Copies of the visiting area's security tapes had been requested from the prison, sifted through and edited until the team was left with a sequence no more than a few minutes long. This was the tape which Holland, Stone and Rooker were about to watch.
"Here we go," Holland said, leaning back from the video recorder. Stone patted Rooker on the shoulder. "This is very much a highlights package, Gordon. And we want you to provide the commentary, all right?"
Rooker picked up a pair of glasses from the table and inched his chair a little closer to the screen.
Out of the screen-snow came a series of clumsily cut-together shots, the images jumping disconcertingly from one to the next: half a dozen individuals walking into the visiting area, depositing bags and coats on or beneath chairs and sitting down. Each a different size in frame, sliding or slumping behind the narrow tables not a single one of them looking particularly pleased to be there.
"Cath, my eldest daughter." Rooker pointed and spoke while Holland scribbled. On the screen, a dark-haired woman in her late thirties sat down. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt. If she'd been wearing a bib, she might have been a prisoner. "Her son's being taken on by West Ham."
A jump-cut replaced the woman on the screen with another. In her early seventies, probably. A buttoned-up green overcoat. Handbag clutched in front of her on the table. "My mother's youngest sister, Iris. Pops by every now and again to tell me who's died." A man, around the same age as Rooker. Arms moving animatedly as he spoke. Dirty grey suit and hair the same colour. "Tony Sollinger, an old drinking mate. He got in touch with Lizzie out of the blue, told her he wanted to come in. Insisted on telling me he had cancer, for some fucking reason."
A woman, anywhere between fifty and seventy. Hair hidden beneath a patterned headscarf. Saying little. "Speak of the devil. The wife, the ex-wife, as near as dammit, on her annual visit." From somewhere on the wing behind them came a sudden howl of what might have been rage, or pain, or neither. Holland and Stone both turned. The prison officer didn't so much as raise his head.
"You can see why people aren't queuing up to visit, though," Stone said. "It's hardly fucking Alton Towers." The prison officer looked like he was laughing, but he did it without making any noise.
"Wayne Brookhouse," Rooker continued. "He used to go out with my youngest." A man in his early twenties. Dark, curly hair and glasses. Lighting a cigarette from the nub-end of another. "My daughter never bothers, so he comes in, tells me what she's been up to. Supposed to be a mechanic, probably just a cut-and-shut merchant. Ducks and dives, but he's a decent lad."
A black man, fortyish. Very tall and smartly dressed. A short-sleeved white shirt and dark tie. "Simons, or Simmonds, or something. Fucking prison visitor. I reckon deep down they're all after some sort of thrill, but he's harmless enough. It's better than talking to some of the beasts in here."
And finally, the most recent visitor. A broad-shouldered man, a little shorter than average. Hair greying at the sides. Sitting very still and staring at the top of Gordon Rooker's bowed head. Stone laughed, turned from the image of Tom Thorne and looked at Holland. "Christ, this one really looks like a nasty piece of work." Then white noise, until the tape ended and began to rewind.
Holland put away his notebook. Stone leaned back in his chair and turned to Rooker. "Five real visitors in six months. Looks to me like you've been all but forgotten, mate."
Rooker stood up. "That's what I'm hoping." He turned and walked out of the door. The prison officer calmly stood and followed, picking the dirt from beneath his fingernails with the edge of a laminated ID badge.
"It's gone very quiet around here," Kitson said. Thorne had to agree. He knew that she wasn't just talking about the fact that many of the team had taken lunch early and gone over to the Oak. "I think, as far as the Swiss Cottage thing goes, it's going to get a lot bloody quieter," he said. "Things might pick up, if somebody makes a decision about Billy Ryan."
Since they'd changed their minds about Gordon Rooker, the joint operation had divided itself, somewhat less than perfectly, into two distinct strands. There was, understandably, a major emphasis being placed on catching the man who'd tried to set light to the girl in Swiss Cottage, but that investigation hadn't turned up anything within the all-important first twenty-four hours. In spite of the time and location of the attack, there wasn't a single useful description. The man's face had been hidden beneath the hood of his anorak, while witness accounts of height and build had varied as much as might be expected, bearing in mind the thick, cold-weather clothing and hunched posture of the attacker.
The girl herself was already back at school, while her mother was cashing in, discussing her daughter's lucky escape and the shocking ineptitude of the police on any TV or radio show that would have her. Her daughter had been selected, as far as anyone could ascertain, completely at random. Another brick wall. It wasn't that the leads weren't going anywhere. There simply weren't any in the first place. Meanwhile, whether he was connected to what had happened in Swiss Cottage or not, there was still Billy Ryan. While a case against him was being built behind prison walls, there was uncertainty about how those on the ground should proceed.
Nick Tughan was all for the softly-softly approach. There was still the dispute with the Zarif brothers to be dealt with, and Tughan didn't think there was anything to be gained by confronting Ryan directly about Rooker, or about Jessica Clarke. For once, Thorne had been largely a spectator when things had come to a head in the middle of the previous week.
"We're working with Rooker," Tughan had said. "We're putting the evidence against Ryan together, but while that's happening there's still the minor matter of a gang war going on. My first responsibility is to make sure there's no more killing."
Brigstocke had gone in studs-up. "Come on, Nick. This is hardly about saving innocent lives, is it?"
Tughan reacted angrily. "Tell me Hanya Izzigil wasn't innocent. Tell me Marcus Moloney wasn't."
Brigstocke had looked at his feet, then sidelong at Thorne. He hadn't got off to a very good start.
"We don't know what Ryan's going to do next." Tughan had wandered to the window then and looked out across the North Circular. "He tried to sort Rooker out and he screwed it up. He's going to have to respond to Moloney's murder sooner or later. It's been nearly a fortnight." He turned and held up a hand before Thorne could say anything. "Even if it was him who had Moloney killed, it's going to look bloody funny if he doesn't retaliate, isn't it?"
"Why don't we press him on Moloney, then?" Brigstocke had asked. "Why don't we press the fucker on a lot of things?"
"This isn't just about Ryan, by the way. Whatever happens, I want the Zarifs as well."
"Obviously, but we're talking about Billy Ryan, and right now there's a lot of sitting about on our arses. We should be trying to disrupt his operations."
The commanding view of cars and concrete was obviously too much for Tughan to resist. After a few moments' thinking, or pretending to think, he turned back to the window. "Let's just wait." Brigstocke had let out a weary sigh. "Rooker might not be enough, Nick. I think we should get everything we can." There was only ever going to be one side Thorne was on, and he couldn't resist chipping in for very long. "You were the one who said Rooker was unreliable." He had taken a step to his left so that he could at least see the side of Tughan's face. "Don't you think a jury might agree with you? However good the evidence is, Rooker just might not be a credible witness. Ryan's legal team are going to be doing their best to make him look anything but credible. It can't hurt to go after something else to back him up, can it?"