The Burning Girl

by Mark Billingham

  ‘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 dialling 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?’

  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 phonecard 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 chair back. ‘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 woodentops 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…’