“Which is where I say, there’s been nothing in the papers.”
Devon made no response.
“And you say, so nothing happened.”
“It’s your world, Lamb. You must be used to it.”
“If it was my world, I’d be the one charging ninety grand for babysitting. And you’d have an ashtray on your desk.” He pushed back suddenly—the chair had wheels—and crashed into the wall. This was punctuation. “You know what the whole shitshambles was in aid of?”
“Like I said. Your world.”
“Have a stab at this, then. Whose—”
“‘Have a stab’? For fuck’s sake!”
“—Whose shitshambles was it? Or do you think Charles Stamoran just woke with a mad leprechaun singing in his ear? Why not shoot Peter Judd? Get your name in the papers.”
“Epic fail on that count.”
“Yeah. What with that and the whole having-a-massive-stroke thing, he must be feeling a bit of a tit.” Lamb put his cigarette in his mouth, rolled it from one side to the other, then withdrew it again. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“You haven’t apologised for being here.”
“Think of it as an intervention. If I wasn’t here you’d be writing invoices, and some poor bastard’d be looking at bankruptcy.”
“Our clients are mostly corporations. They get what they pay for. And I don’t write invoices.”
“First Desk.”
“. . . What?”
“Thought I’d cut to the hunt, given you’re busy avoiding the question. Diana Taverner. Used to be your boss, remember?”
“She squeezed Stamoran.”
“And aimed him in Judd’s direction.” He tapped the end of his cigarette against his nose. “I’m failing to detect any surprise here. Though I know how good you guys can be at concealing your responses.”
“‘Us guys’?”
“Former Dogs. Lighten up. Speaking of which . . .” He waggled the cigarette.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“I’m not asking permission,” Lamb said. “I’m asking for a match.”
Devon said, “Am I shocked Lady Di is behind the attempted hit? No. Does you telling me about it surprise me? Again, no. Because you’re clearly after something. So tell me what it is, I’ll tell you to fuck off and then—well. Then you can fuck off.”
“That takes me back. ‘Lady Di.’ No one calls her that any more.”
“Can we skip ahead to where you fuck off?”
“You want to be careful. You’re starting to remind me of me. How much do you know about your client?”
“I know he pays his bills.”
“I’m sure someone does.” Undaunted by its unlit condition Lamb replaced his cigarette in his mouth, and appeared to inhale deeply. “Why do you think Taverner wants him black-ribboned?”
“Assuming your retro slang means what I think it does, I have no idea. Above and beyond the obvious.”
“That being?”
“He’s Peter Judd.”
“Yeah, that would do it for me. Taverner, though, she’s got to tread carefully in case HR find out she’s killing people, and make her do an awareness course. Those things go on for days.”
Devon said, “I’d assume he’s got something on Taverner she doesn’t want getting out. They’ve been moving in the same circles so long, they probably breathe each other’s secrets.”
“And those aren’t even the nastiest circles he swims in. Did you look at his CV before taking him on?”
“I don’t do the paperwork.”
“Because it’s not what he’s got on Taverner that’ll interest you. It’s what he’s done in the past.”
Devon said nothing. Whatever Lamb was about to tell him was the reason Lamb was here, and he needed further prompting like a wolf needs a toothpick.
Lamb said, “When your pal Emma Flyte was killed, who do you think the shooters were working for?”
The hanging gardens of the Barbican hadn’t so much been hanged as thrown themselves off balconies. Greenery dangled from railings to the lake below, the surface of which was carpeted with algae so thick that smaller ducks waddled across rather than paddled through it. Walkways overlooked this, and from strategically placed benches a viewer could gaze down on a Ballardian vision made brick. They could film a Planet of the Apes here, thought River, without much call for set dressing. You had to concentrate quite hard not to imagine zombies shuffling past.
He said, “I don’t even know why I’m here. I’m not a slow horse any more.”
“You don’t have to remind me. I’d planned a cake, a bottle of bubbly.” Lamb shook his head sadly. “I was gunna set fire to your personnel file, and maybe have a quiet moment, you get my drift.” In case River didn’t, he mimed having a quiet moment with his right hand. “Trust me, I’d have marked the occasion in an appropriate manner.”
“The appropriate manner being your fallback position,” Lech muttered.
They had waited for Lamb for over an hour, and hadn’t been making a lot of conversation. Shirley and Lech were still wary of each other following that morning’s hostilities, a skirmish occasioned by the former’s insistence on keeping all the blinds in the building down “as a mark of respect,” which Lech interpreted as “so no one looking in will see Shirley doing blow.” Actually, Shirley wasn’t doing blow (supply chain malfunction), and nor did Lech think she was (hangover malice), but they hadn’t been fighting over blinds either. Grief smothered Slough House like a nurse with a pillow. Even Roddy felt it, cranking his headbanging mix tape to nosebleed levels while flaying swastika-embossed excrescences with what looked like, and possibly was, a glass dildo. Computer games come with age certification; none of them actually say “mental age of seven,” but most should. But a couple of hours ago Roddy had had a phone call, after which the music had abruptly ceased, and he’d begun livestreaming Notting Hill traffic pressure points like a man planning to firebomb a carnival. Lech had noted this, but asking questions would have been tantamount to a gesture of friendship. Besides, he had a wobbly tooth after his difference of opinion with Shirley, and was too busy probing it with his tongue to articulate much.
River had come from the hospital. Sid had been there too, but at CC’s bedside. Your grandfather would understand, she’d told him, and River had pretended he agreed. But his grandmother would. Rose, who had spent almost her entire life on the outside of the Service looking in; she’d have understood. And would probably have done the same thing.
When Lamb arrived he’d been clutching a greaseproof package containing either a particularly artisanal kebab or a prop from a horror film. The latter would presumably have been non-edible, but the slow horses were accustomed to Lamb’s robust approach to culinary shibboleths. He claimed the bench they’d been congregating on by his usual method—i.e., declining to accept the fact that others were already sitting there—forcing them to scatter. Only Roddy remained in place, headphones loose round his neck, laptop on his lap. As far as anyone could tell, he was still engaged in mapping W3 via its traffic control systems. Say what you like about Roddy, thought River—which, to be fair, was his usual approach—but when he committed to something, he went all in. If he’d made wiser choices as to what those commitments were, he might have averaged out at a speakable human being.
So that left River on his feet, along with Lech, Shirley and Catherine; Shirley leaning against a pillar and Lech staring at the walkway opposite, along which a man was shuffling as slowly as possible without going backwards. He appeared to be wearing hospital garb, though his lower half was shielded from view by the wall, so it might have been a baggy shirt.
River said, “And what precisely made you shelve your wankfest? Did my medical clearance come through?”