Mark Billingham: Death Message

There was more grey in the hair, too, but it was still full, and oiled back above heavy brows. The jowls were stub-bled in white; the thick moustache going the same way. But the eyes were every bit as bright and green as Thorne remembered. He put a hand on the bottle. ‘Raki,’ he said. ‘Lion’s milk. You want some?’

Thorne dug into his pocket. ‘Not for nothing, I don’t.’ He took out his wallet. Pulled out a five-pound note.

Zarif fetched a glass from the bar and poured the drink. ‘The till is closed. It will have to be for nothing.’

Thorne shrugged but left his money on the table, folded inside a stainless-steel cruet set.

Zarif touched his glass to Thorne’s. Said, ‘Serefé.’

Thorne said nothing, but he remembered the toast. Remembered that it meant ‘To our honour’. The drink was clear and tasted like cough medicine, though it didn’t much matter.

‘You keep popping up at the end of my inquiries,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s like not knowing where a stink is coming from, then suddenly finding the dead thing behind a cupboard.’

Zarif brought the glass to his lips; sipped it fast, like it was espresso. ‘Is this police business, or personal?’

‘It’s a murder case.’

‘Last time I thought it was both, because you were like a dog tearing at something. You remember when we sat in here and talked about names?’ He raised a hand, wrote in the air with a thick finger. ‘Thorne. Something spiky and difficult to get rid of.’ The accent was thick and Zarif searched for the odd word. But Thorne knew very well that he played up a difficulty with the language when it suited him.

‘You told me what your name meant, too,’ Thorne said. ‘Arkan, which means “noble blood”, but also means “arse”.’ Zarif cocked his head. ‘That was back when you were putting on the harmless old grandad act. Before I got to know you better.’

‘What do you want?’

‘You’re a very good businessman, no question. I can see why you’ve done so well for yourself.’

Zarif spread his arms and looked around.

‘I don’t mean this,’ Thorne snapped. ‘Don’t take me for a cunt.’

‘I will try hard not to.’

‘It’s all about spotting new business opportunities, isn’t it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Working out how to exploit them.’

‘A business must expand.’ To anyone sitting on an adjacent table, it would have looked as if the older man were enjoying the company and the conversation. ‘There is no point otherwise.’

‘The Black Dogs were a perfect opportunity.’

‘Dogs? Now, I am lost.’

‘Relatively new to the drugs game… medium-sized. Easy pickings for a firm like yours.’

Zarif said nothing, but Thorne wasn’t expecting him to.

Not just yet.

‘Even better if you can keep your hands clean,’ Thorne said. ‘Farm out the dirty work.’

‘What exactly do you think I’m going to say?’

Once Zarif’s name had been mentioned, the picture had quickly become clearer; and more horrific. In other circumstances, Thorne might have doubted the conclusion he had come to, but he knew better than most what Arkan Zarif was capable of.

Fully fledged gang wars, such as the one Zarif had been engaged in when he and Thorne had first met, were risky enterprises. Any financial advantage gained was often outweighed by unwanted attention from the authorities; by blood feuds that could linger for years afterwards.

So much better if someone else could wage them for you.

Marcus Brooks had been set up six years before by ‘Jennings’ and ‘Squire’, and now he was being used again. All Zarif had had to do was give him a motive. A nice, simple one. Once he had arranged to have Angela Georgiou and her son killed, it had been straightforward to get word into Long Lartin, hinting at who had been responsible. Then he had been able to sit back and watch while Brooks sorted out the Black Dogs for him. Created the space for Zarif and his family to step into.

He had wound up Brooks and let him go.

‘How did you find Brooks?’ Thorne asked.

Even as Zarif was staring blankly back at him, Thorne figured out that it had probably been through an associate in prison; perhaps the same one Zarif had later used to make sure Brooks knew, or thought he knew, who had killed his girlfriend and son. Another possibility was that Zarif had someone working within the Black Dogs themselves. This was less likely, but the thought prompted another.

‘Christ, you must have been delighted when Brooks started knocking off the coppers for you as well. Getting rid of any “friends” the bikers might have had in the police. A real bonus that, I would have thought.’

Zarif poured himself another drink, three or four fingers. ‘Forgive me if I have trouble following all this. Perhaps you should tell me what it is you think I have done.’

‘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.

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.