Mark Billingham - The Burning Girl

"I'm sorry, Tom." She started to cry. "They found him in the bedroom." She sounded like a small girl.

Thorne leaned hard against the car. He gasped out his pain, then smothered it quickly, before it became a scream. He was instantly all too aware of how much time he would have. He told himself that, now, Eileen needed to be comforted.

He yanked open the car door and climbed in. "Eileen, don't." He stabbed the key into the ignition.

Afire.

He thought about the cooker he'd never got around to removing from his father's house. It would only have taken a phone call. Five minutes of his time. Victor would have been happy to take care of it. Eileen could have found someone to take the thing away, had offered to, but Thorne had promised that he'd get it organised.

He hadn't even put a lock on the kitchen door. It was down to him.

"Where is he, Eileen? Where have they taken him?" Thorne listened carefully, but his aunt's words were fractured by sobs. "It's OK, Eileen. I'm coming."

Then another thought that hit him like a wrecking-ball. It smashed him back in his seat and held him there, his hand shaking against the steering wheel.

He pictured Arkan Zarif across a table, remembered what had been said when they'd talked about the deal to protect Gordon Rooker.

"An agreement which I fully intend to honour." The agreement had certainly involved a degree of protection. Could it also have included retribution should anything happen to Rooker. Thorne was sure the tightness across his chest was all that was preventing the contents of his stomach rising into his mouth. An accident, or one that had been arranged? Would they be able to tell which it was? Would Thorne ever know?

Either way. Down to him.

He glanced to his right and saw a figure coming towards the car, moving fast through the drizzle. Holland raised his hands, mouthing,

"Everything OK?"

Thorne felt like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

He nodded slowly and started the car.