The Burning Girl

by Mark Billingham

  Tughan tugged at the material of his trousers, crossed one leg over the other. ‘Has anybody else remembered anything? An employee, maybe…?’

  It was ‘employee’ that made Thorne smile this time. If Ryan spotted it, he didn’t react. He shook his head, and for fifteen seconds they sat in silence.

  ‘What about these leads you mentioned?’ Stephen Ryan looked at Thorne like he was a shit-stain trodden into a white shagpile.

  ‘Thank you,’ Thorne said. ‘We’d almost forgotten. Does the name Izzigil mean anything at all?’

  Shaking heads and upturned palms. Stephen Ryan ran a hand across his closely cropped black hair.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Is this now a formal interview?’ Moloney asked. ‘We should get the brief in here, Mr Ryan.’

  Ryan raised a hand. ‘You did say this was just a chat, Mr Tughan.’

  ‘Nothing sinister,’ Tughan said.

  Thorne nodded, paused. ‘So, that’s a definite “no” on Izzigil, then?’ He nodded to Tughan, who reached into his briefcase and took out a couple of ten-by-eights.

  ‘What about these?’ Tughan asked.

  Thorne pushed aside the papers and magazines, took the pictures from Tughan and dropped them on to the table. ‘Does anybody recognise these two?’

  Sighs from Stephen Ryan and Marcus Moloney as they leaned forward. Billy Ryan picked up one of the pictures, a still from CCTV footage on Green Lanes, taken nearly three weeks earlier: a fuzzy shot of two boys running; two boys they presumed to have been running away from Muslum Izzigil’s video shop, having just hurled a four-foot metal bin through the window.

  ‘Look like any pair of herberts up to no good,’ Ryan said. ‘Ten a fucking penny. Marcus?’

  Moloney shook his head.

  Stephen Ryan looked over at Thorne, eyes wide. ‘Is it Ant and Dec?’ He cackled at his joke, turning to share it with Moloney.

  Tughan gathered up the pictures and pushed himself up from the sofa. ‘We’ll get out of your way, then…’

  Moloney and Stephen Ryan stayed where they were as Billy Ryan showed Tughan and Thorne out. The receptionist gave Thorne a hard look as he passed. Thorne winked at him.

  Ryan stopped at the door. ‘What this arsehole’s doing, the cutting, you know? It’s not on. I’ve been in business a long time, I’ve seen some shocking stuff.’

  ‘I bet you have,’ Thorne said.

  Ryan didn’t hear the dig, or chose to ignore it. He shook his head, looking thoroughly disgusted. ‘Fucking “X-Man”…’

  It didn’t surprise Thorne that Ryan knew exactly what it was that the killer did to his victims. Three of them had been found by Ryan’s own men, after all. The nickname, though, was something else–something that, as far as Thorne was aware, had been confined to Becke House. Obviously, Ryan was a man with plenty of contacts, and Thorne was not naïve enough to believe that they wouldn’t include a few who were eager to top up a Metropolitan Police salary.

  Thorne asked the question as if it were an afterthought. ‘What does the name Gordon Rooker mean to you, Mr Ryan?’

  There was a reaction, no question. Fleeting and impossible to define. Anger, fear, shock, amazement? It could have been any one of them.

  ‘Another arsehole,’ Ryan said, eventually. ‘And one who I haven’t had to think about for a very long time.’

  The three of them stood, saying nothing, the smell of aftershave overpowering close-up, until Ryan turned and walked quickly back towards his office.

  The light had been dimming when they’d arrived. Now it had gone altogether. Turning the corner into the unlit side-street, Thorne was disappointed to see that the Rover didn’t at least have a window broken.

  ‘Who’s Gordon Rooker?’ Tughan asked.

  ‘Just a name that came up. I was barking up the wrong tree…’

  Tughan gave him a long look. He pressed a button on his keyring to unlock the car, walked round to open the driver’s door. ‘Listen, it’s almost five and I signed us both out for the rest of the day anyway. I’ll drop you at home.’

  Thorne glanced through the window and saw the empty cassette box between the seats. The idea of a balding millionaire bleating about the homeless for another second was simply unbearable.

  ‘I’ll walk,’ he said.

  SEVEN

  Thorne cut up Royal College Street, where a faded plaque on a flaking patch of brickwork identified a house where Verlaine and Rimbaud had once lived. By the time he came out on to Kentish Town Road it had begun to drizzle, but he was still glad he’d refused Tughan’s offer of a lift.

  As Thorne walked past some of the tattier businesses that fringed the main road, his thoughts returned to Billy Ryan. He wondered how many of the people who ran these pubs, saunas and internet cafés were connected to Ryan in some way or another. Most probably wouldn’t even recognise the name, but the working lives of many, honest or not, would certainly be touched by Ryan at some stage.

  He thought of those who looked up to Ryan. Those in the outer circles who would be looking to move towards the centre. Did those likely lads, keen to trade in their Timberland and Tommy Hilfiger for Armani, have a clue what they might be expected to do in return? Could they begin to guess at what the softly spoken ballroom dancer had once been–might still be–capable of?

  ‘I’ve seen some shocking things…’

  Just before the turning into Prince of Wales Road, Thorne nipped into a small supermarket. He needed milk and wine, and wanted a paper to see what the Monday night match was on Sky Sports. Queuing at the till, he became aware of raised voices near the entrance and walked over. A uniformed security guard was guiding a woman of forty or so towards the doors, trying to move her out of the shop. He was not taking any nonsense, but there was still some warmth in his voice: ‘How often do we have to do this, love?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help it,’ the woman said.

  The security guard saw Thorne coming over and his eyes widened. We’ve got a right one here…

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ Even as Thorne said it, he hadn’t quite decided who he was offering the help to.

  Though the woman had three or four fat, plastic bags swinging from each hand, she was well dressed. ‘It’s something I feel compelled to do,’ she said, revealing herself to be equally well spoken.

  ‘What?’ Thorne asked.

  The security guard still had a hand squarely in the middle of the woman’s back and was moving her ever closer to the door. ‘She pesters the other customers,’ he said.

  ‘I tell them about Jesus.’ The woman beamed at Thorne. ‘They really don’t seem to mind. Nobody gets annoyed.’

  Thorne slowly followed the two of them, watching as they drifted towards the pavement.

  ‘People just want to do their shopping,’ the security guard said. ‘You’re holding them up.’

  ‘I have to tell them about Him. It’s my job.’

  ‘And this is mine.’

  ‘I know. It’s fine, really. I’m so sorry to have caused any trouble.’

  ‘Don’t come back for a while this time, OK?’

  With a shrug and a smile, the woman hoisted up her bags and turned towards the street. Thorne moved to the exit and watched her walking away.

  The security guard caught his eye. ‘I suppose there are worse crimes…’

  Thorne said nothing.

  He’d arrived home to a note from Hendricks saying that he was spending the night at Brendan’s. Thorne had put the frozen pizza he’d picked up from the supermarket in the oven. He flicked through the Standard, watched Channel Four News while it was cooking…

  Now, five minutes into the second half, Newcastle United and Southampton appeared to have settled for a draw. It was chucking it down on Tyneside and the St James’ Park pitch was slippery, so there were at least the odd hideously mistimed tackle and some handbags at ten paces, but that was as exciting as it got.

  Thorne snatched up the phone gratefully when it rang.

 
‘Tom…?’

  ‘You not watching the football, Dad?’ Time was, the TV coverage of a match would be swiftly followed by ten minutes of amateur punditry over the phone with the two of them arguing about every dodgy decision, every key move. That all seemed a lifetime ago.

  ‘Too busy,’ his dad said. ‘Different game I’m concerned about, anyway. You got your thinking cap on?’

  ‘Not at this very moment, no…’

  ‘All the ways you can be dismissed at cricket, if you please. I’ve made a list. There’s ten of them, so come on.’

  Thorne picked up the remote, knocked the volume on the TV down a little. ‘Can’t you just read them out to me?’

  ‘Don’t be such a cock, you big fucker.’ He said it like it was a term of endearment.

  ‘Dad…’

  ‘Stumped and hit wicket, I’ll give you them to start…’

  Thorne sighed, began to list them: ‘Bowled, LBW, caught, run out. What d’you call it…hitting the ball twice? Touching the ball…?’

  ‘No. Handling the ball.’

  ‘Right. Handling the ball. Listen, I can’t remember the other two…’

  His father laughed. Thorne could hear his chest rattling. ‘Timed out and obstructing the field. They’re the two that people can never remember. Same as Horst Bucholz and Brad Dexter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re the two in The Magnificent Seven that nobody can ever remember. So, come on then. Yul Brynner, I’ll give you him to start…’

  Southampton scrambled a late winner five minutes from the final whistle, just about the time when Thorne’s dad began to run out of steam. Not long after, he put down the handset, needing to fetch a book, to check a crucial fact. A minute or two into the silence that followed, Thorne realised that his father had forgotten all about the call and wasn’t coming back. He’d maybe even gone upstairs to bed.

  Thorne thought about shouting down the phone, but decided to hang up instead.

  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 café 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 café 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. Midmorning 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.