The Burning Girl-4 (8 page)

A real breakthrough .. .

He doubted that Yusuf Izzigil would see things in quite the same way.

They drove back from the restaurant in virtual silence.

As always, Jack stayed wel within the speed limit as he steered the Volvo through streets that were stil slick after an early evening downpour. The short journey was one that they tried to make at least once a month sometimes more if there was a birthday or anniversary to be celebrated. Jack always drove, always stuck to half a bitter while they waited for the table, and a glass of wine with the meal.

"Are you cross with me?" Carol said, eventual y.

"Don't be sil y. I was just worried."

"It's like I spoiled your evening."

"You couldn't help it. What happened, I mean. You didn't spoil my evening."

Carol turned away from him and stared out of the window. She could stil taste the vomit at the back of her throat. Instinctively, she looked again to make sure there was none on her blouse.

"You must be coming down with something," Jack said. "I'l cal the quack first thing."

Carol nodded without shifting her gaze from a scratch on the car window, from the darkness moving past it.

It had come over her from nowhere as she was digging into her spaghetti a heat that had prickled and spread quickly until she'd had to throw down her fork and rush to the toilet. She'd emerged ten minutes later, pale and with a weak smile that had fooled nobody: not the manager, who offered to cal a doctor and assured her that the meal was on the house, and least of al her husband. Jack had shrugged at the waiters and smiled. He'd taken her arm: "Come on, love. You're white as a sheet. We'd best make a move .. ."

Carol knew ful wel what the trouble was. This was the first physical symptom of a virus that had been lurking inside her, waiting for the chance to blossom since the day she'd handed over her warrant card. She'd tried to ignore it on other occasions, when an unfamiliar reaction to something had forced her to ask the question.

Have I stopped being a copper inside}

She knew what the answer was. The cold-case stuff was Mickey Mouse; it was just playing at what she used to do for real. Now, she could feel doubt, worry, pain, anger. And fear. She felt them al in a way she never had for those thirty years she'd spent watching other people feel the same things. She felt like a civilian. And she hated it.

She knew that this was al about Gordon Rooker. The reassurance that had come from Thorne's visit to the Royal had lasted no more than a couple of hours. God, it was al so bloody stupid. After al , the facts were pretty obvious: Rooker was locked up; Rooker was guilty; whoever had been phoning her and sending the letters was some nutcase who, by the look of it, had probably stopped now anyway.

It hadn't been facts, though, that had made her throw up. She needed to deal with the feelings. She needed to deal with the panic.

She needed to start behaving like a real copper again.

"It's definitely not the food," Jack said as he slowed to turn into their quiet crescent. "How many times have we eaten in that place over the years .. .?"

Hendricks was already asleep by the time Thorne got in, just after eleven. As Thorne crept past the sofa-bed towards the kitchen, Elvis, his psychotic cat, jumped down from where she'd been curled up on Hendricks' feet and fol owed him. While he waited for the kettle to boil, Thorne poured some cat munchies into a grubby plastic bowl and told Elvis one or two things about his day. He'd rather have talked to his friend, who was a marginal y better conversationalist, but the snoring from the next room made it clear just how wel away Hendricks was.

Thorne didn't want to wake him. He knew that Hendricks had probably had a fairly tough day himself.

Up to his elbows in the cadavers of Muslum and Hanya Izzigil.

Drinking his tea at the kitchen table, Thorne thought about those who would spend the coming night sleepless. Those with money worries or difficulties at work, or relationship problems.

It was odd what could keep some people awake, while a man who dealt in death usual y one that had been anything but peaceful could sleep like a baby. He thought about Dave Hol and, bleary-eyed at 4 a.m." who would tel him just how ludicrous that expression was.

Of course, he didn't know what went on in Phil Hendricks' dreams .. .

Thorne hadn't slept bril iantly himself since the night he'd come so close to death the year before. There had been nightmares, of course, but now it was just as if his body had adapted and required less sleep. Most nights he'd get by on four or five hours and then col apse into something approaching a coma when he took a day off.

Having removed his shoes, Thorne carried them, and what was left of his tea, towards the bedroom. On the way through the darkened living room he picked up his CD Walkman and a George Jones album. He held the bedroom door open for Elvis, and watched as she hopped back up on to Phil Hendricks' legs.

"Sod you, then," Thorne said.

He padded into his bedroom with his tea, his shoes and his music, and closed the door behind him.

It was a sudden change in the light, no more than that.

Carol Chamberlain saw it reflected in the dressing-table mirror as she sat taking her make-up off. She'd washed most of it off earlier, rubbing cold water into her face in the toilets at the Italian restaurant. Trying to stop the dizziness and to bring back a little colour to her cheeks.

Jack was moving around downstairs. Locking up, pul ing out plugs. Keeping them safe .. .

She sat in her night-dress and stared hard at herself. It was time to sort her hair out, and maybe shift a few pounds though, at fifty-six, that was a damn sight harder than it used to be.

She could try to get back to how she was when they'd taken the job away from her: her 'fighting weight', Jack cal ed it.

Leaning closer towards the mirror, cream smeared across her fingers, she saw the light change. A glow pink at first, then orange that crept through a gap in the curtains and lit up the room behind her. She opened her mouth to cal out Jack's name, then closed it and pushed back her chair. As she walked towards the window, she saw the glow reaching up and il uminating the bare branches of the copper beech at the end of the drive. She knew more or less what she was going to see when she reached the far side of the room and looked out.

She wondered if he'd be there. She hoped that he would be ... He was already looking up when she pul ed back the curtains, standing motionless next to the car, the can of lighter fluid white against his gloved hand.

Waiting for her.

For a few long, stil seconds they stared at each other. The flames were not spectacular, and the light danced only across the dark material of the man's anorak. The blaze never threatened to break up the shadow, blue-black beneath the hood that was pul ed tight around his head.

The fire was already beginning to spread across the Volvo's bonnet. It drifted down around its edges, into its mouldings, where the lighter fluid had run and dripped. Stil , the words, sprayed in fuel and spel ed out now in flame, were clear enough.

I burned her.

Carol heard locks being thrown back downstairs, and saw the man's head turn suddenly towards the front door. He took a step away from the car, then looked up at Carol for another moment or two before he turned and ran. She had seen nothing, could see nothing of his face, but she knew very wel that he had been smiling at her.

A few seconds later, Jack burst out of the front door in his vest. He ran, arms raised and mouth gaping, on to the front lawn. Carol half-saw him turn to look up, at the same moment she moved away from the window and back into the heart of the room.

FIVE

Thorne had never conducted an interview alongside Carol Chamberlain before and, although this was in no sense official, he stil felt slightly odd, sitting there next to her, waiting for Rooker to be brought in. He looked around the smal , square room and imagined himself, for no good reason he could think of, as a father, sitting with his wife. He remembered the sobbing black woman he'd seen on his last visit. He pictured himself and Chamberlain as anxious parents waiting for their son to be marched in.

The door opened and an officer led Rooker into the room. He looked angry about something until he saw Chamberlain; then, a broad smile appeared.

"Hel o, sexpot," he said.

Thorne opened his mouth to speak, but Chamberlain beat him to it. There was an edge to her voice that Thorne could not recal hearing before.

"One more out-of-order remark and I'l come round this table and tear off what little you've got left between your legs that hasn't already withered away. Fair enough, Gordon?"

Rooker's smile wobbled a little, but it was back in place as he pul ed back his chair and plonked himself down at the table. The officer moved towards the door. "Give us a shout when you've finished," he said.

"Thanks," Thorne said, looking up. "I thought you'd retired, Bil ."

The officer opened the door, turned back to Thorne. "Got a year or two left yet." He nodded towards Rooker. "Feels like I've been in here as long as this cunt." He quickly looked across to Chamberlain, reddening slightly. "Sorry, I didn't.. ."

Chamberlain held up a hand. "Don't apologise. That sounds about right to me .. ."

Rooker cackled. The officer stepped out of the room, letting the door swing shut, hard, behind him.

"This is getting to be a habit," Rooker said. He produced a tobacco tin from behind the green bib and removed the lid. "Twice in a week, Mr. Thorne. I don't have family who come as often as that." He teased out the strands of tobacco, laid them careful y into a Rizla and rol ed it pin-thin. "Nothing like as often as that.. ."

In fact, it had been just over a week since Thorne had first encountered Gordon Rooker. And seven days since Carol Chamberlain had stared down from her bedroom window at the man who was claiming Gordon Rooker's crime as his own.

Rooker lit his rol -up. He picked a piece of tobacco from his tongue and looked across at Chamberlain. "I thought you'd retired," he said.

"That's right."

"Living out in the sticks with a houseful of cats, listening to The Archers .. ."

"What do you know about where I live?"

Rooker turned to Thorne. "If she's not on the job any more, what are we doing here?"

By 'here', Rooker meant the Legal Visits Room. It was normal y reserved for confidential interviews, for meetings with police officers or solicitors, for official business. Thorne was content to keep things unofficial.. . for now. He had seen no real reason to go to Brigstocke and certainly not to Tughan. The connection between Rooker and Bil y Ryan was twenty years old and tenuous at best to the SO7 inquiry, and he'd promised Carol Chamberlain that he'd try to sort things out on his own time. He'd discreetly pul ed a few strings and cal ed in a favour or two to ensure that he, Chamberlain and Gordon Rooker could discuss one or two things in private.

"What we talked about a week ago," Thorne said, 'it's escalated."

Rooker looked, or tried to look, serious. "That's a shame."

"Yes, it is."

"I told you last time .. ."

"I'l forget the rubbish you told me last time and pretend we're starting from scratch, OK? This has to be down to some fuck wit you've done time with, or somebody who's written to you.

You told me al about some of the letters you get, right?"

"Right."

"So, any bright ideas, Gordon?"

Rooker took three quick drags. He held the smoke in and let it out very slowly on a sigh. "I've got to have some sort of protection," he said.

Thorne laughed. "What?

"Word got around after you were here last time .. ."

Thorne shrugged. He'd obviously opted for privacy a little too late. "You've not exactly been popular for quite a while now, Gordon. Talking to a copper isn't going to make much difference."

"You'd be surprised .. ."

Chamberlain's voice was quieter than when she'd spoken before, but the edge had sharpened. "If you've got something to say, Rooker, you'd best say it."

Another drag. "I want this parole. I real y need it to go my way this time."

"And?" Thorne stared blankly across the table at Rooker. "Not a lot we can do about that'

"Bol ocks. It's down to the Home Office. You can get it done if you want to."

"Why would we want to?"

"I need a guarantee that I'm getting out.. ."

"Don't want much, do you?"

"It'l be worth it."

"Unless you're tel ing us who Jack the Ripper was and where Lord Lucan and Shergar are holed up, I doubt we'd be interested."

Rooker didn't seem to find that funny.

"What about these letters?" asked Chamberlain. "The phone cal s. That's what we're here to talk about."

Rooker stared down at the ashtray.

"Whoever's doing this has been to my house .. ."

"I want protection." Rooker looked up at Thorne. "After I'm out."

"Protection from who?" Chamberlain said.

"New identity, national insurance number, the lot.. ."

"Bil y Ryan," Thorne said.

"Maybe .. ."

"Is Bil y Ryan going to come after you?"

"Not for the reason you think."

"So why should we give a toss?"

"I can give him to you."

Thorne blinked. This was interesting. This was far from tenuous. He avoided eye contact with Chamberlain, refused to show Rooker anything, kept his voice casual. "You're going to grass up Bil y Ryan?"

Rooker nodded.

"Grass up the Ryans," Chamberlain said, 'and you real y wil be a target."

"That's why I want protection."

It was a straightforward piece of gangland logic, and Thorne could see the sense of it. "Get Ryan before he gets you. That it?"

"Don't make out like you wouldn't like to put him away. He's a piece of shit and you know it."

"And you're a fucking saint, are you, Gordon?"

"It's him or me, isn't it? What would you do?"

"After what you did at that school, what you did to that girl.. . I'm inclined to let Bil y Ryan have you."