“. . . Excuse me?”
He nodded at her leather tote. “You’ve come from the Park, you’ve spent all morning on this. Don’t tell me you weren’t reading the output on your way here.”
Diana looked at him. “It’s Park product. You’re not cleared to see it.”
“Ha-de-fucking-ha.”
She reached into her bag and produced a block of paper, half an inch thick.
Arrival details from Heathrow, the luckless Pete Dean’s surveillance reports, interviews with cab drivers and paperwork from the Grosvenor, including itemised billing, room service orders, channels viewed (Sky Sports, CNN), phone calls made (none), newspapers required (Times, Telegraph), and the contents of his bin post check-out.
“And there’s video on the laptop.”
“Haven’t seen a good movie since Sleeping Booty.”
Cigarette plugged into his mouth, he lowered his gaze.
It was as if he’d left the stage for the duration, becoming all function for the minutes it took him to digest the paperwork. Diana thought of the boys and girls on the hub, their faces lit by the glow of their screens as they absorbed information. Lamb’s light seemed to come from within, as if it were only at such moments that he burned real fuel. She wouldn’t want to disturb him. Couldn’t be sure who he’d be if he were startled out of his reverie without warning.
Instead, she watched the park enjoying this last burst of summer. It wouldn’t last. Autumn was bringing its weight to bear, and would have the usual effect—when autumn descends on the city, its adjectives drop away like leaves from a tree, until all that remain are the obvious: London is big, its roads are hard, its skies are grey, its noise is fierce. Months to go before that picture softened. She wondered if she’d still be in her job then. Lamb’s story had handed her a weapon, but Sparrow came well protected, and it was clear he viewed her as a threat. One he intended to deal with. My advice would be, spend your remaining time as First Desk concentrating on more important issues.
The rasp of Lamb’s lighter brought her back. He thrust the papers at her, and she pattycaked them into a neatish pile on her knees. “Well?”
“Man likes a drink.”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“What do you want, his horoscope?” He exhaled, and his head was wreathed in smoke. “How did he look at the party?”
“Not like someone who’d been on the whisky all night, if that’s what you mean.”
“Despite having two bottles sent to his room within thirty minutes of his arrival. Any hookers delivered with them?”
“It’s not that kind of place.”
He gave her a sardonic look. “They’re all that kind of place.”
“We have a file on him. Obviously. Twelve-year-old Balvenie’s expensive, but it’s his preferred brand, and two bottles is not without precedent. I’ve seen you put a bottle away before heading out for a drink.”
“Thanks for reminding me. It’s getting on for that time.”
He stood and stretched and yawned all at once. It was like watching a building collapse, backwards. When that was done, he said, “One and a half litres over a two-day stay. Yeah, okay. Not entirely unheard of, in my experience.”
“Wide as that most assuredly is.”
“I’m impressed he eats the bottles, though,” said Lamb. “That’s hardcore.”
And he padded away, leaving Diana busy with the paperwork again; confirming that whatever Rasnokov had done with the two empty bottles of Balvenie, they hadn’t ended up in his bin.
Act III
Ape Shit
In the San’s basement was a gym, described in the brochure as fully equipped, but lacking, Shirley noticed, a wooden horse. If they’d had one, she’d have half-inched a couple of spoons and dug a tunnel. Instead, there was a row of treadmills, on one of which an idiot was walking at a speed that indicated she needed to be somewhere in a hurry, and with an expression suggesting she was late. Most of the inmates—the brochure said “guests”—seemed similarly wrapped, tending to appear calm to the point of disconnection while at rest, but harried by demons when they thought no one was watching. Another good reason for making tracks as soon as possible. Shirley was pretty sure being a mentalist wasn’t catching, but wouldn’t want to bet her sanity on it.
Her morning keep-fit routine didn’t take long—everyone always went on about how important cooling down exercises were, so Shirley skipped the workout and just did those instead. Some ankle touches, some glute stretches. You could hear things popping if you did them correctly, unless you only heard that if you were doing them wrong. Then several minutes of downward dog, the least dignified position Shirley had attempted without at least one other person being involved. The walls were mirrored, and it was impossible not to catch sight of herself: her head looked like a tomato this side of bursting. Time to call it a day.
Leaving, she ran into a grey-headed woman who was backing through the door carrying a yoga mat. She dropped it when they collided, and the pair mutely watched as it unrolled, releasing visible dust into the air. Then looked at each other.
“My fault.”
“Uh-huh.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Ellie Parsons,” she said. “Panic attacks.”
“Shirley Dander,” Shirley replied. “Substance abuse,” and pushed through the door.
She showered in her room. According to the computer-generated schedule pushed beneath her door there was a group session in half an hour at which her presence was “expected.” Yeah, she thought, scrubbing a hole in the misted mirror. Except her presence had other ideas; she’d send her absence along as a proxy. Hope this suits. Judging by the mirror, it would have to: her reflection wasn’t taking any crap. Her last act of freedom had been a buzz cut, which was what she generally went for when on a war footing. No way was this baby attending any session she didn’t want to.
In black jeans and grey hoodie, her usual trainers, she set out for a walk round the grounds. The woman at reception gave her a smile, which was a plus, but also said something about “twenty minutes,” which Shirley took to be a reminder about the group session. Everyone on bucket seats, sharing bad moments. Seriously: fuck. Shirley had no problem with people seeking help, but also had no problem, end of. The fact that she hadn’t punched anyone yet proved her self-control, right?
The San nestled in a dip between hills, its tree-lined driveway a gentle slope ending in a gravelled expanse in front of the house, which was redbrick, with blue and white woodwork round windows and gables, and a big copper beech behind. It had been a farmhouse in a previous existence, the brochure explained, but those days were long gone. For obvious reasons, there was a certain amount of security: a wall blocked any view of the building from the road, and the gates were controlled from within the house—there was an intercom, and a camera, and you presumably had to have good reason for entering, along with the right ID. There were no guards in evidence, but she had that sense of an unseen presence which came with surveillance, though also with habitual cocaine use. She guessed there’d be more cameras among the trees; maybe someone observing her on a screen right now, admiring her buzz cut.
That said, it wasn’t a fort. The outer wall ended a few hundred yards from the main gate, melding with a row of stables before giving way to a wooded area, separated from the road by a ditch and coloured wire, which looked designed to deter foxes or badgers rather than marauding humans, some of whom would probably have the nous to step over it. And she’d seen from her window that part of the estate’s boundary was a lake, which she doubted was croc-infested. The San might not invite casual wanderers, but if you had a mind to leave—or arrive—there wasn’t a lot to prevent you. She could walk out, make her way to the nearest station, steal a ride and be in London in however long the train took: couple of days, maximum. She’d be back in the clubs before her buzz cut lost its edge.