The Burning Girl

EIGHT

An attractive young woman placed menus on the table in front of them.

"Just two coffees, please," Thorne said.

Holland looked a little disappointed, as if he'd been hoping to put a spot of breakfast on expenses. After the waitress had gone, Holland scanned the menu: "Some of this stuff sounds nice. You know, the Turkish stuff."

Thorne glanced around, caught the eye of a dour, dark-eyed individual sitting at a table near the door. "I can't see us eating here too regularly, can you?"

When the coffees arrived, Thorne asked, "Is the owner around?" The waitress looked confused. "Is Mr. Zarif available?"

"Which?"

"The boss. We'd like to speak to him." She picked up the menus and turned away without a word. Thorne watched her drop them on to the counter and stamp away down the stairs at the back of the room.

"She can say goodbye to her tip," Holland said. The cafe was at the Manor House end of Green Lanes, opposite Finsbury Park, and not a million miles away from where Thorne had once been beaten up by a pair of Arsenal fans. It was small maybe six tables and a couple of booths and the blinds on the front door and windows made it a little gloomier than it might have been. The ceiling was the only well-lit part of the room, the varnished pine coloured gold by the glow from dozens of ornate lanterns glass, bronze and ceramic dangling from the wooden slats and swinging slightly every time the front door opened or closed.

Holland took a sip of coffee. "Maybe he's got a thing about lamps." Thorne noticed the slightly incongruous choice of background music and nodded towards the stereo on a shelf behind the counter. "And Madonna," he said.

They both looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. The man who emerged around the corner and walked towards their booth was big bulky as much as fat and round-shouldered. A blue-and-white-striped apron was stretched across his belly, and his hands were tangled in a grubby-looking tea-towel as he struggled to dry them.

"Can I help you?"

Thorne took out his warrant card and made the introductions. "We'd like to have a word with the owner."

The man edged behind the table, squeezed himself in next to Holland and sat down. "I am Arkan Zarif."

Thorne was happy for Holland to kick off and listened as he told Zarif that they were investigating a number of murders, including that of Muslum Izzigil, and that they needed to ask him some questions regarding his various business interests. Zarif listened intently, nodding almost constantly. When Holland had finished, Zarif thought for a few seconds before suddenly breaking into a smile and holding out his hands: "You need proper coffee. Turkish coffee." Holland raised a hand to refuse, but Zarif was already shouting across to the waitress in Turkish.

"Mr. Izzigil was murdered just up the road from here," Holland said. Zarif shook his head. "Terrible. Many murders here. Lots of guns." He had a strong Mediterranean accent, his face folding into concentration as he spoke. Though olive-skinned, Thorne could see that the rest of his colouring was unusual. His eyes were a light green beneath his heavy brows. His hair was dark with oil, and the stubble across his jowls was white, but Thorne could see from the thick moustache, and the wisps around his ears, that his natural colour was a light, almost orangey brown.

"You have to speak with my son," he said.

"About Mr. Izzigil's murder?"

"These business interests. My sons are the businessmen. They are great businessmen. Just two years after we come here and they buy this place for me. How's that?" He held out his arms, his smile almost as wide as they were.

"So who is the owner of this place?" Holland asked. "Of all the other businesses?"

Zarif leaned forward. "OK, here it is. See, I have three sons." He held up his fingers, as if Thorne and Holland would find it as hard to understand some of the words as he did to find them. "Memet is the eldest. Then Hassan and Tan." He nodded towards the waitress who was watching from behind the counter, smoking. "Also my daughter, Sema." Thorne caught movement near the door and turned to see the man who had clocked him earlier rising to leave. It didn't look like he'd settled his bill. Zarif gave him a wave as he went.

"Memet runs things here," Zarif said. "Deliveries and everything else."

Holland scribbled in his notebook. He'd never quite lost the habit.

"But it's in your name?"

"The cafe was a present from my sons." He leaned back against the red plastic of the booth as his daughter put three small cups of steaming coffee on the table. She said something to Zarif in Turkish and he nodded. "I love to cook, so I spend my time in the kitchen. My wife helps, and Sema. Chopping and peeling, I do all the cooking, though." He poked himself in the chest. "I pick out the meat."

"Is Memet here?" Thorne asked.

Zarif shook his head. "Gone out for the day." He picked up his coffee cup, pointed with it towards the street. "Next door is Hassan's minicab office, if you want. My other two sons are usually in there. I'm certain they just play cards all day." He took a slurp of the coffee and with a grin gestured for Thorne and Holland to do the same.

"Good?"

"Strong," Thorne said. "Zarif Brothers owns a number of video shops, is that right?"

Another proud smile. "Six or seven, I think. More, maybe. They get me all the latest films, the new James Bond."

"Muslum Izzigil was the manager of one of those shops a quarter of a mile up the road. He and his wife were shot in the head." Zarif's eyes widened as he swallowed his coffee.

"Did your sons not mention that to you, Mr. Zarif?" The daughter began talking loudly to him in Turkish from behind the counter. Zarif held up his hands, spoke sharply to her, then turned at the noise of the door opening. The irritation instantly left his face:

"Hassan."

The door closed. Several of the lanterns clinked against one another. Thorne turned to see two young men moving purposefully across the room. He was in little doubt they'd been summoned from next door by the customer who'd just left. One of the men stopped at the counter and began talking in a low voice to Sema. The other marched across to the end of the booth.

"My old man's English isn't so good," he said. Thorne looked at him. "It's fine."

Another stream of Turkish, this time from the son to the father. Thorne held up a hand, put the other on Arkan Zarif's beefy forearm.

"What's he saying?"

Zarif rolled his eyes and began to slide out of the booth. "I'm being sent back to the kitchen," he said.

Holland caught Thorne's eye, disturbed at losing control of the interview. "Hang on."

Zarif turned back to the table. "You want more coffee?"

"It's fine," Thorne said, answering Zarif and Holland at the same time.

As Arkan disappeared down the stairs, Hassan slid into his place. With a wave, he beckoned to his sister for his own cup of coffee. He leaned back and stuck out his chin.

Rooker lay on his bunk, glued to the TV that was bolted to the wall in the corner, swearing at Trisha. Mid-morning was virtually written in stone. If the subject was a very good one, he might defect to Kilroy, but it was always a lot more polite and BBC. The people on Trisha were usually not too bright and a damn sight more likely to swear and row. This morning's was especially good: "Problems with Intimacy'. There was some poof banging on about how he'd never been able to tell his kids that he loved them and a woman who couldn't bear her husband putting his arm around her in the street. Rooker decided that they ought to try crapping next to a child molester or showering with rapists.

He'd spent well over a third of his life in prison but had never got used to the proximity of some of those he'd been locked up with. He remembered reading about how all animals needed a certain amount of territory even rats or rabbits or whatever a bit of space that was all theirs, or they'd start to go mad, attacking each other. Fucking rabbits going mental! Plenty of people inside did lose it, of course, plenty of them big time, but he was surprised it didn't happen more often. He was amazed that a lot more prison officers didn't die every year.

Thinking about it and he'd had plenty of time to think about it -he'd been wary of getting close to others at school. Changing rooms made him uncomfortable. He'd go home dirty after games rather than jump in the showers with the rest of them. He often wondered if this distance he felt from other kids was why he had ended up in his particular line of work…

On the show, Trisha asked the woman if she loved her husband, even though she hated him touching her in public. "Yeah, I love him sometimes," she said. "Other times, I could kill him." Rooker laughed along with the studio audience. He knew that the difference between him and most people who said things like "I could kill him' was that he really could do it. He could remember what it was like to put a gun to someone's head, to pull a knife across a throat, to pour lighter fuel into some poor bastard's hair. The programme finished and he stepped out on to the landing. He could smell lunch coming as he walked down to the floor. You could always smell the food going in one direction or the other.

"DLP going for it this time, d'you reckon? Rooker?" Alun Fisher had served three years of a five-year tariff for causing death by dangerous driving. He had a history of drug abuse and mental illness. His refusal to eat properly meant that he spent as much time on the prison's health care wing as he did in the VP Unit. "Bound to approve you, this time. You'll be counting the days, yeah?" Rooker grunted, stared across at the card school in the corner. He was feeling confident this time. They were bound to go for the deal, considering what he was offering. He could probably afford to pick up one of the pool cues and bash Fisher's head in and they'd still send a police limo to pick him up.

"You're going to have it sweet on the outside," Fisher said. "That's what everybody reckons. You'll be looked after 'cos you never grassed."

Rooker stared at him.

Fisher nodded and grinned, the teeth blackened and rotten from years of drug use. "Never fucking grassed."

"The business was Mr. Izzigil's. Our company owns the building which is looked after by a letting agency. I didn't actually know him." Hassan

Zarif had the same accent as his father, but the grammar and vocabulary were virtually faultless. Two years here and already their native language had become their second. It was clear that, in all sorts of ways, the Zarif boys were quick learners. "My brother popped in occasionally, I think, and perhaps Izzigil would give him a film or two as gifts. Disney films for his children."

"Right," Thorne said.

"Zarif Brothers owns the property, but the video business was Mr. Izzigil's."

Holland failed to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "You said that." Zarif cocked his head, put a finger into the empty metal ashtray, and slowly began to spin it on the tabletop. He was in his early twenties, tall, with a mop of thick, black hair which sat high on his head. A pronounced chin marred the brooding looks and was emphasised by the polo neck he wore under a heavy, brown leather jacket with a fur collar. He sighed slightly at having to state the obvious again. "He rented out movies."

"That's not what paid for his son's school," Thorne said. "Or the nice new Audi in his garage."

Zarif shook his head, spun the ashtray.

"He had over thirty thousand pounds in a building society "wealth management" service," Holland said.

"Some people have no vices."

Thorne leaned across, gently nudged the ashtray to one side. "So, you've no idea at all why anybody would want to put a bullet in his head? And put one in his wife's head for good measure." Zarif clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if he were trying to decide exactly how to answer.

Thorne knew that this meeting was as important for the young man sitting opposite him as it was for them. Hassan Zarif knew he was safe, at least for the time being. This was about making impressions. He wouldn't want to appear obstructive, but he had a natural cockiness, and a place in the world he thought he'd earned the hard way. It was a tricky balance to strike, but while he played the part of concerned local businessman, he also had a message to send. He wanted to let them know, nicely, of course, that neither he nor the rest of them were to be pissed around.

"Maybe he fucked the wrong man's girlfriend," Zarif said. From behind the counter, Zarif's sister began to laugh. Thorne glared at her, none too keen on the joke, but saw that she was actually laughing at something Zarif's friend was saying to her. He turned back to Zarif. "As we told your father, we're investigating a number of recent murders."

"It's a dangerous city."

"Only for some people," Thorne said.

Zarif smiled, held up his hands. "Listen, I've got stuff to do, so."

Thorne asked his questions, played the game. He had his own message to send and wasn't overly concerned with subtlety.

"Do you have any information that might assist us in investigating the death of Mickey Clayton?"

Zarif shook his head.

"Or Sean Anderson?"

"No."

The X-Man's victims. "Anthony Wright? John Gildea?"

"No and no."

Thorne reached into his jacket, pulled out some change. He dropped a couple of pound coins on to the table. "That's for the coffee." Outside, it was raining. They walked quickly back towards Thorne's