He was fairly sure he could get into the restaurant unseen. If all went well, there would be no reason for anyone other than the two people who mattered to know he’d been there.
At around a quarter to twelve, Thorne watched as a dark Mercedes pulled up. Five minutes later, Sema Zarif and her mother, a woman Thorne had never met, hurried out of the restaurant and were driven away. He watched, and remembered what Louise had said: wondering why more of those who had lost loved ones to violence were not driven to it themselves. He could not recall exactly how many times he’d sat where he was now and come close to it himself. To running across the road, and in, and at Arkan Zarif. Taking whatever came to hand: a bottle; a glass; one of those knives of which Zarif was so proud.
‘I choose all the meat,’ he had told Thorne once.
Thorne remembered the smile. The shift of those shoulders.
He waited another ten minutes to be sure, then got out of the car.
The area wasn’t one he fancied moving into, so Thorne didn’t bother checking out any properties as he moved past the estate agent’s; walking quickly, keeping close to the window.
When he reached the restaurant and looked inside, he was alarmed to see that Arkan Zarif was staring straight at him, as though he’d been waiting for Thorne to appear. After a second or two, he realised that it was just a trick of the light. Saw that Zarif was actually staring off into space.
Thorne let his breath settle; put his face to the glass and knocked.
Zarif stood up and moved towards the window, curious. Thorne saw the eyes narrow; then, after five or ten seconds, watched them widen as recognition washed across the old man’s face.
Thorne felt anger flare in his chest at not being recognised immediately.
Zarif moved to the door and unlocked it. He was smiling when he beckoned Thorne inside, looking at his watch. ‘You must be very hungry,’ he said.
It wasn’t a big place: half a dozen tables, now with chairs tucked in close, and a couple of booths. The assortment of lanterns that dangled from the polished pine ceiling – glass, metal and ceramic – had all been turned out, and the only light came from a lamp behind the small bar, or drifted up from the bottom of the stairs that curled down to the kitchen in the far corner.
Zarif walked slowly back to one of those booths, where he had a bottle waiting and a drink on the go. He squeezed in behind the table and slid across the brown vinyl seat. There was low-level music coming from speakers above the bar: a woman singing, pipes and tablas. A zither, maybe…
Thorne sat opposite. He spread his legs, so that his feet would not come into contact with Zarif’s beneath the table.
‘No food,’ Zarif said. ‘We’re closed for the night.’
‘It’s not a problem.’
He’d put on a little weight since Thorne had last seen him, but still seemed bulky rather than fat. He was round-shouldered and had stooped as he’d walked. He wore a white shirt, stretched across his gut and tucked into grey trousers. The sleeves were rolled up, black and grey hairs sprouting above the neck of a white vest where the buttons were open.
There was more grey in the hair, too, but it was still full, and oiled back above heavy brows. The jowls were stub-bled in white; the thick moustache going the same way. But the eyes were every bit as bright and green as Thorne remembered. He put a hand on the bottle. ‘Raki,’ he said. ‘Lion’s milk. You want some?’
Thorne dug into his pocket. ‘Not for nothing, I don’t.’ He took out his wallet. Pulled out a five-pound note.
Zarif fetched a glass from the bar and poured the drink. ‘The till is closed. It will have to be for nothing.’
Thorne shrugged but left his money on the table, folded inside a stainless-steel cruet set.
Zarif touched his glass to Thorne’s. Said, ‘Serefé.’
Thorne said nothing, but he remembered the toast. Remembered that it meant ‘To our honour’. The drink was clear and tasted like cough medicine, though it didn’t much matter.
‘You keep popping up at the end of my inquiries,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s like not knowing where a stink is coming from, then suddenly finding the dead thing behind a cupboard.’
Zarif brought the glass to his lips; sipped it fast, like it was espresso. ‘Is this police business, or personal?’
‘It’s a murder case.’
‘Last time I thought it was both, because you were like a dog tearing at something. You remember when we sat in here and talked about names?’ He raised a hand, wrote in the air with a thick finger. ‘Thorne. Something spiky and difficult to get rid of.’ The accent was thick and Zarif searched for the odd word. But Thorne knew very well that he played up a difficulty with the language when it suited him.
‘You told me what your name meant, too,’ Thorne said. ‘Arkan, which means “noble blood”, but also means “arse”.’ Zarif cocked his head. ‘That was back when you were putting on the harmless old grandad act. Before I got to know you better.’
‘What do you want?’
‘You’re a very good businessman, no question. I can see why you’ve done so well for yourself.’
Zarif spread his arms and looked around.
‘I don’t mean this,’ Thorne snapped. ‘Don’t take me for a cunt.’
‘I will try hard not to.’
‘It’s all about spotting new business opportunities, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Working out how to exploit them.’
‘A business must expand.’ To anyone sitting on an adjacent table, it would have looked as if the older man were enjoying the company and the conversation. ‘There is no point otherwise.’
‘The Black Dogs were a perfect opportunity.’
‘Dogs? Now, I am lost.’
‘Relatively new to the drugs game… medium-sized. Easy pickings for a firm like yours.’
Zarif said nothing, but Thorne wasn’t expecting him to.
Not just yet.
‘Even better if you can keep your hands clean,’ Thorne said. ‘Farm out the dirty work.’
‘What exactly do you think I’m going to say?’
Once Zarif’s name had been mentioned, the picture had quickly become clearer; and more horrific. In other circumstances, Thorne might have doubted the conclusion he had come to, but he knew better than most what Arkan Zarif was capable of.
Fully fledged gang wars, such as the one Zarif had been engaged in when he and Thorne had first met, were risky enterprises. Any financial advantage gained was often outweighed by unwanted attention from the authorities; by blood feuds that could linger for years afterwards.
So much better if someone else could wage them for you.
Marcus Brooks had been set up six years before by ‘Jennings’ and ‘Squire’, and now he was being used again. All Zarif had had to do was give him a motive. A nice, simple one. Once he had arranged to have Angela Georgiou and her son killed, it had been straightforward to get word into Long Lartin, hinting at who had been responsible. Then he had been able to sit back and watch while Brooks sorted out the Black Dogs for him. Created the space for Zarif and his family to step into.
He had wound up Brooks and let him go.
‘How did you find Brooks?’ Thorne asked.
Even as Zarif was staring blankly back at him, Thorne figured out that it had probably been through an associate in prison; perhaps the same one Zarif had later used to make sure Brooks knew, or thought he knew, who had killed his girlfriend and son. Another possibility was that Zarif had someone working within the Black Dogs themselves. This was less likely, but the thought prompted another.
‘Christ, you must have been delighted when Brooks started knocking off the coppers for you as well. Getting rid of any “friends” the bikers might have had in the police. A real bonus that, I would have thought.’