"I tell them about Jesus." The woman beamed at Thorne. "They really don't seem to mind. Nobody gets annoyed."
Thorne slowly followed the two of them, watching as they drifted towards the pavement.
"People just want to do their shopping," the security guard said.
"You're holding them up."
"I have to tell them about Him. It's my job."
"And this is mine."
"I know. It's fine, really. I'm so sorry to have caused any trouble."
"Don't come back for a while this time, OK?" With a shrug and a smile, the woman hoisted up her bags and turned towards the street. Thorne moved to the exit and watched her walking away.
The security guard caught his eye. "I suppose there are worse crimes."
Thorne said nothing.
He'd arrived home to a note from Hendricks saying that he was spending the night at Brendan's. Thorne had put the frozen pizza he'd picked up from the supermarket in the oven. He flicked through the Standard, watched Channel Four News while it was cooking. Now, five minutes into the second half, Newcastle United and Southampton appeared to have settled for a draw. It was chucking it down on Tyneside and the St. James' Park pitch was slippery, so there were at least the odd hideously mistimed tackle and some handbags at ten paces, but that was as exciting as it got.
Thorne snatched up the phone gratefully when it rang.
"Tom?"
"You not watching the football, Dad?" Time was, the TV coverage of a match would be swiftly followed by ten minutes of amateur punditry over the phone with the two of them arguing about every dodgy decision, every key move. That all seemed a lifetime ago.
"Too busy," his dad said. "Different game I'm concerned about, anyway. You got your thinking cap on?"
"Not at this very moment, no."
"All the ways you can be dismissed at cricket, if you please. I've made a list. There's ten of them, so come on." Thorne picked up the remote, knocked the volume on the TV down a little. "Can't you just read them out to me?"
"Don't be such a cock, you big fucker." He said it like it was a term of endearment.
"Dad."
"Stumped and hit wicket, I'll give you them to start." Thorne sighed, began to list them: "Bowled, LBW, caught, run out. What d'you call it… hitting the ball twice? Touching the ball?"
"No. Handling the ball."
"Right. Handling the ball. Listen, I can't remember the other two."
His father laughed. Thorne could hear his chest rattling. "Timed out and obstructing the field. They're the two that people can never remember. Same as Horst Bucholz and Brad Dexter."
"What?
"They're the two in The Magnificent Seven that nobody can ever remember. So, come on then. Yul Brynner, I'll give you him to start."
Southampton scrambled a late winner five minutes from the final whistle, just about the time when Thorne's dad began to run out of steam. Not long after, he put down the handset, needing to fetch a book, to check a crucial fact. A minute or two into the silence that followed, Thorne realised that his father had forgotten all about the call and wasn't coming back. He'd maybe even gone upstairs to bed. Thorne thought about shouting down the phone, but decided to hang up instead.
EIGHT
An attractive young woman placed menus on the table in front of them.
"Just two coffees, please," Thorne said.
Holland looked a little disappointed, as if he'd been hoping to put a spot of breakfast on expenses. After the waitress had gone, Holland scanned the menu: "Some of this stuff sounds nice. You know, the Turkish stuff."
Thorne glanced around, caught the eye of a dour, dark-eyed individual sitting at a table near the door. "I can't see us eating here too regularly, can you?"
When the coffees arrived, Thorne asked, "Is the owner around?" The waitress looked confused. "Is Mr. Zarif available?"
"Which?"
"The boss. We'd like to speak to him." She picked up the menus and turned away without a word. Thorne watched her drop them on to the counter and stamp away down the stairs at the back of the room.
"She can say goodbye to her tip," Holland said. The cafe was at the Manor House end of Green Lanes, opposite Finsbury Park, and not a million miles away from where Thorne had once been beaten up by a pair of Arsenal fans. It was small maybe six tables and a couple of booths and the blinds on the front door and windows made it a little gloomier than it might have been. The ceiling was the only well-lit part of the room, the varnished pine coloured gold by the glow from dozens of ornate lanterns glass, bronze and ceramic dangling from the wooden slats and swinging slightly every time the front door opened or closed.
Holland took a sip of coffee. "Maybe he's got a thing about lamps." Thorne noticed the slightly incongruous choice of background music and nodded towards the stereo on a shelf behind the counter. "And Madonna," he said.
They both looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. The man who emerged around the corner and walked towards their booth was big bulky as much as fat and round-shouldered. A blue-and-white-striped apron was stretched across his belly, and his hands were tangled in a grubby-looking tea-towel as he struggled to dry them.
"Can I help you?"
Thorne took out his warrant card and made the introductions. "We'd like to have a word with the owner."
The man edged behind the table, squeezed himself in next to Holland and sat down. "I am Arkan Zarif."
Thorne was happy for Holland to kick off and listened as he told Zarif that they were investigating a number of murders, including that of Muslum Izzigil, and that they needed to ask him some questions regarding his various business interests. Zarif listened intently, nodding almost constantly. When Holland had finished, Zarif thought for a few seconds before suddenly breaking into a smile and holding out his hands: "You need proper coffee. Turkish coffee." Holland raised a hand to refuse, but Zarif was already shouting across to the waitress in Turkish.
"Mr. Izzigil was murdered just up the road from here," Holland said. Zarif shook his head. "Terrible. Many murders here. Lots of guns." He had a strong Mediterranean accent, his face folding into concentration as he spoke. Though olive-skinned, Thorne could see that the rest of his colouring was unusual. His eyes were a light green beneath his heavy brows. His hair was dark with oil, and the stubble across his jowls was white, but Thorne could see from the thick moustache, and the wisps around his ears, that his natural colour was a light, almost orangey brown.
"You have to speak with my son," he said.
"About Mr. Izzigil's murder?"
"These business interests. My sons are the businessmen. They are great businessmen. Just two years after we come here and they buy this place for me. How's that?" He held out his arms, his smile almost as wide as they were.
"So who is the owner of this place?" Holland asked. "Of all the other businesses?"
Zarif leaned forward. "OK, here it is. See, I have three sons." He held up his fingers, as if Thorne and Holland would find it as hard to understand some of the words as he did to find them. "Memet is the eldest. Then Hassan and Tan." He nodded towards the waitress who was watching from behind the counter, smoking. "Also my daughter, Sema." Thorne caught movement near the door and turned to see the man who had clocked him earlier rising to leave. It didn't look like he'd settled his bill. Zarif gave him a wave as he went.
"Memet runs things here," Zarif said. "Deliveries and everything else."
Holland scribbled in his notebook. He'd never quite lost the habit.
"But it's in your name?"
"The cafe was a present from my sons." He leaned back against the red plastic of the booth as his daughter put three small cups of steaming coffee on the table. She said something to Zarif in Turkish and he nodded. "I love to cook, so I spend my time in the kitchen. My wife helps, and Sema. Chopping and peeling, I do all the cooking, though." He poked himself in the chest. "I pick out the meat."