"So why, then?" She answered the question herself. "Because you're an idiot."
"Let's not start that again."
She shook her head, exasperated, and took a slug of red wine. Thorne wondered if the things she'd seen, that she surely must have heard, had made Chamberlain blush back when she was on the force. Perhaps it was simply a reaction that suppressed itself in certain situations, like a bookmaker's pity or a whore's gag reflex. She was certainly a damn sight less worldly than she often pretended.
"You're pissed off because it wasn't you," Thorne said. "Because you had nothing to do with it."
"I'm pissed off because of a lot of things." It didn't sound like an invitation to pry, or a willingness to share. Thorne held his tongue and waited to see where she wanted to go.
"You're right, though," she said. "I knew I could never play a part in bringing Ryan down. However much you indulged me."
"Carol, I never."
She silenced the protestation with the smallest movement of her hand.
"Still, knowing I wasn't going to be involved didn't stop me imagining certain. scenarios."
"Ryan dead, you mean?"
"Not just dead. I thought about killing him myself. I thought about it a lot."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "How was it?"
"It was great."
"The way you killed him or the way it made you feel?"
"Both."
"And the reality isn't quite as good as you'd imagined it. ." She pulled a tissue from her sleeve, dabbed at a ring of wine left on the table. "It's not the right result, Ryan being dead." Thorne had turned the same thing over and over in his head, looked at it from every angle, examined it in every conceivable light. "Do you not think he's paid for what he did?"
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Chamberlain said nothing.
"Look, the law could have taken its course, and Tughan, or somebody like him, might have got lucky and maybe, five years from now, Billy Ryan would have been cock of the walk in Belmarsh or Parkhurst. I'm not necessarily saying that what happened was right or that he got what was coming to him. How the hell could I, knowing. what I had to do with it? I just can't find it in myself to feel the slightest bit gutted that he's dead."
The flash that had been in Chamberlain's eyes when she'd talked about killing Billy Ryan had gone. It had been replaced by something warmer, more muted. "I'm not exactly heartbroken myself," she said. Thorne lifted his glass. "Let's not overlook the substantial saving of taxpayers' money. Of our money. Or the fact that overpaid solicitors might have to wait that bit longer for flash cars and luxury holidays
. ."
Chamberlain did not come close to returning his smile. "It's not the right result, because with Ryan dead we'll never get him, will we? How will we ever know who Ryan gave that money to? How will we ever know who burned Jessica?"
The beer was suddenly vile in Thorne's mouth. He swallowed it quickly, tasting it thick and brackish as it moved down his throat. He felt it settle in his stomach, black and heavy, like doubt. Like guilt.
"Why did you tell her, Tom?" Chamberlain asked. "If it wasn't just a post-coital thing?"
Thorne shook his head. "I honestly have no idea." And he honestly didn't. "Not beyond a simple, strong feeling that she needed to know."
'"She needed to know", or you needed to tell her? They might have seemed like the same thing at the time."
"It felt good to tell her. I won't pretend it didn't."
"What about now?"
Now felt like a world away from then, though it was less than three weeks since he and Alison Kelly had slept together. Ten days since she'd stuck a blade into Billy Ryan. Now seemed infinitely confused and uncertain. Then, it had all seemed straightforward. Then, there had only been light and shadow, and a simple choice between a hot, hard knowing and an ignorance that looked and sounded anything but blissful.
Thorne blinked before answering Chamberlain's question, remembered the inscription on a headstone he'd walked past at Billy Ryan's funeral a few hours before.
In life, in death, in dark, in light. We are all in God's care. It was supposed to be simple. Life was light and death was darkness. But for some souls, the situation was always going to be more complex. There could be little doubt that Ryan's had been a life lived in darkness. Through it and for it. Right now, Thorne was not so certain where he stood.
"Now? I wish to God I'd kept my mouth shut," he said. "Not for Ryan's sake."
"For hers."
"She'll spend a long time in prison."
"There's a lot for the court to take into account. ." Thorne shook his head. "A long time. And she's not hard, you know?
She must think she is. She made a decision to do what she did. She chose prison."
"Same as our friend Gordon Rooker," Chamberlain said. "Maybe we're not making these places scary enough."
"Right." It was an automatic response, meaning nothing. Alison Kelly would find it tough enough.
Chamberlain put down her glass, leaned forward. '"She chose prison." You said it yourself. You didn't put the weapon in her hand, Tom."
"In a way, I did." He took a sip of Guinness. It wasn't really tasting any better. "Didn't somebody say that knowledge is a dangerous thing?" Feeling his brain start to fuzz up just a little. Breathing a bit more heavily.
Thinking: knowledge is a knife.
"Probably," Chamberlain said. "Some smart-arse." The dour look on her face, the way her soft Yorkshire accent suited the word so perfectly, made Thorne laugh. A hole was punched through the murk that had been settling about their heads and sucking away the joy that was normally there between them.
"How's your cold case going, anyway? The case of the punctured publican."
"It wasn't a publican, it was in a pub car park and "cold" doesn't come close. There's icicles hanging off the bloody thing. Mind you, I've not exactly been giving it my undivided attention."
"Maybe now you'll be able to focus a bit more."
"Maybe."
Thorne touched his glass to her hand. "Billy Ryan. Jessica Clarke. You need to let it go now."
Slowly, her eyes widened. '"Let it go". Right. And the names Bishop, Palmer and Foley mean nothing to you."
Thorne's hand moved to his scrubby beard and his thoughts to the cases Chamberlain was talking about. Cases that had left their mark on him. Carved deep, but never less than fresh, never less than tender. How had one fifteen-year-old put it? "Like a mask you could never take off."
"I think', he said after a few moments, 'that I preferred it when you were insulting me."
Tottenham Court Road tube station was pretty handy for both of them. Thorne would take the Northern Line up to Kentish Town. Chamberlain could change at Oxford Circus, just two stops away from Victoria Station and the last train back to Worthing.
They walked past the church of St. Giles in the Field. It had been founded at the start of the twelfth century as a leper hospital, and its parish records contained the names of Milton, Marvell and Garrick. The burial grounds that lay behind the spiked metal fence contained many of those who'd met their end at Tyburn tree and whose final taste of alcohol had cost considerably less than Thorne and Chamberlain had just spent.
They crossed the road at Denmark Street and turned towards the Charing Cross Road. To the north of them, the skyline was dominated by Centre Point. The office block once thought smart, and even stranger, tall had stood totally empty for some time after it was first erected, and a charity for the homeless, as an ironic gesture, had taken its name. The building rose above an area that a hundred and fifty years before had been the city's most notorious and overcrowded slum. The Rookery had been a maze of filthy alleyways, rat-runs and courts where the poor had lived in squalor, and where crime had been as endemic as the disease. A sprawling network of so-called 'thieves kitchens' and 'flash houses' had made it a virtual no-go area for the police officers of the time.
Thorne outlined the histor
y of the place as they walked. It had flourished, if that was an appropriate word, for over a century, before being demolished to make way for what was now New Oxford Street some time in the mid-nineteenth century. Thorne couldn't remember the exact date.
"You and I seem to talk about history a lot," Chamberlain said. Thorne laughed. "Some of it not quite so dim and distant."
"Why do you think that is?"
Thorne considered the question for a moment. "Maybe because we think we can learn from it."
"Can we?"
"We can. I'm not sure we have. I'm not convinced anything's changed very much."
Chamberlain said something, but her words were lost beneath the wail of a siren as a police van rushed past them towards Leicester Square. Thorne shook his head. Chamberlain waited for the noise to die down before she repeated herself. "Perhaps that's reassuring." Gazing through the windows of Internet cafes and computer stores, Thorne couldn't help but picture the gutters running with sewage, families packed into cellars. Men and women driven to prostitution and theft to maintain a standard of living that could only be described as inhuman.
"Have you read Oliver Twist?" Thorne asked. It was the iniquity of life in the Rookery, and places like it, that Dickens had described, perhaps a touch romantically, in his creation of Bill Sikes, Fagin and his gang of under-age rogues.
Chamberlain shook her head. "I've only seen the musical. Shameful, isn't it?"
Thorne had taken a few steps before he decided to make his confession.
"I was in a production of Oliver! at school. I was the Artful Dodger."
Chamberlain took his arm. "Now that I would have paid good money to see."
"You'd have felt very ripped off. ." Thorne had actually enjoyed himself. He'd done his turn, shown off and clowned around, blissfully unaware that the real people on which the characters were based did somewhat worse than pick a pocket or two.
"Can you remember any of the songs?" Chamberlain asked. She began to hum "Consider Yourself", but Thorne didn't join in.
"I remember I had a battered top hat that you could squash, and then it would pop up again. I remember my Nan waving at me on the first night when I walked on. I remember spending the whole time trying to cop off with a girl from the sixth form who was playing Nancy." They turned into the entrance to the tube station. Walked down the stairs towards the turnstiles.
"Right," Chamberlain said. "So you were in helpless thrall to your knob even then."
Back at the flat, Thorne sat at the kitchen table waiting for the kettle to boil. He called his father but the line was permanently engaged.
He was still getting used to having the place to himself again. Hendricks had moved back into his flat the week before, and, if he was being honest, Thorne missed having him around. It was good to have some peace and quiet, though, and he certainly didn't miss the discarded trainers dotted about the place or the disparaging comments about his record collection.
After five minutes he rang the operator, asked them to check his father's line. His dad's phone had been left off the hook. It was nice to have some privacy back too. Although Hendricks had shown no such inhibitions, Thorne had felt somewhat uncomfortable about being less than fully clothed in front of his friend. He knew he was being stupid, or worse, but the journey from bathroom to bedroom had occasionally been a little awkward.
Thorne carried his tea through to the living room. He put some music on and, while he was up, took a well-thumbed encyclopedia of London from the shelves.
The Rookery of St. Giles had been demolished in 1847. He drank tea and listened to Laura Cantrell, and to the hum of distant traffic between the tracks. He sat and read. While various King Georges had come and gone, while science and revolution were changing the world beyond recognition, the deprivation and crime in the worst areas of the capital had reached incredible levels. The poor and the sick had robbed and murdered one another, and sold their children to buy gin, while the law had more or less left them to get on with it.
Two centuries on, the drugs were different. The gun had replaced the cudgel and the cut-throat razor. The Rookeries were called housing estates.
Thorne remembered what Chamberlain had said when the siren had stopped screaming.
"Reassuring" was definitely not the word.
TWENTY-FOUR
"So, come on," Rooker said. "What level of protection do I get?" He looked from Thorne to Holland and back again, searching their faces for some hint. The two detectives looked at each other, milking the moment.
To say that the SO7 case specifically the part involving the testimony of Gordon Rooker had been thrown into confusion would be an understatement. The concept of witness protection did, after all, become a little pointless when the individual from whom you were providing protection had been carved up by an ex-wife. As Thorne had explained to Rooker before, there were different levels of protection, each appropriate to the perceived threat. Rooker had clearly grasped the concept, and, with the prison jungle drums going mental, had been on the phone before Ryan's death had so much as made it into the papers. He'd ranted and raved and demanded to know where he stood. It had been explained to him through appropriate channels that, in the immediate aftermath of Billy Ryan's murder, his peace of mind was pretty low on everybody's list of priorities.
Now, face to face with Thorne for the first time since Ryan's death, Rooker was still looking for an answer. Well? What level do I get?" Thorne sniffed, nodded thoughtfully. "I think maybe a more basic method of disguise, as opposed to a completely new identity, and perhaps some means of raising the alarm should you feel threatened."
"Come again?"
Holland smirked. "A wig and a whistle."
"Oh, fuck off and behave yourselves." On a practical level, no one had so much as decided where Rooker should even go. He was still on the protected witness wing in Salisbury, which did seem pretty stupid. He could be transferred back to the VP wing at Park Royal or even, it had been suggested, back into the general prison population elsewhere, now that he was obviously in no danger from Billy Ryan. This idea had thrown Rooker into such a furious panic that the solicitor who'd passed on the information had briefly feared for his physical safety. In the end, unable to make a quick decision, they'd decided to leave him where he was. It was where he wanted to be, but Rooker still seemed far from content. .
"I don't understand," Holland said. "I thought you'd be delighted that Billy Ryan was six feet under."
Rooker sucked his teeth. "Ten feet would be better. Yeah, if I had one, I'd've raised a glass to Alison Kelly for sticking a knife in the cunt, course I would. Shame it wasn't a paintbrush."
"So, why are we here?" Thorne asked. "Frankly, we've got better things to do."
"How d'you know I'm not still a target?" Thorne pretended to rack his brains. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because Billy Ryan's pushing up daisies in St. Pancras Cemetery."
"What about Stephen?"
"What about him?" Holland said.
"Nobody knows what he's likely to do." Thorne glanced at Holland. He had to admit that Rooker had a point. Since his father's murder, a great deal of time had been spent fruitlessly speculating as to exactly how Stephen Ryan was going to react.
"He might decide to play the big man," Rooker said. "Come after me because of his father."
Holland picked at a fingernail. "Can't see it, Gordon. I know Steve's not the sharpest tool in the box, but even he knows you didn't top his old man."
Rooker's eyes narrowed. "You know perfectly fucking well what I mean."
Holland's mood changed in an instant. "Watch your mouth."
"Sorry. Look, I just think that now might be a good time to tie up a few loose ends, you know? And I think they'll use someone a bit more reliable than Alun Fisher next time."
"I really don't think so," Thorne said. "We aren't the only ones with better things to do. Stephen Ryan's got quite enough to worry about at the moment. ."
The man on the motorbike pulled over to the pavement
and waited. He sat letting the traffic move past him, revving the bike for no good reason. Letting his breathing grow shallower.
It was a hot day and he'd have been sweating under his gear anyway, but in those places where the leather met flesh, the two skins slid across each other on a sheen of perspiration.
He raised the dark visor just a little and took a few gulps of air that was anything but fresh. He swallowed petrol fumes and hot tar. He could taste the flavoured grease from the seemingly endless parade of fast-food outlets on this stretch of the Seven Sisters Road. The bike, which had been his only since that morning, had cut easily through the traffic, and he was well ahead of schedule. He thought about parking up and grabbing a Coke but knew that he'd be taking a stupid risk. He had a bottle of water in the box on the back, along with a few other bits and pieces. There'd be somewhere better to stop up ahead. Maybe he could take a stroll around Finsbury Park, kill some time before delivering the message.
This was a big job, his biggest yet. He'd told his wife to pack for a spring break. All the swimming things and plenty of high-factor sun cream for the kids. He'd told her that it was a surprise, knowing that she'd be thrilled to bits with the amazing place he'd booked for them all in the Maldives. Four weeks, fully catered, would make a big hole in what he was getting for the job, but there'd still be a decent amount left for other things. They'd been talking about shelling out to send their eldest private. The secondary schools in his part of Islington were a disgrace, and going private was a damn sight cheaper than upping sticks and moving. They'd have enough to cover three or four years at least, and still have some left over to tart up the house a bit. A conservatory maybe, or a loft conversion. He knew a few builders, people who'd give him a good price and still do a top-notch job.
Doing a good job without charging silly money. It was simple really. He thought that he could build a decent reputation for himself by doing the same thing. He knew there were others, a few foreigners especially, who asked for more, but he believed that pitching yourself somewhere in the middle was the best policy long term. He flicked on his indicator, edged the bike's front wheel towards the road.
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