Death Message

‘I know what you’ve done.’

‘Good for you.’ Zarif gently patted his fingers on the tabletop in mock applause. ‘The fact remains that you have come here alone and you have shown me no identification. So, whatever you know, or you think you know, I doubt that I am going to be arrested any time soon.’

It was the second time that day that someone had said as much to Thorne. These fuckers seemed to know instinctively when they were really in trouble and when they weren’t. Thorne felt a certain grim satisfaction at the thought that the police officer who had told him to ‘bring it on’ a few hours before was now a lot less cocky than he had been.

He thought that Zarif, too, despite the confident tone, was looking just a little more strained. Or maybe he was just getting drunker. Jumpier.

‘I wanted to give you the chance to tell me.’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Your last chance…’

‘Tell you that you’re dreaming? Tell you to fuck off?’

‘About Brooks. About his wife and child,’ Thorne said. ‘A car that didn’t stop.’ A bottle. A glass. One of Zarif’s own knives. ‘Anything else you think I might like to know…’

The woman’s voice from the speakers above the bar was becoming cheerier, the music a touch more upbeat. ‘Now, it’s time for you to go,’ Zarif said.

Thorne slid along the seat, said, ‘I need a piss.’

He took his time walking to the stairs, and when he looked back, Zarif was staring the other way, towards the window. Beneath the table, his foot was tapping in time to the tablas.

Thorne went quickly down the stairs, took a few seconds to get his bearings and pushed open the warped, unvarnished door to the tiny toilet cubicle. He smelled damp and disinfectant; something rank, too, and rising, that was coming from himself.

He leaned back against the door and breathed in the stink.

No, it isn’t. It isn’t finished.

He reached forward and flushed the toilet. Then, while the cistern was still noisily refilling, he stepped out into the narrow corridor. There were boxes stacked against the breeze-block walls and, through a semi-open doorway, he could see the huge gas burners in the kitchen and an L-shape of well-scrubbed steel surfaces.

He took half a dozen steps down to the far end; to a grey, metal door. Gently drew back the bolts, top and bottom.

Tested the handle.

Then Thorne turned and walked back towards the stairs, stopping just for a few seconds on the way to run his hands under the cold tap.

THIRTY-SIX

Though Zarif was still sitting in the booth, still looking in the same direction he had been, Thorne couldn’t help wondering if he’d moved. Had he had time to get up while Thorne was downstairs? Maybe use the phone to let someone know Thorne was there?

‘When was the last time Health and Safety had a look at your toilets?’ Thorne said, stepping back up.

Zarif turned, nodding his appreciation at what they both knew to be a joke. With the family’s money and co

Baba, which simply meant ‘father’ in Turkish. In an organised-crime context, though, it had an altogether more sinister meaning.

Zarif watched as Thorne walked back to the table, then past it, on his way to the door. He pushed himself out of the booth to follow; to show Thorne out and lock the door behind him. ‘I’m sorry I could not be more hospitable,’ he said.

‘I’ll live.’

‘I hope you think your visit was worth it.’

Thorne stopped at the door, locked it himself, and turned back into the restaurant. ‘Remains to be seen… ’

Zarif froze, then turned quickly at the noise of footsteps on the stairs. His gut wobbled as he was pulled in two directions at once. As he saw the man appear above the white balustrade, and performed a near-perfect double take; a low noise in his throat.

‘Someone else wanted a chat,’ Thorne said.

‘This is not… right,’ Zarif said. ‘You are very fucking crazy.’ He was genuinely searching for the words this time; speaking slowly, trying to order his thoughts.

Talking to Thorne, but staring at Marcus Brooks.

It struck Thorne that, like himself, Zarif would never have seen Brooks in the flesh; may not even have had any idea what the man whose life he had turned upside down looked like. But it was clear from the old man’s face that he knew exactly who his visitor was.

Brooks’ dark hair was longer than it had been in the most recent E-fit, and he had the makings of a decent beard. But his face was even thi

He wore jeans and a faded sweatshirt under a brown puffa jacket. His training shoes were muddy, and he swung a plastic bag from one hand.

Nothing had been pla

He looked at Thorne. ‘You know I have friends close by. My sons…’

‘I know,’ Thorne said. ‘Don’t you have some sort of panic button? You never struck me as the type to scream for help, but you could give it a go.’

Thorne thought that Zarif looked scared; u

‘You are trespassing.’

‘You invited me in,’ Thorne said. ‘I seem to remember being offered a drink.’

Zarif turned to look at the man he had most certainly not invited.

‘The door was open,’ Brooks said.

‘Seriously fucking crazy.’ Zarif shook his head, swallowed hard. ‘Maybe I just go to the phone and call the police.’ He pointed at Thorne. ‘Talk to someone who will deal with you.’

Brooks took another step forward. ‘Tell me about Angie,’ he said.

Zarif said nothing. His eyes on the bag; on the weight of it. Thorne knew that even if Zarif did not know what Brooks looked like, he must have known exactly what he’d been doing, and how. Up until this moment, Zarif had probably relished every detail.

‘He just wants to know,’ Thorne said.

‘I want the names of the men you sent,’ Brooks said. ‘Whoever was driving the car.’

‘It’s a peace-of-mind thing,’ Thorne said.

‘Did you know Angie would have my son with her?’

‘Or was that another bonus?’

‘Was it pla