"The term I use is "pushing your fucking luck"." Ryan stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled as he marched off towards the car. Thorne wasn't sure whether he was whistling for his driver or for his dog. Either way, both came running. Outside, it was cold and dark, and the traffic on the North End Road was nose to tail. Inside the car, Thorne was warm, and in a remarkably good mood.
The rest of the day, back at Becke House, had gone pretty well, notably because Tughan and the rest of the Projects Team were spending it over at Barkingside. Thorne had begun scaling a mountain of paperwork. He'd got up to speed on some of the cases that had been nudged on to the back burner over the past few weeks.
He had also caught up on the investigation Holland and Stone had been making into the visitors on the Park Royal security tape.
"Sod all of any significance," Holland had said. "The wife and the daughter are what you'd expect: neither of them's Mother Teresa, but I think they're harmless enough. Philip Simmonds, the prison visitor, is definitely a bit spooky, but most of those types are, if you ask me."
Stone had nodded, added his own observations: "Wayne Brookhouse, the youngest daughter's ex-boyfriend, is a bit dodgy. No less than you'd expect from a mate of Rooker's. Nothing worse than that, though. Tony Sollinger's dead. Bowel cancer, three weeks ago." He'd looked up from his scribbled notes. "How did it go with Ryan, Guv?" Thorne had been pleased with his afternoon stroll in Finchley, and so too was Brigstocke, having finally succeeded in persuading Tughan that they should at least be letting Billy Ryan know that they were still around. It was predictable that Tughan had needed talking into a slightly more forceful approach. It was also ironic, as in theory that was just what the Projects Team was supposed to have. It was the team's bad luck that its DCI thought 'pro-active' was something you took for constipation.
As it happened, most of the teams that made up the Serious and Organised Crime Unit were pro-active to some degree. The Flying Squad TV's Sweeney were the most well known. Using carefully nurtured intelligence sources, they could occasionally prevent armed robberies from taking place, or even catch the villains with the guns in their hands going across the pavement which was the most highly prized result of all.
For Thorne, and others on murder squads, the situation was slightly different. Those who hunted killers could only ever be reactive. You could find out where a robbery was going to take place or which security van might be getting blagged, but you never knew where a body was going to turn up. Usually, of course, you never knew when, either, but, as things stood, Thorne could hazard a guess that one or more would be turning up sooner rather than later… He was coming down through Belsize Park, past the overpriced delicatessens and organic greengrocers', when he suddenly decided that he was going to have an early dinner. He took a left just before Chalk Farm tube station, then cut across to Camden and pointed the BMW towards the Seven Sisters Road. He called Hendricks as he was approaching Manor House and told him that he would be eating out. The food was delicious, and the size of the portions decidedly non-nouvelle.
Arkan Zarif hovered at the table, watching as Thorne took the first mouthful of his main course. Thorne had chosen a dish he'd never seen before spiced lamb meatballs wrapped in a layer of potato. He chewed, nodding enthusiastically, and the old man beamed with delight. "I picked out the meat," he said. "Of course, I cooked it also, but picking out the meat is the important part." He watched for a few moments more, his mouth gaping, smiling as another forkful went in.
"OK, I leave you to enjoy your dinner." Thorne swallowed and pointed to the seat opposite. "No, please. Join me. It's not often you get a chance to eat with the chef." Zarif nodded. "I drink a glass of scotch with you." He turned and spoke in Turkish to his daughter, who stood, scowling, behind the counter. She looked at Thorne, who smiled sweetly back. The old man frowned as he sat down and leaned across to whisper. "Sema is permanently miserable," he said. "It is not your fault." Thorne watched her pouring a glass of Johnny Walker for her father, and topping it up with mineral water from a plastic bottle. "Are you sure?
I do tend to have that effect on women."
Zarif had a wheezy laugh. He repeatedly slapped a huge hand against his chest until it had died away.
Sema brought the drink to the table, then moved back behind the counter without a word.
"Serefe." Zarif held up his glass.
Thorne was drinking beer. He raised his bottle of Efes.
"It means "to-our honour"."
"To our honour," Thorne said, as the bottle touched the glass. In the minute or so of silence that followed, Thorne devoured most of what was on his plate. He sliced off huge chunks of the meatball, spooned up the rice, washed it down with the cold beer. Zarif took, small sips of his Scotch and water. "You like the lady's thigh," he said.
Thorne looked up, chewing. He grunted his confusion.
"This dish is called kadinbudbu. This means "lady's thigh". So, you like the lady's thigh. I joke that if you don't enjoy the kadinbudbu, then maybe you don't like ladies. You see?" The wheezy laugh erupted again.
"What about vegetarians?" Thorne asked. Zarif picked up the menu, gave him a look like that just proved the joke was true. "All the dishes on the menu mean something. Turkish names always have meaning. What was your starter?"
"The fried aubergine."
Zarif pointed to the dish on the menu. "Imam bayildi. This means "the priest fainted". You see? When this dish was given to the priest, he enjoyed it so much that he fainted from pleasure."
"I'm sorry I didn't faint," Thorne said, 'but it was very good."
"Hunkar begendi! Zarif stabbed at the menu again. "This is a dish I make very well. Diced lamb in white sauce. This means "the Emperor loved it"."
"Did he love it as much as the priest?" Zarif didn't get the joke. "All names mean something, but some have bad translations. Funny translations, you see? We have English customers who ask why the names are always in Turkish. I tell them if they were in English, my menu would have dishes called rubbish kebab and stuffed prostitute!
Thorne laughed.
"No, really this would put people off."
"Only some people," Thorne said. "Others might come in specially." Zarif laughed loudly, slapping his chest again, the drink spilling over the edge of his glass.
Thorne suddenly thought about his father. He thought about how much he would have enjoyed this conversation. He pictured him laughing, scribbling down the names of the dishes…
"What about people's names?" Thorne said. "Do they always mean something?"
Zarif nodded. "Of course."
Thorne had finished eating and pushed away his plate. "What does Zarif mean?"
The old man thought for a few seconds. "Zarif is… "delicate"." Thorne blinked and saw a breath of blood across Anaglypta wallpaper. The body of Mickey Clayton bent over a kitchen chair. Gashes across his back…
"Delicate?" he asked.
Zarif nodded again. He waved to get his daughter's attention, and, when he had it, spoke quickly to her in Turkish. The scowl grew more pronounced as she moved across to a small refrigerated cabinet to one side of the counter.
"Now, my first name, Arkan? This is the best joke of all. It has two meanings, depending on where you are, how you say it. It means "noble blood" or "honest blood". This sounds nice, you see? But it also means "your backside". It means "arse"." Thorne laughed, swilling the last of the beer around in the bottle. "My name means different things to different people as well."
"Right." Zarif waved his fingers in the air, searching for the words.
"A thorn is small, spiky."
"Irritating." Thorne drained the bottle. "And it can be difficult to get rid of."
Sema arrived and put down a dish in front of Thorne. He looked at Zarif for explanation.