The Burning Girl-4 (36 page)

' The Job can't see us getting too much more out of this .. ."

Thorne leaned back in his chair, cradled his coffee cup and thought about the team celebrating that night in the Oak. Tughan would have made a speech, rather more fulsome than the one he'd given in the office. They'd have drunk toasts to their results. Arms thrown around shoulders as they lifted glasses of lager and malt whisky, and drunk to lies. To what they'd been told to settle for.

He pictured other glasses being raised elsewhere, by those who real y had something to celebrate. Those who would be extremely happy if they knew and there was every reason to think that they would know that for the time being the police were off their backs.

Thorne had only a mug of lukewarm coffee, but he raised it anyway.

To some of the police .. .

He reached forward to turn the computer off but then paused. He typed 'immortal skin' into the search engine and waited. Eventual y, a site appeared that gave al the details Ian Clarke had told him about. The page was dense with information, closely typed, difficult to read.

Thorne's eyes closed and he dreamed for a few minutes, no more than that, of holes in flesh that healed. Of scars fading like the words written in sand, and of lines etched into skin that vanished; the X replaced by smooth, fresh flesh that smel ed of babies .. .

When he jolted awake, the screen had frozen. He swore at the computer for a few seconds, then pul ed out the plug.

And went to bed.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The car containing Memet and Hassan Zarif pul ed away from the traffic lights at Stoke Newington station and accelerated across the Stamford Hil Road.

Sitting three cars behind them, Thorne was stil unsure where the brothers were heading. They were driving in the general direction of the restaurant and minicab office, but it wasn't the route Thorne would have chosen. They were a little too far south.

Thorne made it through the lights with a few seconds to spare. He turned up the soundtrack to O Brother, Where Art Thou? and sat back. Wherever the Zarifs were going, he was along for the ride.

He'd tried the minicab office first, but none of the brothers had been around. The same surly individual he'd encountered on his first visit there had shaken his head and invited Thorne to search the premises. The man had shrugged and drawn phlegm into his mouth when Thorne had turned to walk back out of the door.

Outside, Thorne had stood for a moment, considering where to go next. A smart black Omega had pul ed up and one of Zarif's drivers had asked if he needed a lift. Thorne had shaken his head without giving the driver a second glance. His decision made, he'd marched towards his car. Looking through the windows of the restaurant as he'd passed, Thorne had seen Arkan Zarif and his wife moving about in the half light, setting up the tables for lunch.

The cars crossed the Seven Sisters Road at the bottom end of Finsbury Park, heading north again.

Memet Zarif's BMW was somewhat newer than Thorne's, and now, sitting no more than fifty feet behind it, he wondered if its occupants were aware that they were being fol owed. His car was fairly distinctive both in shape and colour and if they knew where he lived, the chances were they also knew what he drove.

Thorne decided that it didn't real y make a fat lot of difference. They'd be stopping somewhere eventual y and he only needed a quick word .. .

After leaving the minicab office, he'd driven a mile or two east, to Memet Zarif's home address. It was an ordinary-looking, semidetached house in Clapton, with a view across the River Lea to the Walthamstow Marshes beyond. There were plenty of pr icier places around, but Thorne guessed that, somewhere, Zarif had other property they were as yet unaware of.

Thorne had spent forty minutes loitering with a newspaper, then watched as the front door eventual y opened, and Hassan Zarif had emerged. His arm was in a sling, the only visible sign of the bul et that had shattered his col arbone. As Hassan had waited on the drive near the car, his elder brother had appeared, a wife and child next to him on the doorstep. Memet had kissed his family goodbye, and Thorne had walked back towards the side-street where he'd parked up.

When the dark blue BMW had moved past him a few minutes later, Thorne had eased his car slowly out and fal en into the stream of vehicles behind it.

They moved through heavy traffic into Stroud Green and then dropped down towards the somewhat better-preserved environment of Crouch End. This was an area popular with creative types who were not quite in the Highgate and Hampstead league. Despite the lack of a tube station, property prices had gone through the roof in recent years, and the place was crammed with trendy restaurants and bars. The majority of its better-than-averagely heeled shoppers tended to ignore the handful of less salubrious establishments: the adult magazine shop; the working men's cafe; the massage parlour .. .

The main road divided either side of the clock tower, and Thorne watched as Zarif took the right-hand fork, then pul ed sharply across and parked on a double-yel ow line. Thorne cruised past as the brothers stepped out of the car, and swung into a side-street as they crossed the pavement towards a door.

The sign in the window flashed red after dark. At half-past eleven in the morning, the letters spel ed out 'sauna' in grime. The girl on reception probably looked a little better herself once the daylight had disappeared; a little less pasty and pissed off. The smile she'd slapped on when Thorne came through the door became a scowl as soon as he produced his warrant card.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she said.

"Nothing like that going on here, is there?" Thorne walked towards the door in the far corner, tipping his head from one side to the other. "Neck's a little bit painful," he said. "Got anybody through here who can do something about stiffness .. .?"

"Sorry if I don't piss myself."

Thorne reached for the handle. The girl was either too lazy, or too scared or too engrossed in her magazine to try and stop him.

The room on the other side of the door was clearly designed to be a lounge, but it had not been expensively decorated. Thorne guessed that this wouldn't bother most customers, as the eye would quickly be drawn from the multicoloured carpet to whatever hardcore activities were taking place on the big-screen TV. Right now, a blonde in pop-socks was engaged in an enthusiastic bout of fel atio. The permed stal ion on the receiving end, eyes tight shut in cutaway, looked suitably grateful.. .

in?.

Hassan Zarif was sitting, side on to the door, in a velour armchair. A red to wel ing robe gaped open across his chest and he was using his one good arm to flick through the pages of a Daily Mirror. He let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a moan when he looked up and saw that he had company.

"That's a shame .. ." Thorne said, nodding towards the sling. "You could have a wank and read the paper if you hadn't gone and got yourself shot.. ."

Hassan shifted uncomfortably in his chair, caught between a desire to stand and the need to hide his erection.

"Don't get up," Thorne said.

It didn't take too long for Hassan to recover his composure. He crossed his legs, pul ed the robe across his chest. "If you've come here for a freebie, I'l see what I can do," he said. "I'm pretty sure a number of police officers get V.I.P treatment in here .. ."

Thorne walked slowly across the room. He picked up a remote from a glass-topped table, flicked off the TV. "Sorry, but the slurping makes it real y hard to concentrate."

"I presume you do want something .. ."

"This one of yours, is it?"

"I'm sorry?"

Thorne held out his arms. "This place part of the Zarif Brothers empire?"

Hassan smiled. "No. This business is owned by an acquaintance, but we may, in fact, be looking to invest in similar premises .. ."

"Right. So this is ... what? Research?"

"This is exactly what it looks like. I'm not certain you can arrest me for it, but go ahead and try if you like. I'm happy to let you make a fool of yourself."

Thorne nodded. "How happy would you be if I stepped over there and snapped your other arm? How happy would you be with somebody else wiping your arse for a while .. .?"

Hassan stuck out his prominent chin and pointed towards the ceiling. Thorne looked up at the tiny camera mounted high above a flap of peeling Anaglypta.

"You'd be amazed at how easily a videotape can go missing in an evidence room," Thorne said. He moved towards the archway on the far side of the room, leaned against a plastic pil ar and stuck his head through. To his left, a number of rooms 'suites', as they were advertised on a poster in reception ran off a carpeted corridor.

Thorne turned back into the lounge, looked across at Hassan. He thought he'd got the three brothers fairly wel worked out: Tan, the youngest, was the hard man the one with a short fuse; Hassan was the one that made business plans and worked out where to hide the money. Neither was the one Thorne needed to speak to.

He gestured back towards the archway. "Big brother through there, is he?"

"I presume you fol owed us here, so you know he is."

"You're sitting here waiting for sloppy seconds, that about right?"

Hassan said nothing, but his jawbone moved beneath the skin where the teeth were clenching.

"You presume?" Thorne said. "So you didn't see me? That's good news. It's been a while since I've tailed someone and I thought I might have lost the knack."

Before he stepped through the archway, Thorne picked up the remote and turned the movie back on. The blonde woman resumed her performance.

"This one's a classic," Thorne said. "Don't worry, I won't tel you what happens at the end, in case you haven't seen it.. ."

Rooker turned the phone card over and over in his hand as he waited for his turn to make a cal . He had a fair amount of credit left that he'd never get the chance to use up now.

Phonecards were always in demand in prison, were as good as hard currency to those with people to talk to. He'd swap this one for a few fags before he left.

He'd made more cal s than usual in the last couple of months, but before that there hadn't real y been many people he'd wanted to speak to. Fewer stil who had wanted to speak to him.

The man in front of him swore and slammed down the phone. Rooker avoided making eye contact as he stepped forward to take his turn. He slotted in the card and dial ed the number.

When the cal was eventual y answered, the response was curt, businesslike.

"It's me," Rooker said.

"I'm busy. Be quick."

"You know I'm coming out in a couple of days .. .?"

The man on the other end of the line said nothing, waited for Rooker to elaborate.

"I'm just checking, you know, confirming that we stil have an agreement .. ."

There was a grunt of laughter. "Things have changed a little."

"Right, and whose doing wel out of that? You're quids in now, right?"

"Let's hope so."

"Course you are. Competition's out of the way, aren't they?" Rooker cleared his throat, did his best to sound casual, matey. "Listen, I'l be relocated. I don't know where yet, but I'l let you know as soon as I do."

There was a long pause. Rooker could hear voices in the background. The man he was talking to spoke to somebody else, then came back to the phone. "That's fine. I hope it al works out, al right?"

"Hang on, I want to know that you're guaranteeing me protection."

"From who?"

"From whoever .. ." Rooker was trying to control his temper. This was the same conversation he'd had with Thorne, for Christ's sake. Unbelievable .. .

"Don't worry. We had an agreement, as you say."

"Good. Great." Rooker saw his own grin; a lopsided reflection in the battered metal plate above the phone. "So you were joking just now, right?"

"Just joking .. ."

"I mean, anything could happen, couldn't it? The deal was that you'd look after me. That you'd take steps .. ."

"You have that guarantee."

Steel crept into Rooker's voice. "If anything happens to me .. ."

It was there too in the voice of the man on the other end of the line. In the words he repeated before ending the cal : "You have that guarantee."

What had been described in reception as the "V.I.P Suite' was little more than a large bathroom with a sofa in one corner. The wal s were panel ed in glossy, orange pine that ran with moisture. Red bathrobes hung on hooks, and a pink, plastic Jacuzzi took up most of the available space. The wal -mounted TV, probably set up to show the same film that was playing in the lounge, was switched off. Memet Zarif had no need of such visual stimulation. The real thing was being eagerly supplied by the woman sharing his bathwater, though, in the absence of an aqualung, she was providing manual rather than oral relief.

The woman, whose enhanced breasts bobbed in the water like buoys, stopped what she was doing the second she saw Thorne.

Memet reached for her wrist, dragged her arm back beneath the water. He spoke to her, but his eyes never strayed from Thorne's. "Carry on."

For a few tepid seconds nobody did much, then, final y, with a splash, the woman yanked her hand away and climbed out. Dripping, she walked behind Memet and pul ed on a bathrobe, her lack of shyness as obvious as the scars and stretch-marks. She slipped her feet into sandals and turned back to Zarif. "Do I need to fetch someone?"

Memet shook his head, unconcerned.

The woman sized Thorne up like she was working out how big a stick she'd need to scrape him off the bottom of her sandal.

"Am I a copper or a hired thug?" Thorne asked. "Or both? I know you're finding it hard to decide." He nodded towards Memet. "Your friend in there's helping me with my inquiries, so why don't you go somewhere and wash your hands .. ."

The woman slipped the scrunchie from her hair, shaking it loose as she crossed the room. She stopped for just a second to hiss at Thorne, before stepping out into the corridor.

"Tosser .. ."

"You're a fine one to talk," he said.

When Thorne turned back to Memet, he had disappeared under the water. Thorne waited, watched as he lifted up his balding head and shook the water from it like a dog.