"Just two coffees, please," Thorne said. Hol and looked a little disappointed, as if he'd been hoping to put a spot of breakfast on expenses. After the waitress had gone, Hol and scanned the menu: "Some of this stuff sounds nice. You know, the Turkish stuff." Thorne glanced around, caught the eye of a dour, dark-eyed individual sitting at a table near the door. "I can't see us eating here too regularly, can you?" When the coffees arrived, Thorne asked, "Is the owner around?" The waitress looked confused. "Is Mr. Zarif available?" "Which?" "The boss. We'd like to speak to him .. ." She picked up the menus and turned away without a word. Thorne watched her drop them on to the counter and stamp away down the stairs at the back of the room. "She can say goodbye to her tip," Hol and said. The cafe was at the Manor House end of Green Lanes, opposite Finsbury Park, and not a mil ion miles away from where Thorne had once been beaten up by a pair of Arsenal fans. It was smal maybe six tables and a couple of booths and the blinds on the front door and windows made it a little gloomier than it might have been.
