The Burning Girl-4 by Mark Billingham Page A

downstairs, which, of course, Ryan also owned. Thorne wondered whether the man was just tight or genuinely didn't care about high-quality leather and chrome.
    In his twenty-five years on the job, and never living more than a mile or two away from where he now sat, Thorne had come across the name Wil iam John Ryan with depressing frequency. But, up to this point, he had miraculously avoided any direct dealings with him. Staring at him in the flesh for the first time, across a low table strewn with a variety of newspapers and magazines the Daily Star, House & Garden, the Racing Post, World of Interiors Thorne was grudgingly impressed by the way the man presented himself.
    Ryan's complexion was ruddy, but the mouth was smal and sensitive. When he spoke, his teeth remained hidden. The red cheeks were closely shaved and looked as if they might have been freshly boiled. The scent of expensive aftershave hung around him, and something else hairspray, maybe, judging by the way the sandy hair, turning to white in places, curled across the col ar of his blazer. Thorne thought he looked a little like a wel -preserved Van Morrison.
    "I presume you've made no progress in catching this maniac," Ryan said.
    Ryan's Dublin accent had faded a little over the years but was stil strong enough. Tughan turned his own up a notch or two in response. Thorne couldn't tel if it was deliberate or not.
    "We're fol owing up a number of promising leads," Tughan said.
    "I hope so. There needs to be a result on this, you know."
    "There wil be .. ."
    "This man has butchered friends of mine. I have to assume that, until he's caught, members of my own family might wel be at risk."
    "That's probably a fair assumption."
    Moloney spoke for the first time. "So do something about it." His voice was low and reasonable, the face blank and puffy below thinning, dirty-blond hair. "It's fucking outrageous that you aren't offering Mr. Ryan's family any protection."
    Ryan spotted the look on Thorne's face. "Something funny?" he asked.
    Thorne shrugged. "Not laugh-out-loud funny." He looked at Moloney. "More ironic, seeing as it's Mr. Ryan's family that's normal y offering the protection. Then again, "offering" isn't real y the right word .. ."
    Now it was Stephen Ryan's turn to chip in: "Cheeky cunt!" The son was thought by many to have become the muscle of the Ryan operation. Though he had his old man's features, as yet unsoftened, the voice was very different, and not just in tone. Thorne knew very wel that Stephen had been sent to an exclusive private school. His accent was pure Mockney.
    Thorne smiled at Stephen's father. "Nice to see that the expensive education was wel worth it."
    Ryan returned what in some lights could be mistaken for a smile. He looked at Tughan, nodded at Thorne: "Where did you find this one?"
    Tughan glanced at Thorne as if he were wondering the same thing himself. "We'l make this quick, Mr. Ryan," he said. "We just wanted to check that nothing else has cropped up at your end since we last spoke."
    "Cropped up?"
    "Any other thoughts, you know? Theories about who might be ... attacking your business."
    "I told you last time, and every time before that.. ."

    "You might have thought of something since then. Heard something on the grapevine, maybe."
    Ryan leaned back in his chair, spread his arms wide across the back of it. Thorne could see that his shoulders were powerful beneath the cashmere blazer, but, looking down, he was amazed at the daintiness of the feet. Ryan was supposed to have been a fair amateur boxer in his younger days but also, bizarrely, had something of a reputation as a bal room dancer.
    Thorne stared at the smal , highly polished loafers, at the oddly girlish, silk socks .. .
    "I don't know who's doing this. I wish I did .. ."
    Thorne had to admit that Ryan lied quite bril iantly. He even managed to plaster a sheen of emotion something like sadness on to his face, masking what was clearly nothing more noble than anger, and a