"Yeah, right," Thorne said.
Holland let out a grunt of laughter. "That's one couple who won't go short at Christmas, then."
According to Memet Zarif and the others in the minicab office at the time, the man in the leathers who had shot and wounded Hassan Zarif had himself been shot dead by a mysterious second gunman who'd followed him inside and fled once he'd killed him. The police knew it was cock and bull. They guessed that the 'second' gunman was Memet or Tan Zarif, but with no murder weapon or corroborating witness, there was little anyone could do to prove it.
"We are sure about one thing, though," Tughan said. There was a certain amount of laughter, which he acknowledged with uncharacteristic good humour. "I know, I've already alerted the media. We have a name for the victim: the dead one, that is. He was Donal Jackson, thirty-three. A known associate of Stephen Ryan." This last fact came as no surprise to anyone.
"Is he the bloke who did the Izzigils, do we think?" Stone asked.
"Same gun?"
Tughan opened his mouth but Thorne was quicker. "No chance," he said.
"It's the same type of gun, that's all. Whoever was hired to kill the Izzigils was good. Clinical, you know? This idiot got himself killed and didn't even manage to take anybody with him." He trailed off, his mind focusing suddenly on the failed attempt to kill an innocent fourteen-year-old girl. Now, twenty years later, the son of the man behind that had fucked up a hit of his own.
"DI Thorne's probably right," Tughan said. "Word is that Jackson was pretty new to contract stuff. Picked up the job because he was Stephen Ryan's mate, because Ryan wanted to go a different way from his old man. Also, according to the people we've spoken to, Jackson was pretty cheap."
Stone snorted. "Pay peanuts, you get monkeys."
"You'd've thought shelling out for a decent hit man was pretty basic," Kitson said.
Others picked up on her sarcasm, mumbled their agreement.
"Haven't these people heard of a false economy?"
"You just can't get the staff."
"He'll pay for it in the end," Thorne said. "What he did, what he failed to do, is going to cost him."
"Think it's all going to kick off?" Holland asked.
"I think Ryan should have dug into his pocket and hired a trio of hitmen." Thorne was only half joking. "One for each brother. He should have done it properly and killed all three of them."
"This might be a good time to announce that in terms of the joint operation, we're going to be scaling things down a bit," Tughan said. Thorne stared at him. Surely he was joking. "You what?"
"We've had results, some good ones, but the fact is that the Job can't see us getting too much more out of this. We're wrapping it up." Thorne looked across at Brigstocke, eyes wide. The look he got back told him that there was nothing worth arguing about. This was for information, not discussion.
"Billy Ryan, one of our main targets, is no longer a worry, even if, sadly, we can't claim credit for that. In point of fact, from now on, there's not going to be much in the way of results that we won't have to share with Immigration or the Customs and Excise mob. There are one or two loose ends that we've yet to tie up and there'll be a few more arrests, but the pro-active end of it just isn't justified in terms of resources."
"How can we pull out of this now?" Thorne asked. "After what just happened?"
Tughan was already putting papers into a briefcase. "It was Stephen Ryan's last hurrah. He messed it up. It's a war he's going to lose, and then hopefully things will settle down again."
"Hopefully?"
"Things will settle down again."
"Meanwhile, we just look the other way. We do some paperwork and nick a few nobodies and let them kill each other?" Tughan turned to Brigstocke. "I want to thank Russell and his team for their cooperation and for their hospitality. We've done some good things together. We've achieved a lot, really, we have, and I think I'll be borne out on that in the weeks and months to come. Anyway, I'm sure you'll be looking forward to getting back to work on your own cases. To getting your offices back, at least." There was a smattering of unenthusiastic laughter.
"We'll have a pint or two later, of course, and say our goodbyes. Obviously, we won't be vanishing right away. Like I said, there are a few loose ends." And he was moving away towards the door. Brigstocke cleared his throat, walked a few paces after Tughan, then turned. He looked to Thorne, Kitson and the rest of his officers.
"I'll be getting together with DS Karim later. Re-assigning the casework." His parting words were spoken like a third-rate manager trying to gee up a team who were six-nil down at half time. "There's still plenty of disorganised criminals out there who need catching."
For a few seconds after Brigstocke had left the room, nobody moved or spoke. One of those uneasy silences that follows a speech. Gradually, the volume increased, though not much, and the bodies changed position, so that in a few subtle turns, half paces and casual shifts of the shoulder, the single team became two very separate ones. The officers from each unit began to huddle and look to their own, their conversations far from secret, but no longer to be shared. The members of Team 3 at the Serious Crime Group (West) stayed silent a little longer than their SO7 counterparts. It was Yvonne Kitson who sought to break the silence and change the mood at the same time.
"How's the philosophy going, Andy? Nietzsche is it this week, or Jean-Paul Sartre?"
Stone tried to look blank, but the blush betrayed him. "Eh?"
"It's all right, Andy," she said. "All blokes have tricks. All women too, come to that."
Stone shrugged, the smile spreading. "It works."
"Obviously you have to use whatever you've got." Holland lounged against a desk. "Only some of us prefer to rely on old-fashioned charm and good looks."
"Money goes down quite well," Karim said, grinning. "Failing that, begging usually works for me."
"Begging's excellent," Kitson said.
Holland looked to Thorne. He was six feet or so distant from them, the incomprehension still smeared across his face like a stain.
"What about you, sir?" Holland asked. "Any tricks you want to share with the group?"
Stone was laughing at his joke before he even started speaking. "I'm sure Dr. Hendricks could get his hands on some Rohypnol if you're desperate."
But Thorne was already moving towards the door.
"Can't you be predictable just once in your life," Tughan said. "I thought you'd be glad to see the back of me." Tughan stood in the doorway to his office. Brigstocke was nowhere to be seen.
"Look, we can't stand each other," Thorne said. "Fair enough. Neither of us loses a great deal of sleep about that, I'm sure, and once or twice, yes, I've said things just to piss you off. Right? But this he gestured back towards the Incident Room, towards what Tughan had said in there 'is seriously stupid. I know you're not personally responsible for the decision."
"No, I'm not. But I stand by it."
'"Ours is not to reason why". That it?"
"Not if we want to get anywhere."
"Career-wise, you mean? Or are we back to results again?"
"Take your pick."
Thorne leaned against the door jamb. He and Tughan stood on either side of the doorway, staring across the corridor at the wall opposite. At a pin board festooned with Police Federation newsletters and dog-eared photocopies of meaningless graphs. At an AIDS-awareness leaflet, a handwritten list of last season's fixtures for Metropolitan Police rugby teams, a torn-out headline from the Standard that said, "Capital gun crime out of control', at postcards advertising various items for sale: a Paul Smith suit; a scooter; a second-hand Play Station.