"Right. The word."
"Like I said, that's what everyone thought. Which made me the ideal choice for Billy Ryan when he decided to do the daughter."
"The perfect cover."
"Exactly."
Rooker's cigarette was already alight. Thorne watched the smoke rise, remembering the words he'd spoken to Memet Zarif a week before, envious now, as he had been then. As he was around anyone who still had the joy of smoking. Some of Thorne's more prosaic dreams were filled with smoke-rings and nicotine and the glorious tightening in the chest as it hits.
"So, how did Ryan make the approach? He couldn't risk being seen with you."
"Not straight away, no. It was all arranged by a third party. A face called Harry Little. He's dead now."
"In suspicious circumstances?"
"Not as far as I know. He was in his late fifties back then, I think."
"Go on."
"We met in a pub in Camden. It might have been the Dublin Castle, I can't remember. Anyway, Harry was all over me. Very friendly. We'd never been particularly matey, so I knew he was after something, and I knew it was something heavy because he had a reputation, you know? He starts talking about Billy Ryan, going round the houses with it. I mean, we're getting through a fair few pints, know what I mean?
Eventually, he says that Billy wants a meet, and that he'd be in touch with when and where and what have you, and it was obvious even then that this was something a bit special." He saw enough of a change in Thorne's face to qualify what he'd said. "Special as in different-, you know? From the normal run of things."
Thorne nodded. The normal run of things. Putting a bullet in the back of somebody's head, or throwing them out of a window, or beating them to death… "Where did the meet with Ryan take place?" Rooker stubbed out his fag and pushed his back chair. "Listen, can we take a quick break? I really need to have a piss…" While Rooker was gone, Thorne stood and stretched his legs. He walked to the far wall, leaned against it and closed his eyes. The faces shifted around in his mind, jockeying for position: Billy Ryan, Memet Zarif, Marcus Moloney, Ian Clarke, Carol Chamberlain. The dead faces of Muslum and Hanya Izzigil. The face of their son, Yusuf. The two faces of Jessica Clarke.
A prison officer opened the door and ushered Rooker back into the room. Thorne rejoined him at the table.
"Have you got any children, Mr. Thorne?"
"No."
Rooker sat and shrugged, as though whatever he was going to say was no longer relevant, or would not make any sense.
Thorne was curious, but keener still to crack on. To get out. He hit the red button on the twin-cassette recorder that was secured to the wall. "Interview commencing again at… eleven forty-five a.m." He looked at Rooker. The lid was already off the tobacco tin again. "Tell me what happened when you met with Billy Ryan."
"It was a track through Epping Forest, up near Loughton. I just got the call from Harry Little one night and drove up there."
"There were just the two of you?"
Rooker nodded. "We sat in Ryan's car and he told me what he wanted."
"He told you that he wanted you to kill Kevin Kelly's daughter, Alison."
Rooker looked directly into Thorne's eyes. He knew this was the important stuff. "Yes, he did."
"What did you think?"
Rooker seemed confused.
"Well, like you said, this was different from the normal run of things."
"Everybody knew that Ryan was a bit mental."
"But still, a child?"
"He wanted a war. He wanted to do something that would send the whole fucking lot spinning out of control, you know?" Thorne blinked and remembered Ryan's face close to his own, the cheeks almost as red as his scarf. The eyes glassy. The faintest quiver around the small mouth as he spoke: "I think we're done chatting."
"Was it Ryan's idea?" he asked. "The burning?"
"Christ, yes." Rooker ran a hand through his hair, sending a shower of tiny white flakes floating down to the table. "He thought that since it was something I'd done before, I might be more comfortable with it."
"Comfortable?"
"I told you. He was mental."
"It was something you were known for, though? The fire? The lighter fluid? So, when Ryan suggested it as a method, didn't you hear any alarm bells?"
"What?" Rooker grinned. "Fire-alarm bells, you mean?" Thorne's face was blank. "Look at me, Gordon. I'm pissing myself."
"Sorry."
"Weren't you even a little bit suspicious?" Rooker took a long drag, then another, held the smoke in.
"Come on, it was obviously going to point to you, wasn't it? Are you seriously telling me that while you were busy thinking how mental Ryan was, you didn't for one moment think that he might be planning to set you up?"
The smoke drifted out on a noisy sigh. "Later I did. I realised afterwards, after it had happened and I was being fingered for it anyway. Yeah, then it was fucking obvious, and I knew I'd been stupid, but it was a bit late. I was in the frame and Ryan had his excuse to come after me. By then, of course, I knew damn well that he really needed me out of the way to shut me up."
"So, what did you think when he asked you?"
"I thought, No fucking way."
"Because it was risky?"
"Because it was a fucking kid."
Thorne leaned towards the recorder. "Mr. Rooker slams his hand on the table. For emphasis." He flashed Rooker an exaggerated smile. "I'm saying that just in case anybody thinks that was the noise of me hitting you with a chair or something." Rooker grunted.
"So, what happened when you turned Ryan down?"
"He wasn't happy."
"What did he say?"
"He said that he'd find somebody else to do the job. I remember him saying exactly that when I got out of his car just before he drove away: "There's always somebody else." And Thorne could picture Ryan saying it. He could picture Ryan's face as he said it, and he felt something tighten in his stomach, because Ryan would have known that it was true. Bitter experience had taught Thorne that it was one of the few things that you could rely on. There's always somebody else willing to do what another won't. Something darker and more depraved. Something inexplicable. Unimaginable.
Thorne announced, for the tape, that he was formally suspending the interview.
Then he punched the red button.
"We'll carry on after lunch," he said. Thorne was just shy of Newbury when he turned off the M4 and pulled slowly into the car park at Chieveley Services. A car flashed its lights as he approached and Thorne parked the BMW next to it. Holland got out of a car-pool Rover, leaned against it and waited for Thorne to join him.
Thorne had received the call just after seven on the M3 as he was heading home from Salisbury. He'd turned off at the next services to pick up a sandwich and consult the road atlas. The traffic had been heavy on the A road that had taken him across to the M4, and even worse for the journey back west.
Holland offered Thorne a bulky torch. Thorne took one look at it and plumped instead for the Maglite he kept in his boot, taking his gloves out at the same time. Torches sweeping the ground ahead of them, they began to walk towards the farthest corner of the car park.
"How did we get hold of this so quickly?" Thorne asked.
"Swift and harmonious cooperation between ourselves and the lovely lads from Thames Valley." Holland smiled at the incredulous look on Thorne's face. "I know, hard to believe. They found the lorry this morning, ran the number plate and at the end of a very long paper-trail half a dozen different companies whose name should pop up? A flag on their computer system alerts the Thames Valley lot, tells them it's a name we're very interested in, and Bob's your uncle."
"What, they just called us?"
"Amazing, isn't it, forces working so well together? Someone should get hold of Mulder and Scully."