The Burning Girl

THIRTY-THREE

It was the day before the Cup Final a little over a month since the man who used to be known as Gordon Rooker had been found murdered by an intruder in his own home when Thorne received the call. Three weeks into May and it was gently drizzling. Everything else was equally as predictable.

While the Zarif and Ryan investigations had become little more than a couple of dozen boxes stacked on metal shelves at the General Registry, other cases had arrived to fill the void. Other victims that cried out for attention, that demanded action. There was never a shortage of rage, or lust, or greed. Or of bodies, when the chemistry that was there to control such things turned everyday feelings into something murderous.

Disfigured them.

Tom Thorne had read the Murder Investigation Manual in an hour and forgotten the whole thing almost as quickly. He knew he was adept at forgetting what didn't really matter; what there simply wasn't room for. Every day there were a thousand new pieces of information that needed good, clean space that needed the chance, however slim, to move together, around and within one another, to spark and create the idea or the ghost of an idea that might just help to catch a killer. But many other things were far from forgotten. They just got shifted around, crammed into smaller spaces in Thorne's head and in his heart. And in that other place that there wasn't really a name for, where the coils just got wound that little bit tighter. On the couple of occasions he'd seen Carol Chamberlain, or spoken to her, they'd talked happily enough about their respective cases: his ongoing and hers long unsolved. Only their immediate past was jointly understood to be off limits.

Individually, and alone, it was far harder to escape. Alison Kelly had phoned one afternoon and they'd talked for a few minutes. Thorne had asked her how she was. The talk had been so small, so pathetically prosaic, that he'd almost asked her where she was. As the time passed, he thought of her face and body less than he thought of the knife in her hand, but each time she came into his mind he thought of the inscription carved into the foundation stone of Holloway Prison, where she waited for the trial that was only a matter of weeks away:

"May God make this place a terror to evil-doers." Thorne knew there was no God-given reason for Alison Kelly to be terrified.

Going home time. Sheltering beneath a concrete overhang in the car park of Becke House, Thorne breathed in the smoke from Holland's cigarette and watched the rain make a mess of the car he'd cleaned only that morning.

"Why don't you come round tomorrow?" Thorne asked. "Watch the game with me and Phil."

Despite Thorne's best efforts, Holland's enthusiasm for football was still no more than lukewarm. "I can't get excited about it," he said.

"Excited? It's the Cup Final." Thorne was conjuring a tirade of sarcastic abuse when his phone rang.

Something in Eileen's voice froze the smirk on Thorne's face. Chased the blood from it.

"Tom?"

"What's happened?"

Thorne started walking towards his car, his pace quickening with every second of silence that passed before Eileen spoke again.

"There was a fire."

"Jesus, again?" Thorne used a shoulder to press the phone to his ear, dug frantically in his pockets for the car keys. "Is he all right?" From behind him, Thorne could hear Holland shouting something. Thorne raised a hand without turning. "Eileen? Is he all right?"

"I'm sorry, Tom." She started to cry. "They found him in the bedroom." She sounded like a small girl.

Thorne leaned hard against the car. He gasped out his pain, then smothered it quickly, before it became a scream. He was instantly all too aware of how much time he would have. He told himself that, now, Eileen needed to be comforted.

He yanked open the car door and climbed in. "Eileen, don't." He stabbed the key into the ignition.

Afire.

He thought about the cooker he'd never got around to removing from his father's house. It would only have taken a phone call. Five minutes of his time. Victor would have been happy to take care of it. Eileen could have found someone to take the thing away, had offered to, but Thorne had promised that he'd get it organised.

He hadn't even put a lock on the kitchen door. It was down to him.

"Where is he, Eileen? Where have they taken him?" Thorne listened carefully, but his aunt's words were fractured by sobs. "It's OK, Eileen. I'm coming."

Then another thought that hit him like a wrecking-ball. It smashed him back in his seat and held him there, his hand shaking against the steering wheel.

He pictured Arkan Zarif across a table, remembered what had been said when they'd talked about the deal to protect Gordon Rooker.

"An agreement which I fully intend to honour." The agreement had certainly involved a degree of protection. Could it also have included retribution should anything happen to Rooker. Thorne was sure the tightness across his chest was all that was preventing the contents of his stomach rising into his mouth. An accident, or one that had been arranged? Would they be able to tell which it was? Would Thorne ever know?

Either way. Down to him.

He glanced to his right and saw a figure coming towards the car, moving fast through the drizzle. Holland raised his hands, mouthing,

"Everything OK?"

Thorne felt like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

He nodded slowly and started the car.