"It took you a moment, though, didn't it?" Chamberlain took a step to her left, placed herself in Ryan's line of vision.
"That would have been the Jessica Clarke case, wouldn't it, Mr. Ryan?"
"I don't think it's quite come back to him," Chamberlain said. "The girl who was set on fire? These things can slip your mind, I understand that."
"It was Gordon Rooker who got sent down for that, wasn't it? I think we were talking about him a few days ago, weren't we, Mr. Ryan?" The wind was rushing up the narrow street. It lifted the hair from the collar of Ryan's overcoat as he spun around. "I'll say the same thing I said then, in case your memory's playing up. I haven't had the displeasure of thinking about that piece of shite for a long time."
"That's funny," Thorne said. "Because he's been thinking about you. He specifically asked me to say "hello"." Ryan's mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed. Thorne reckoned it was more than just the wind that was slapping him around the face.
"So hello," Thorne said.
Thorne saw the relief flood suddenly into Ryan's face. He watched him step quickly past him the instant he heard the noise of the engine. Thorne turned to see a black people-carrier roar up to the kerb and screech to a halt. The door was already open and Stephen Ryan jumped out.
Thorne gave Ryan's son a wave and received a cold stare in return. Stephen shrugged as his father barged past him. "Sorry."
"Where the fuck have you been?"
Billy Ryan climbed into the car without looking back. He was quickly followed by his son and the two heavies, who pushed past Thorne and Chamberlain without any delicacy. As Moloney marched up, the driver's window slid down. Thorne recognised the receptionist he'd exchanged pleasantries with at Ryan's office.
"Sorry, Marcus. Traffic's fucked all over the West End." Moloney ignored him and moved to the rear door. With one foot already inside the car, he looked at Thorne. "Careful you don't get shot."
Thorne opened his mouth, took a step towards the car. Moloney pointed over Thorne's shoulder towards the arcade: "The shoot-'em-ups." He pulled the door shut and the car moved quickly away from the kerb.
"What was all that "hello" business?" Chamberlain asked. Thorne watched Ryan's car turn the corner and disappear. "Politeness costs nothing. What time's your train?"
"Last one's just before eleven."
"Let's get some food."
Marcus Moloney downed almost half his Guinness in one go. He set the glass down on the bar and leaned back in his chair.
"Tough day, mate?" said the man next to him. Moloney grunted, picked up the glass again. It wasn't so much the day as the last few hours. First the business outside the arcade, and then the fallout: all the way back to Ryan's place in Finchley, Moloney had been given an earful. Whatever it was that Thorne and the woman had been going on about, it had got his boss very wound up. As if things weren't tense enough already, with everything that was going on. Still, Ryan was safe at home now, taking it all out on his wife. She'd be doing what had to be done. She'd be making all the right noises, massaging his ego and anything else he fancied, and thanking Christ that he still hadn't found out about the landscape gardener who was giving her one three times a week.
Moloney downed some more of the Guinness. His pager was on, as always, but his time was his own for a few precious hours and he was keen to unwind a little.
He had known plenty of coppers like Thorne before. With the bent ones, it was easy. You knew what made them tick, what got them off. Not that Thorne was necessarily incorruptible; everybody had their price. Moloney saw it offered and accepted every day. Problem was, Thorne was the sort who would take the dirty money, do what was asked of him for a while and then blow up in everyone's face. Do something stupid because he hated himself. It didn't matter if he was bent or not and it was easy enough to find out. Thorne had to be watched. He was definitely going to cause them trouble.
Moloney drained his glass, waved it to get the barman's attention, and nodded for another. The man on the chair next to him got up and asked where he could find the Gents'. Moloney pointed the way and asked if the man wanted a drink. The offer was graciously accepted. While he waited for the beers, Moloney looked around the crowded bar: plenty of faces. He drank in here pretty often, and one or two of the regulars who knew him had already said hello, or offered to buy him a drink, or held up a glass and waved from the other side of the room. A lot of people wanted to know him.
The fact that none of them did, that so few people really knew him, was becoming harder to deal with lately. He was definitely drinking more, flying off the handle at the slightest thing, on the job and at home. It was all down to this war. Things had ratcheted up once the murders had started. What the Zarifs were doing, what Ryan was going to do in return, was the real test…
The man came back from the Gents' and took his seat at the bar. Moloney handed him his pint of lager. When his Guinness had settled and been topped up, he raised the glass.
"Good health," Moloney said.
Thorne and Chamberlain had shared a bottle and a half of red wine with their dinner, and the thickening head may have had something to do with his reaction, his over-reaction, when he'd walked into the living room. The smell had hit him the second he'd opened the outer door.
"Fucking hell, Phil. Not in my flat…"
"It's only a bit of weed. I'm not shooting up. Jesus."
"Do it round at Brendan's."
Hendricks had needed to make a real effort not to laugh, and not just because he was stoned. "Take a day off, why don't you?" Thorne stalked off towards the kitchen. "I fucking wish." Waiting for the kettle to boil, Thorne had calmed down and tried to decide whether to apologise or just pretend the argument had never happened. He'd recently discovered that, within the City of London, a pregnant woman in need of the toilet was still legally allowed to piss in a policeman's helmet. That dope should still be against the law was, he knew, only marginally sillier.
"Make us a piece of toast while you're in there," Hendricks had shouted.
"What!?
"I'm kidding." Then, Hendricks hadn't been able to stop himself laughing any more.
If he was honest, it was the associations that went with dope-smoking that riled Thorne. He'd tried it a couple of times at school and, even then, passing an increasingly soggy joint around and talking about how great the shit was and how they all had the munchies seemed ridiculous to him. The drugs being taken in the corners of playgrounds these days were more dangerous, but there was none of that palaver. The kids just dropped a pill and got on with it.
There was also the fact that his ex-wife had liked the occasional joint, provided, so it turned out, by the creative-writing lecturer she'd later left him for. Thorne had smelled it on him, the day he'd walked up his own stairs and dragged the skinny sod out of his own bed. Why he hadn't punched him or put in an anonymous call to the Drugs Squad was still something Thorne occasionally woke up wondering about.
Thorne had mumbled something approaching an apology as he'd carried his tea into the living room. Hendricks had smiled and shaken his head. They sat listening to the first Gram Parsons album. Thorne was wide awake and watched as Hendricks grew drowsier, then perked up, then began to wilt again.
"The shit we have to deal with is the price we pay for being human," Hendricks announced, out of the blue.
Thorne slurped his tea. "Right."
"The difference between us and dogs or dolphins or whatever." Hendricks took a drag of his joint. He was starting to sound a little like someone stoned on a sketch-show. "We're the only animal that has an imagination."
"As far as we know." Thorne said.