was blank. "Look at me, Gordon. I'm pissing myself."

"Sorry."

"Weren't you even a little bit suspicious?" Rooker took a long drag, then another, held the smoke in.

"Come on, it was obviously going to point to you, wasn't it? Are you seriously telling me that while you were busy thinking how mental Ryan was, you didn't for one moment think that he might be planning to set you up?"

The smoke drifted out on a noisy sigh. "Later I did. I realised afterwards, after it had happened and I was being fingered for it anyway. Yeah, then it was fucking obvious, and I knew I'd been stupid, but it was a bit late. I was in the frame and Ryan had his excuse to come after me. By then, of course, I knew damn well that he really needed me out of the way to shut me up."

"So, what did you think when he asked you?"

"I thought, No fucking way."

"Because it was risky?"

"Because it was a fucking kid."

Thorne leaned towards the recorder. "Mr. Rooker slams his hand on the table. For emphasis." He flashed Rooker an exaggerated smile. "I'm saying that just in case anybody thinks that was the noise of me hitting you with a chair or something." Rooker grunted.

"So, what happened when you turned Ryan down?"

"He wasn't happy."

"What did he say?"

"He said that he'd find somebody else to do the job. I remember him saying exactly that when I got out of his car just before he drove away: "There's always somebody else." And Thorne could picture Ryan saying it. He could picture Ryan's face as he said it, and he felt something tighten in his stomach, because Ryan would have known that it was true. Bitter experience had taught Thorne that it was one of the few things that you could rely on. There's always somebody else willing to do what another won't. Something darker and more depraved. Something inexplicable. Unimaginable.

Thorne announced, for the tape, that he was formally suspending the interview.

Then he punched the red button.

"We'll carry on after lunch," he said. Thorne was just shy of Newbury when he turned off the M4 and pulled slowly into the car park at Chieveley Services. A car flashed its lights as he approached and Thorne parked the BMW next to it. Holland got out of a car-pool Rover, leaned against it and waited for Thorne to join him.

Thorne had received the call just after seven on the M3 as he was heading home from Salisbury. He'd turned off at the next services to pick up a sandwich and consult the road atlas. The traffic had been heavy on the A road that had taken him across to the M4, and even worse for the journey back west.

Holland offered Thorne a bulky torch. Thorne took one look at it and plumped instead for the Maglite he kept in his boot, taking his gloves out at the same time. Torches sweeping the ground ahead of them, they began to walk towards the farthest corner of the car park.

"How did we get hold of this so quickly?" Thorne asked.

"Swift and harmonious cooperation between ourselves and the lovely lads from Thames Valley." Holland smiled at the incredulous look on Thorne's face. "I know, hard to believe. They found the lorry this morning, ran the number plate and at the end of a very long paper-trail half a dozen different companies whose name should pop up? A flag on their computer system alerts the Thames Valley lot, tells them it's a name we're very interested in, and Bob's your uncle."

"What, they just called us?"

"Amazing, isn't it, forces working so well together? Someone should get hold of Mulder and Scully."

The lorry stood in almost total blackness. The light from the restaurant and shopping complex five hundred yards away died just short of it, leaving the two Thames Valley wooden tops standing watch as little more than dark shapes. As Thorne and Holland got nearer, their torches picked out the reflective bands on the officers' uniforms, and the fence of fluttering blue crime tape that had been erected around the vehicle.

Pleasantries were exchanged with the two officers, who gratefully accepted the offer to go inside and get themselves some tea. Thorne and Holland walked slowly around the outside of the truck. It was a white Mercedes cab, fitted with what looked like a twenty-five, or thirty-foot solid-sided body. Dirty, dark green. No company logo or markings of any sort.

Thorne climbed up to the passenger door, gingerly took hold of a handle.

"I think the Thames Valley boys have been over a lot of it already," Holland said.

Thorne pulled open the door. "Well, I hope they were careful. We'll need to get SOCO down here."

"They're on their way."

Thorne shone his torch around the cab's interior. There were papers scattered across the seats and in the foot wells Whoever had gone through it hadn't been too careful. It was unclear whether that was the fault of the officers who had discovered the abandoned vehicle, or those responsible for hijacking and then dumping it.

"What was it carrying?" Thorne asked, jumping down from the cab. "What was it supposed to be carrying?"

"Well, the manifest they found in the cab says DVD players. Full load, top of the range, well worth nicking."

"Well, whatever was in there, I wouldn't bet against Billy Ryan already having his hands on it. Looks like he's decided to hit the Zarifs where it's really going to hurt them. What about the driver?"

"No sign. Not so much as a Yorkie bar."

"What d'you reckon?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Holland said. "Maybe the hijackers took him."

Thorne was on his knees, shining his torch underneath the truck. Oil, dirt and nothing else. "Or maybe they just beat the shit out of him and he's gone running back to the Zarif brothers. Either way, I don't fancy his chances."

A couple of teenage lads who'd obviously seen the torch beams came wandering down from the direction of the restaurant carrying burgers and Cokes. Thorne shone his torch towards them. They shouted and put their hands up to shield their eyes.

"Go and tell them to piss off, will you, Dave?" Thorne watched Holland walk towards them, then turned back to the lorry, thinking that, for once, the old cliche about there being 'nothing to see' was absolutely spot on. The rear doors were obviously not locked, but had been pushed together. After trying and failing to open one of the huge doors with one hand, Thorne put his torch on the ground, grabbed hold with both hands and pulled.

The stench of piss hit him immediately. He bent to retrieve his torch and pointed it inside, jumping slightly as Holland stepped around from the side of the truck.

"Fuck."

"Sorry," Holland said, grinning. He added the light from his own torch to Thorne's, revealing, little by little, the interior of the empty box. "Smells lovely, doesn't it? Tramp's been in there overnight, I reckon. Kids maybe."

Thorne lifted a leg and reached up. "Give us a hand, will you?" Holland locked his fingers together, making a cradle for Thorne's foot. Thorne stepped into it and heaved himself up into the back of the lorry. The smell was even worse inside.

"Jesus."

"Maybe somebody was very pissed," Holland suggested. "Thought it was a new kind of Portaloo. Makes a change from doing it in phone boxes."

Thorne played the torch across the scarred metal floor. The light caught slick trails where the liquid had run, puddles where it had pooled.

Having seen quite enough, he turned, ready to jump down, when the Maglite caught something. There were markings high up on the side of the box, near the driver's cab. Thorne trained the beam on the spot and moved slowly towards it.

"Has anybody else been in here?" he shouted. He knew the answer already. Nobody could have missed this in daylight.

"I'm not sure," Holland said. "I think they just opened the door, saw that it was empty."

The scratches were recent, Thorne was sure of it, the marks bright against the dull, dark metal.

Holland was leaning into the truck, fixing his torch on Thorne. "What's the matter?"

It was a single word. The language was unfamiliar. Scored in broken lines deep into the side of the box with a knife. A nail maybe.

UMIT.

"It wasn't tramps or kids in here," Thorne said. "And the Zarifs aren't smuggling dodgy videos." He turned towards the open doors and the figure of Holland standing in the darkness. "They're smuggling people."

"What? Illegal immigrants?"

"It could be trafficking for prostitution, but I doubt it. I'm guessing these people were perfectly willing. Paid their life savings on the strength of some gangster's promise." Holland said something else then, but Thorne couldn't make it out. He spun around slowly on the spot, the circle of light from his torch dancing lazily across the dirty walls. Miserable, remembering. The woman on the tube, that first day. A baby and an empty cup. Arkan Zarif's words.

Bread and work.

It was well after midnight by the time Thorne turned into Ryland Road and pulled up behind a dark blue VW Golf. He felt wiped out. He was walking past the Golf towards his flat when he noticed a man asleep in the driver's seat. Thorne slowed his pace and leaned down to take a closer look. There was some light from a lamp-post twenty feet away, but not a great deal. The man in the car opened his eyes, smiled at Thorne and closed them again.

Thorne continued on towards his door, reached into a pocket for his keys. Perhaps he'd rattled Billy Ryan more than he'd realised. Hendricks had already made up the sofa-bed and was lying there reading a paperback with an arty-looking cover.

Thorne filled him in on the day's events.

As far as work on the case went, Hendricks had not been involved practically since the post-mortem on Marcus Moloney, but it was important that he remain part of the team. Besides, Thorne was certain that his particular skills would be required again before it was all over.

"There's a message on the machine for you," Hendricks shouted through to the kitchen. "Sounds interesting." Thorne wandered in with his tea, pressed the button, sat on the arm of the sofa-bed to listen. The message was from Alison Kelly. She asked if he was free the following evening and left a phone number. Hendricks put down his book. "Was that who I think it was?" Thorne turned off the living-room light and walked towards his bedroom.

"Hard to be sure," he said. He was smiling as he opened the bedroom door. "I don't know who you think it was, do I..?" A few hours later, Thorne padded back into the living room, as awake as he'd been when he'd left it. He moved slowly towards the window. As he edged past the end of the sofa-bed, he banged his foot against the metal rail.

Hendricks stirred and sat up, woken by the impact, or the swearing.

"It's four o'clock in the morning."

"Yes, I know."

Though there was no one left in the room to disturb, the darkness dictated that they spoke in whispers.

"What are you doing?" Hendricks moaned. Thorne was feeling irritable, and the throbbing pain in his foot was not helping matters. "Right now, I'm thinking that it's getting a bit bloody crowded in here." He stepped across to the window. "How long can it possibly take to get rid of a bit of damp anyway?" Hendricks said nothing.

Thorne pulled back the blind and looked out into the street. The Golf had gone.

18 May 1986

AH and I went into town today. We just hung around really. AH bought a bag and a couple of new tops and I got some LPs. Afterwards we got a burger and sat on a bench outside the library. A couple of lads were messing around and they were both staring. I started joking around with AH, asking her which one of us she thought they fancied. It's only the sort of thing I would have said to her before. (AH was always the one lads fancied, by the way!) She looked uncomfortable and threw her burger away, and I know I should have left it, but I was just trying to make her laugh. I told her that it was obviously true what they say about how good-looking girls always hang around with an ugly mate, and then she started to cry.

Now I feel guilty that I've upset her, but also angry because her feeling sad or guilty or whatever it is she feels seems so fucking trivial when I look into the mirror on the back of the bedroom door, and half my face still looks like the meat in her burger. I know I'll feel differently about today by the morning and AH and I will be best mates again before the end of school on Monday, but it's difficult not to feel a bit low when I'm writing this stuff down and it's my own fault. I always write at night, staring out of the window and listening to the Smiths or something equally miserable. Maybe I should have bought some cheerier music when I was in town. The soundtrack to tomorrow's entry will be courtesy of Cliff Richard or the Wombles or something.

Shit Moment of the Day

The stuff with AH.

Magic Moment of the Day.

A comedian on the TV making a joke about burn victims sticking together.