Mark Billingham - The Burning Girl

He gestured back towards the archway. "Big brother through there, is he?"

"I presume you followed us here, so you know he is."

"You're sitting here waiting for sloppy seconds, that about right?" Hassan said nothing, but his jawbone moved beneath the skin where the teeth were clenching.

"You presume?" Thorne said. "So you didn't see me? That's good news. It's been a while since I've tailed someone and I thought I might have lost the knack."

Before he stepped through the archway, Thorne picked up the remote and turned the movie back on. The blonde woman resumed her performance.

"This one's a classic," Thorne said. "Don't worry, I won't tell you what happens at the end, in case you haven't seen it." Rooker turned the phone card over and over in his hand as he waited for his turn to make a call. He had a fair amount of credit left that he'd never get the chance to use up now. Phone cards were always in demand in prison, were as good as hard currency to those with people to talk to. He'd swap this one for a few fags before he left. He'd made more calls than usual in the last couple of months, but before that there hadn't really been many people he'd wanted to speak to. Fewer still who had wanted to speak to him. The man in front of him swore and slammed down the phone. Rooker avoided making eye contact as he stepped forward to take his turn. He slotted in the card and dialed the number.

When the call was eventually answered, the response was curt, businesslike.

"It's me," Rooker said.

"I'm busy. Be quick."

"You know I'm coming out in a couple of days?"

The man on the other end of the line said nothing, waited for Rooker to elaborate.

"I'm just checking, you know, confirming that we still have an agreement."

There was a grunt of laughter. "Things have changed a little."

"Right, and whose doing well out of that? You're quads in now, right?"

"Let's hope so."

"Course you are. Competition's out of the way, aren't they?" Rooker cleared his throat, did his best to sound casual, matey. "Listen, I'll be relocated. I don't know where yet, but I'll let you know as soon as I do."

There was a long pause. Rooker could hear voices in the background. The man he was talking to spoke to somebody else, then came back to the phone. "That's fine. I hope it all works out, all right?"

"Hang on, I want to know that you're guaranteeing me protection."

"From who?"

"From whoever." Rooker was trying to control his temper. This was the same conversation he'd had with Thorne, for Christ's sake. Unbelievable.

"Don't worry. We had an agreement, as you say."

"Good. Great." Rooker saw his own grin; a lopsided reflection in the battered metal plate above the phone. "So you were joking just now, right?"

"Just joking."

"I mean, anything could happen, couldn't it? The deal was that you'd look after me. That you'd take steps."

"You have that guarantee."

Steel crept into Rooker's voice. "If anything happens to me." It was there too in the voice of the man on the other end of the line. In the words he repeated before ending the call: "You have that guarantee."

What had been described in reception as the "V.I. P Suite' was little more than a large bathroom with a sofa in one corner. The walls were paneled in glossy, orange pine that ran with moisture. Red bathrobes hung on hooks, and a pink, plastic Jacuzzi took up most of the available space. The wall-mounted TV, probably set up to show the same film that was playing in the lounge, was switched off. Memet Zarif had no need of such visual stimulation. The real thing was being eagerly supplied by the woman sharing his bathwater, though, in the absence of an aqualung, she was providing manual rather than oral relief. The woman, whose enhanced breasts bobbed in the water like buoys, stopped what she was doing the second she saw Thorne.

Memet reached for her wrist, dragged her arm back beneath the water. He spoke to her, but his eyes never strayed from Thorne's. "Carry on." For a few tepid seconds nobody did much, then, finally, with a splash, the woman yanked her hand away and climbed out. Dripping, she walked behind Memet and pulled on a bathrobe, her lack of shyness as obvious as the scars and stretch-marks. She slipped her feet into sandals and turned back to Zarif. "Do I need to fetch someone?" Memet shook his head, unconcerned.

The woman sized Thorne up like she was working out how big a stick she'd need to scrape him off the bottom of her sandal.

"Am I a copper or a hired thug?" Thorne asked. "Or both? I know you're finding it hard to decide." He nodded towards Memet. "Your friend in there's helping me with my inquiries, so why don't you go somewhere and wash your hands."

The woman slipped the scrunches from her hair, shaking it loose as she crossed the room. She stopped for just a second to hiss at Thorne, before stepping out into the corridor.

"Tosser."

"You're a fine one to talk," he said.

When Thorne turned back to Memet, he had disappeared under the water. Thorne waited, watched as he lifted up his balding head and shook the water from it like a dog.

"Sorry to interrupt."

"She was right," Memet said. "You are a tosser." The accent made the word sound a good deal more serious than when the woman had said it.

"I just thought you might like to know that we found a couple more of your missing DVD players," Thorne said.

Memet smiled, but the effort was obvious. "Well done."

"They're turning up all over the place. This lot were working in kitchens and cleaning cars. Maybe one day we'll find out exactly where they came from. What d'you reckon?"

"Good luck."

"Where's Tan, by the way?"

Memet wiped water from his eyes, grunted a lack of understanding.

"Well, Hassan's out there waiting his turn like a good boy, and I know how close the three of you are, so I was just wondering where the baby of the family had got to?"

"My brother's on holiday."

"Oh, right." So, Tan was almost certainly the one who had put six bullets into Donal Jackson. Thorne wasn't hugely surprised. "A sudden urge to get away, was it? You can get some very good last-minute deals if you shop around."

"He was upset after what happened. After the shooting."

"I'm sure it was very traumatic for all of you." Memet's face darkened suddenly. "Hassan was nearly killed. In the middle of the day, a man walks in with a gun."

"I know. Not very sporting, was it? Thank heavens for that mysterious second gunman. You sure it was a gunman, by the way? It couldn't have been Batman or Wonder Woman, could it?"

Memet said nothing. He moved his arm back and forth through the water. The banter was done with.

The plastic tiles squeaked beneath Thorne's shoes as he took a step towards the Jacuzzi. "So, here's the thing: I think Stephen Ryan's a shit bag and I'm not a great deal fonder of you. In fact, if Ryan was sharing your bathwater right now, I'd be head of the queue to chuck a three-bar fire in."

"Am I supposed to be upset?"

"You're supposed to listen. There's not going to be any retaliation for what happened in the minicab office, do you understand? It's over. You boys can all put your guns down now."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't care what the "policy" is on this. I don't give a toss about efforts being concentrated elsewhere, about resources being redistributed or even about the fact that you fuckers are doing us all a favour by killing each other. I'm just telling you this: if any more bodies turn up, if Stephen Ryan's cousin's auntie's best mate's brother-in-law so much as twists his ankle, I'll start making a major nuisance of myself. Whatever the official position on this might be, I'm not going anywhere."

There was amusement in Memet's voice, but also genuine confusion and curiosity. "Why are you taking all of this so.. personally?" Suddenly, Thorne felt helpless, like the tiny, impotent figure that he'd imagined his father to be. The words he wanted to say were vast and deafening. They were made to be roared or screamed. To be sucked up and spat like powerful poison. Instead, Thorne heard them departing from his mouth as little more than murmurs, half hearted and sullen.