CC took Al’s bag from his reluctant grasp and went round the back.
Avril said, “Do you think he’s okay?”
Daisy said, “He’s CC. He’ll always be okay.”
Al turned to face them. “He trod on a nest of snakes when he tried to lean on First Desk. Do you really think sending a messenger with an envelope is the worst she’ll do in response?”
Then CC was climbing back into the car, handing out wads of banknotes.
“What’s this?”
“Three hundred quid.” Each, he meant. “Your share. I’m sorry it’s not more.”
“What’s going on, CC?”
“That envelope. There was twelve hundred quid and a phone. I’ve just spoken to First Desk. More sorrowful than angry, it turns out. No, blackmailing the Park is not a good idea. But yes, we have a point. Badly treated, wouldn’t happen now, all that kind of thing. She can’t give us more than petty cash, but on the other hand, we’ll not be facing a firing squad. Provided our mouths remain forever shut.”
There was silence for a short while. Then Avril said, “And that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Not even a visit from the Dogs?”
“She’s already put the fear of God into us,” said CC. “Or me. It was a stupid thing to do, it put us all at risk. I’m sorry. I should have thought harder. Talked to you all first.”
“Yes. You should have done.”
Al said, “But we get three hundred quid each.”
“Like I said. I’m sorry it’s not more.”
“So you’ll have another three hundred in your pocket right now?”
“Al . . .”
“I’m not suggesting he’s skimming. I’m wondering if he kept any for himself.”
CC said, “We’d better get moving. I’ll drop you at King’s Cross. That’s good for everyone, yes?”
Grunts were the best he was getting for that.
He started the car and pulled away, thinking: a burner phone, a brown envelope and an address. Join those dots and you drew a stark picture. Whatever Taverner was up to—whatever task she had in mind—it wasn’t official. The upside of which was, there’d be no surveillance, no eavesdropping, no satellite tracking. No drones. The downside being, he was likely in more trouble than would fit in the average day.
How the see-saw would tilt, up or down, remained to be seen. But he supposed he’d find out before long.
Lamb was back from his mini-break in the lavatory, and Catherine shuddered at the thought of the state he’d have left it in—she’d once put up a sign reading please leave this toilet as you would like to find it, and by the following morning he’d installed a stack of pornographic magazines and a dartboard. Now she watched from her desk—their offices faced each other, and both doors were open—as he slumped behind his own and rummaged in a drawer, eventually producing half a cigarette, its end trumpet shaped where he’d squashed it out. Catherine could already smell it: dead tobacco, an acrid tang she associated with long nights, empty bottles and suppressed memories. It was awful to ponder, but there were whole spheres of experience she held in common with Lamb. There might be another world somewhere in which they’d exchanged roles. Pray God it never crashed into this one.
Instead, the crashing sound was someone slamming a door and coming up the stairs. Ashley.
Lamb greeted her with a beaming smile. “What, is it come-to-work-in-a-huff day already?”
“My phone just rang.”
“And? You’re Generation Text, I know, but phones do ring occasionally. It’s what they’re for.”
“The one on the desk, I mean.”
Lamb’s free hand paused on its way to scratching his arse.
“She said, let me get this right, she said she’d had to buy a burner, and it was the only number she knew off by heart. On account of my desk used to be hers.”
Lamb called to Catherine, “Sounds like our lost sheep’s turned up. Hang out some flags. Where you going?” This to Ash, who’d put a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it on his desk, and had turned to leave.
“Back to my office?”
“Yeah, pop next door first, and fetch an order of whatever they’re calling ‘firecracker’ this week. Chicken, pork, prawn, whatever. And special rice.”
Her face was mutinous. “What did your last slave die of?”
“I want to say Novichok poisoning,” said Lamb, “but he recovered. Must’ve been the Welsh knife fight, then. Before your time. Off you fuck.”
“He runs a tab,” Catherine said, coming in as Ash left. And then to Lamb, “Sid’s okay?”
“Probably just taking a brief holiday from Cartwright. Must be like being stuck in a Carry On film after a while.” He was already dialling the number Ash had left. It was answered immediately. “I’m touched we were the first place you thought of,” he said. “I mean, clearly you’ve got no friends or self-respect, but still.”
“It was the only number I could remember,” Sid told him.
“Yeah,” Lamb said kindly. “That’ll be the brain damage. Your boyfriend found your phone, if you were wondering. He’s now busy racking up a new record for pissing people off. Dogs, traffic cops, other road users. Do they have street cleaners in Oxford? Them too if so.”
“He found my phone? In the safe house? He must be going out of his mind!”
“There’s no obvious way of telling. You’re on Taverner’s shilling, aren’t you? Presumably because she promised she’d give young Uh-Oh-Seven his Park privileges back if you did. Want to hear the bad news about that? Or have you worked it out for yourself yet?”
There was a pause before Sid said, “You’re still very smart, aren’t you, sir?”
“I shine by comparison. That’s the advantage of hanging round with a bunch of special needs yo-yos who couldn’t find their crotches with a sniffer dog. So—what were you doing in Oxford? And who with? Spare no details, but if it’s anything frisky give me five minutes to warm up.”
Catherine watched while Lamb listened, his right hand toying with the half-smoked cigarette he’d found. She could read nothing in his face. Sid might have been telling him he’d won the lottery or lost his pension. When he hung up he considered the ruined cigarette for a while.
“Well?” she said at last.
“She called me sir. Maybe I should shoot the rest of them in the head, if that’s what it takes.” He scratched his nose. “On the other hand, how come even the smart ones are stupid? If Baker doesn’t know what a cutout is, she’s about to find out.”
Catherine said, “Taverner?”
“I mean, it’s not like I expect them to learn from experience or anything. But you’d think they’d know not to stick their dicks in a live socket by now.”
Ash was coming back up the stairs, preceded by the smell of warm food. Placing a tinfoil container in front of Lamb, she said, “I went for the steamed cauliflower option. Because I’m vegetarian.”
“Yeah? Me too.”
“. . . Really?”
“Well, no. But I never eat anything cleverer than myself. So we’ve got the same boundaries.” He peeled back the lid and peered at the contents. “Say what you like about the Chinese.”
She waited. “But what?”
“Nah, I was finished.” He wrinkled his nose. “You sure he didn’t scrape this out of the bin?”
“Would I spoil the surprise if he had? He wants his bill paying, by the way.”
“He can go take a runny dump.”
“. . . Running jump.”
Lamb resealed the lid. “I was reading my future. Oh God, who now?”
Who now was Lech. “Louisa rang. She and River just had some kind of run-in with the Dogs at—”
“I know.”
“Okay, good, but they’re on their way back now. And apparently Sid Baker—”