"It's about a lot more than territory now," Thorne said. "It probably always was. We're presuming they're Turks, right? Whoever's been hitting the Ryans."
"We can't presume anything," Tughan said. "The fact that the video business was Turkish needn't be significant."
"It needn't be, no. But I still think it is."
"We've heard nothing from the NCIS."
"They're not infallible. We're probably talking about somebody relatively new here. Maybe an offshoot of an existing gang."
"Granted, it's a Turkish area, but other groups might still try their luck."
"They'd be idiots if they did."
"The Ryans did."
"Right," Thorne said. "And look what they got for their trouble." Tughan seemed to decide suddenly that a physical barrier between himself and Thorne might be a good idea. He moved behind the desk and slid into the chair. He looked at his computer, affecting an air of thoughtfulness, but, to Thorne, it seemed more like regrouping.
"We're assuming that on one side we've got the Ryans, right?" Thorne continued quickly before Tughan had a chance to pull him up: "If we assume that on the other side we've got an as yet unknown Turkish operation, it all starts to add up. If you're a ne wish gang, looking to establish yourself, you don't go up against the big Turkish gangs that have already got the area sewn up. Not if you want to be around in six months' time. You so much as start sniffing around one of those big heroin operations and they'll wipe you out, right?" If anybody disagreed, they were keeping quiet about it.
"What makes more sense, if you're looking to make a splash, is to go up against somebody else completely. Somebody unconnected with local business or local territory. When that letter dropped on to the doormat in that video shop, somebody saw an opportunity to expand in a different direction altogether; to send out a message to the gangs around them without getting anybody's back up. This lot, whoever the hell they are, probably see the Ryans as a soft target."
Tughan had been typing something. He raised his eyes from his computer screen and smiled. "Somebody should tell Billy Ryan that." There wasn't a trace of a smile from Yvonne Kitson. "And the Izzigils."
"So who are they?" Stone asked. "If we want to stop a war, we'll need to know who's up against who."
Tughan stabbed at a key, leaned back in his chair. "I think DI Thorne might well be right when he suggests that we're dealing with a Turkish or possibly Kurdish group here. I'm liaising with the NCIS, specifically the Heroin Intelligence Unit." Thorne shook his head. "I told you, I can't see that this is about heroin. This is about not shitting on your own doorstep."
"Is that a technical term?" Brigstocke asked. "I must have missed that seminar."
Thorne smiled. "I've seen a couple of Guy Ritchie films." Tughan raised his voice a little, bridling slightly, as always, at any exchange that rose above the funereal. "I'm confident that we will establish the identity of this gang quickly. We will find something connecting them to the video rental business, or we might get a lead from Turkish community leaders in the area."
"Only the ones with a death wish," Brigstocke said.
"One way or another, things are much clearer now than they were." Tughan brandished the letter whose implied threats had probably been the catalyst for at least six deaths. "We've made a real breakthrough today."
Thorne's mood blackened in an instant. He remembered the film of tears across a pair of dark eyes, red around the rims. A real breakthrough.
He doubted that Yusuf Izzigil would see things in quite the same way. They drove back from the restaurant in virtual silence. As always, Jack stayed well within the speed limit as he steered the Volvo through streets that were still slick after an early evening downpour. The short journey was one that they tried to make at least once a month sometimes more if there was a birthday or anniversary to be celebrated. Jack always drove, always stuck to half a bitter while they waited for the table, and a glass of wine with the meal.
"Are you cross with me?" Carol said, eventually.
"Don't be silly. I was just worried."
"It's like I spoiled your evening."
"You couldn't help it. What happened, I mean. You didn't spoil my evening."
Carol turned away from him and stared out of the window. She could still taste the vomit at the back of her throat. Instinctively, she looked again to make sure there was none on her blouse.
"You must be coming down with something," Jack said. "I'll call the quack first thing."
Carol nodded without shifting her gaze from a scratch on the car window, from the darkness moving past it.
It had come over her from nowhere as she was digging into her spaghetti a heat that had prickled and spread quickly until she'd had to throw down her fork and rush to the toilet. She'd emerged ten minutes later, pale and with a weak smile that had fooled nobody: not the manager, who offered to call a doctor and assured her that the meal was on the house, and least of all her husband. Jack had shrugged at the waiters and smiled. He'd taken her arm: "Come on, love. You're white as a sheet. We'd best make a move."
Carol knew full well what the trouble was. This was the first physical symptom of a virus that had been lurking inside her, waiting for the chance to blossom since the day she'd handed over her warrant card. She'd tried to ignore it on other occasions, when an unfamiliar reaction to something had forced her to ask the question. Have I stopped being a copper inside?
She knew what the answer was. The cold-case stuff was Mickey Mouse; it was just playing at what she used to do for real. Now, she could feel doubt, worry, pain, anger. And fear. She felt them all in a way she never had for those thirty years she'd spent watching other people feel the same things. She felt like a civilian. And she hated it. She knew that this was all about Gordon Rooker. The reassurance that had come from Thorne's visit to the Royal had lasted no more than a couple of hours. God, it was all so bloody stupid. After all, the facts were pretty obvious: Rooker was locked up; Rooker was guilty; whoever had been phoning her and sending the letters was some nutcase who, by the look of it, had probably stopped now anyway. It hadn't been facts, though, that had made her throw up. She needed to deal with the feelings. She needed to deal with the panic. She needed to start behaving like a real copper again.
"It's definitely not the food," Jack said as he slowed to turn into their quiet crescent. "How many times have we eaten in that place over the years?"
Hendricks was already asleep by the time Thorne got in, just after eleven. As Thorne crept past the sofa-bed towards the kitchen, Elvis, his psychotic cat, jumped down from where she'd been curled up on Hendricks' feet and followed him. While he waited for the kettle to boil, Thorne poured some cat munchies into a grubby plastic bowl and told Elvis one or two things about his day. He'd rather have talked to his friend, who was a marginally better conversationalist, but the snoring from the next room made it clear just how well away Hendricks was. Thorne didn't want to wake him. He knew that Hendricks had probably had a fairly tough day himself.
Up to his elbows in the cadavers of Muslum and Hanya Izzigil. Drinking his tea at the kitchen table, Thorne thought about those who would spend the coming night sleepless. Those with money worries or difficulties at work, or relationship problems. It was odd what could keep some people awake, while a man who dealt in death usually one that had been anything but peaceful could sleep like a baby. He thought about Dave Holland, bleary-eyed at 4 a.m." who would tell him just how ludicrous that expression was.
Of course, he didn't know what went on in Phil Hendricks' dreams. Thorne hadn't slept brilliantly himself since the night he'd come so close to death the year before. There had been nightmares, of course, but now it was just as if his body had adapted and required less sleep. Most nights he'd get by on four or five hours and then collapse into something approaching a coma when he took a day off. Having removed his shoes, Thorne carried them, and what was left of his tea, towards the bedroom. On the way through the darkened living room he picked up his CD Walkman and a George Jones album. He held the bedroom door open for Elvis, and watched as she hopped back up on to Phil Hendricks' legs.