He was jolted back from dull remembrance to even duller reality by Richards talking about 'footsoldiers'. Thorne rubbed his eyes, let his hand fall over his mouth to cover the aside to Sam Karim: "Jesus, he thinks he's in an episode of The Sopranos."
"The Izzigil video shop is a good example of how it works," Richards said. "The name Zarif appears on the deeds of the property, and on the paperwork at Companies House; and the vehicles that theoretically distribute the perfectly legal videotapes are leased from their company. But there's nothing tying them to anything illegal going on in those premises and they can't be held responsible for what the people who hire their vans and lorries get up to." Tughan cleared his throat, took over: "There are three brothers. We'll distribute photos as soon as we have them." He glanced down at his notes. "Also a sister, and probably plenty of cousins and what have you knocking about. At this stage, even the NCIS don't know a great deal about them. They're Turkish Kurds, been here a couple of years, kept their heads down." He looked up from his clipboard. "Getting their feet under the table. Main business premises and homes in the area you'd expect, between Manor House and Turnpike Lane." A voice from the back of the room: "Little fucking Istanbul." Tughan smiled for about half a second. "Now they've got themselves established, it seems like they're looking to expand. And poor old Billy Ryan's on the receiving end."
"Let's bring a bit of pressure to bear," Brigstocke said. "See just how well established they are."
Tughan pushed himself upright, tugged at the sharp creases in the trousers of his suit, dropped his clipboard down on to the desktop.
"Right, DS Karim, DC Richards, let's get some Actions organised and allocated."
As the briefing broke up, Thorne was amazed when Tughan stepped over and spoke almost as if the two of them didn't hate the sight of each other.
"Fancy coming to see Billy Ryan?" Tughan asked.
"What about the Zarifs?"
"We'll give that a day or two. Get ourselves a bit of ammunition first."
"Right."
"At the moment, the Ryans are four-two down. Let's go and see how they're coping with getting spanked, shall we?" Thorne nodded, thinking that the surprises were coming thick and fast. Four-two down. It was tasteless, but still, any joke from Nick Tughan was firmly in X-Files territory.
They said virtually nothing as they sat in Tughan's Rover, heading towards Camden Town, the music from the stereo conveniently too loud to allow casual conversation. They took what was more or less Thorne's usual route home, south through Hampstead and Belsize Park, through one of the most expensive areas of the city towards what was arguably still the trendiest, though the combat-wearing media brigade in Hoxton or Shoreditch might have welcomed the argument. They drove past the development on the site of Jack Straw's Castle, the coaching inn on Hampstead Heath named after one of the leaders of the Peasants' Revolt and once a favourite haunt of Dickens and Thackeray. Now, on certain nights of the week, gay men who liked their sex casual, and perhaps even dangerous, would gather there in darkened corners before disappearing on to the Heath with strangers.
"Dick-ins of a completely different sort," Phil Hendricks had said. They parked in front of a snooker hall behind Camden Road Station, a few streets away from Billy Ryan's office. Thorne was hugely relieved to escape from Tughan's car, deciding that, although his own taste in music had irritated a few people in its time, he wouldn't wish Phil Collins on his worst enemy. The man was perhaps second only to Sting in terms of smugness and his capacity to make you pray for hearing loss. As they walked towards Ryan's place, Thorne couldn't help wondering if gangland enforcers ever considered using a Phil Collins album as an alternative to pulling people's teeth out and drilling through their kneecaps.
Getting in to see the managing director of Ryan Properties was much like getting in to see any other successful businessman, save for the fact that the receptionist had tattoos on his neck.
"Wait there," he said. Then, "Not yet." And finally, "Go in." Thorne wondered whether he spoke only in two-word phrases. When he and Tughan eventually strolled into Billy Ryan's office, Thorne gave the receptionist a pithy, two-word phrase of his own. He watched as Billy Ryan stood and greeted Tughan like a respected business rival. Tughan shook Ryan's hand, which Thorne thought was distinctly fucking unnecessary, and when he himself was introduced he did no such thing, which Ryan seemed to find amusing.
Thorne recognised the two other men present from photos. Marcus Moloney had risen quickly through the ranks and was known to be one of Ryan's most trusted associates. The younger man was Ryan's eldest son, Stephen.
"Shall we crack on, then?" Ryan said. As the five men sat Tughan and Thorne on a small sofa and the others on armchairs and while drinks were offered and refused, Thorne took the place and the people in. They were in one of the two rooms above an office furniture showroom from which Ryan ran his multi-million-pound empire. It was spacious enough, but the decor and furnishings were shabby ironic, considering what they knocked out from the premises downstairs, which, of course, Ryan also owned. Thorne wondered whether the man was just tight or genuinely didn't care about high-quality leather and chrome.
In his twenty-five years on the job, and never living more than a mile or two away from where he now sat, Thorne had come across the name William John Ryan with depressing frequency. But, up to this point, he had miraculously avoided any direct dealings with him. Staring at him in the flesh for the first time, across a low table strewn with a variety of newspapers and magazines the Daily Star, House amp; Garden, the Racing Post, World of Interiors Thorne was grudgingly impressed by the way the man presented himself.
Ryan's complexion was ruddy, but the mouth was small and sensitive. When he spoke, his teeth remained hidden. The red cheeks were closely shaved and looked as if they might have been freshly boiled. The scent of expensive aftershave hung around him, and something else hairspray, maybe, judging by the way the sandy hair, turning to white in places, curled across the collar of his blazer. Thorne thought he looked a little like a well-preserved Van Morrison.
"I presume you've made no progress in catching this maniac," Ryan said.
Ryan's Dublin accent had faded a little over the years but was still strong enough. Tughan turned his own up a notch or two in response. Thorne couldn't tell if it was deliberate or not.
"We're following up a number of promising leads," Tughan said.
"I hope so. There needs to be a result on this, you know."
"There will be."
"This man has butchered friends of mine. I have to assume that, until he's caught, members of my own family might well be at risk."
"That's probably a fair assumption."
Moloney spoke for the first time. "So do something about it." His voice was low and reasonable, the face blank and puffy below thinning, dirty-blond hair. "It's fucking outrageous that you aren't offering Mr. Ryan's family any protection."
Ryan spotted the look on Thorne's face. "Something funny?" he asked.
Thorne shrugged. "Not laugh-out-loud funny." He looked at Moloney.
"More ironic, seeing as it's Mr. Ryan's family that's normally offering the protection. Then again, "offering" isn't really the right word."
Now it was Stephen Ryan's turn to chip in: "Cheeky cunt!" The son was thought by many to have become the muscle of the Ryan operation. Though he had his old man's features, as yet unsoftened, the voice was very different, and not just in tone. Thorne knew very well that Stephen had been sent to an exclusive private school. His accent was pure Mockney.
Thorne smiled at Stephen's father. "Nice to see that the expensive education was well worth it."