He pictured other glasses being raised elsewhere, by those who really had something to celebrate. Those who would be extremely happy if they knew and there was every reason to think that they would know that for the time being the police were off their backs.
Thorne had only a mug of lukewarm coffee, but he raised it anyway. To some of the police.
He reached forward to turn the computer off but then paused. He typed 'immortal skin' into the search engine and waited. Eventually, a site appeared that gave all the details Ian Clarke had told him about. The page was dense with information, closely typed, difficult to read. Thorne's eyes closed and he dreamed for a few minutes, no more than that, of holes in flesh that healed. Of scars fading like the words written in sand, and of lines etched into skin that vanished; the X replaced by smooth, fresh flesh that smelled of babies. When he jolted awake, the screen had frozen. He swore at the computer for a few seconds, then pulled out the plug.
And went to bed.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The car containing Memet and Hassan Zarif pulled away from the traffic lights at Stoke Newington station and accelerated across the Stamford Hill Road.
Sitting three cars behind them, Thorne was still unsure where the brothers were heading. They were driving in the general direction of the restaurant and minicab office, but it wasn't the route Thorne would have chosen. They were a little too far south.
Thorne made it through the lights with a few seconds to spare. He turned up the soundtrack to O Brother, Where Art Thou? and sat back. Wherever the Zarifs were going, he was along for the ride. He'd tried the minicab office first, but none of the brothers had been around. The same surly individual he'd encountered on his first visit there had shaken his head and invited Thorne to search the premises. The man had shrugged and drawn phlegm into his mouth when Thorne had turned to walk back out of the door.
Outside, Thorne had stood for a moment, considering where to go next. A smart black Omega had pulled up and one of Zarif's drivers had asked if he needed a lift. Thorne had shaken his head without giving the driver a second glance. His decision made, he'd marched towards his car. Looking through the windows of the restaurant as he'd passed, Thorne had seen Arkan Zarif and his wife moving about in the half light, setting up the tables for lunch.
The cars crossed the Seven Sisters Road at the bottom end of Finsbury Park, heading north again.
Memet Zarif's BMW was somewhat newer than Thorne's, and now, sitting no more than fifty feet behind it, he wondered if its occupants were aware that they were being followed. His car was fairly distinctive both in shape and colour and if they knew where he lived, the chances were they also knew what he drove.
Thorne decided that it didn't really make a fat lot of difference. They'd be stopping somewhere eventually and he only needed a quick word.
After leaving the minicab office, he'd driven a mile or two east, to Memet Zarif's home address. It was an ordinary-looking, semidetached house in Clapton, with a view across the River Lea to the Waltham stow Marshes beyond. There were plenty of pr icier places around, but Thorne guessed that, somewhere, Zarif had other property they were as yet unaware of.
Thorne had spent forty minutes loitering with a newspaper, then watched as the front door eventually opened, and Hassan Zarif had emerged. His arm was in a sling, the only visible sign of the bullet that had shattered his collarbone. As Hassan had waited on the drive near the car, his elder brother had appeared, a wife and child next to him on the doorstep. Memet had kissed his family goodbye, and Thorne had walked back towards the side-street where he'd parked up. When the dark blue BMW had moved past him a few minutes later, Thorne had eased his car slowly out and fallen into the stream of vehicles behind it.
They moved through heavy traffic into Stroud Green and then dropped down towards the somewhat better-preserved environment of Crouch End. This was an area popular with creative types who were not quite in the Highgate and Hampstead league. Despite the lack of a tube station, property prices had gone through the roof in recent years, and the place was crammed with trendy restaurants and bars. The majority of its better-than-averagely heeled shoppers tended to ignore the handful of less salubrious establishments: the adult magazine shop; the working men's cafe; the massage parlour.
The main road divided either side of the clock tower, and Thorne watched as Zarif took the right-hand fork, then pulled sharply across and parked on a double-yellow line. Thorne cruised past as the brothers stepped out of the car, and swung into a side-street as they crossed the pavement towards a door.
The sign in the window flashed red after dark. At half-past eleven in the morning, the letters spelled out 'sauna' in grime. The girl on reception probably looked a little better herself once the daylight had disappeared; a little less pasty and pissed off. The smile she'd slapped on when Thorne came through the door became a scowl as soon as he produced his warrant card.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," she said.
"Nothing like that going on here, is there?" Thorne walked towards the door in the far corner, tipping his head from one side to the other.
"Neck's a little bit painful," he said. "Got anybody through here who can do something about stiffness.?"
"Sorry if I don't piss myself."
Thorne reached for the handle. The girl was either too lazy, or too scared or too engrossed in her magazine to try and stop him. The room on the other side of the door was clearly designed to be a lounge, but it had not been expensively decorated. Thorne guessed that this wouldn't bother most customers, as the eye would quickly be drawn from the multicoloured carpet to whatever hardcore activities were taking place on the big-screen TV. Right now, a blonde in pop-socks was engaged in an enthusiastic bout of fellatio. The premed stallion on the receiving end, eyes tight shut in cutaway, looked suitably grateful?
Hassan Zarif was sitting, side on to the door, in a velour armchair. A red to welling robe gaped open across his chest and he was using his one good arm to flick through the pages of a Daily Mirror. He let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a moan when he looked up and saw that he had company.
"That's a shame." Thorne said, nodding towards the sling. "You could have a wank and read the paper if you hadn't gone and got yourself shot."
Hassan shifted uncomfortably in his chair, caught between a desire to stand and the need to hide his erection.
"Don't get up," Thorne said.
It didn't take too long for Hassan to recover his composure. He crossed his legs, pulled the robe across his chest. "If you've come here for a freebie, I'll see what I can do," he said. "I'm pretty sure a number of police officers get V.I. P treatment in here." Thorne walked slowly across the room. He picked up a remote from a glass-topped table, flicked off the TV. "Sorry, but the slurping makes it really hard to concentrate."
"I presume you do want something."
"This one of yours, is it?"
"I'm sorry?"
Thorne held out his arms. "This place part of the Zarif Brothers empire?"
Hassan smiled. "No. This business is owned by an acquaintance, but we may, in fact, be looking to invest in similar premises."
"Right. So this is.. what? Research?"
"This is exactly what it looks like. I'm not certain you can arrest me for it, but go ahead and try if you like. I'm happy to let you make a fool of yourself."
Thorne nodded. "How happy would you be if I stepped over there and snapped your other arm? How happy would you be with somebody else wiping your arse for a while.?"
Hassan stuck out his prominent chin and pointed towards the ceiling. Thorne looked up at the tiny camera mounted high above a flap of peeling Anaglypta.