The door swung open at his touch, though it felt heavy—reinforced, he guessed. There’d be metal sheeting under the wood. Inside, on the wall to the left, was an alarm panel; a keypad with an LED screen above. It was dead, by the look of it; an inert, lightless box. He closed the door behind him and crossed to what he remembered was the sitting room, whose own door was open, light spilling from it across the hallway floor. It was a comfortable, spacious room of contrasting gold and red tones, one half dominated by an L-shaped sofa; the other half by Jackson Lamb, slouching in an armchair like King Frog.
Who acknowledged Judd’s arrival by uncrossing then recrossing his legs.
“Took your bloody time,” he said.
And that would be good riddance, thought River.
He waited at the next junction and rang Sid, but she didn’t pick up. He hoped this meant she was in a dead zone, not that their relationship was. She hadn’t been happy when he’d told her he’d been summoned by Lamb, telling him You’re not a slow horse any more, though she didn’t believe that any more than he did.
Face it. He was a slow horse. An increasingly rare breed.
His vision swam, and he had to blink it clear.
Then he called Lech, and could tell from the background noise he was in a pub.
“Yeah, and?”
“And nothing. Just, I’ve delivered Judd.”
“Great.” Lech sounded flat. “You were given something to do, you did it. The rest of us applaud you.”
There was a moment’s pause while he drained whatever he was drinking.
“Roddy there?”
There was another moment’s pause while Lech digested this. “You want Roddy?”
“Yeah, well, no, but—”
“I’ve got Shirley, I’ve even got Catherine. Shirley’s talking to a girl at the bar, we haven’t been introduced yet, but you could talk to her too if you like. But Roddy—”
“Jesus, I just want to know he did what he was supposed to do, and I’m not starring in thirty-nine CCTV shows.”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, and why did Lamb want the cameras killed, you given thought to that? Could it be his diplomatic mission wasn’t as—”
“So you haven’t spoken to Roddy and you don’t know whether he did his bit.”
“He said he did.”
“Roddy says a lot of things,” said River, ending the call.
He felt vulnerable of a sudden, here in Notting Hill, along the road from Taverner’s house. Killing the local cameras was a mind game; a way of keeping Lamb’s three-way summit off the books. Except, of course, it might be more than that. He might have been more than a delivery boy just now.
“I fucking knew that already,” he said out loud. “Of course I fucking did.”
He’d call the hospital, he thought. Make sure he hadn’t missed any news. But even as he had the thought, his phone rang: Good, he thought. Sid. But it wasn’t.
“It’s me, it’s Roddy.”
“Yeah, did you—”
“Help me.”
Apparently, when the door is opened on a long-haul flight, anyone standing outside waiting to greet a passenger gets two tons of fart in their face—several hundred people’s worth of body odour, bad breath and bellyaches. And if you’re a greeter, you have to keep smiling. It’s reckoned you need to do this at least twelve times. The first eleven, you’re less a greeter than aghast; someone who’s just answered the door to their worst nightmare.
Judd thought of making this his opening pleasantry, but decided the subtlety would be lost on Lamb, who didn’t attempt to lever himself upright. He did, though, say, “I’d offer you a drink, but all I can find is white wine.”
“Where is she?” Judd said.
“At the Park. She didn’t let you know?” Raising his eyes to a pitiless heaven, Lamb shook his head at God’s ill-mannered creation. “I’d have thought she’d have had someone pick up the phone,” he said, in a grieving tone, “but you know Diana. She goes through PAs like a centre forward through a hen party. But she’s stuck at work. So it’s just us.”
Judd said, “No, I don’t think so.” He looked around, decided on the sofa, lowered himself onto it and leaned back, stretching his legs.
Lamb, waiting, adopted an interested expression.
He’d made himself at home, but hadn’t removed his coat or shoes, both of which looked like distant early warning signs of requests for small change. The only light he’d turned on—unless it had been switched on already—was the standard lamp by the side of his chair, and he was swamped in the glow it shed, like an illustration from a storybook. The kind which had not suitable for children stickered on its cover.
Judd said, “There’s an alarm pad by the door looking as dead as the PM’s voter approval rating. It’s been deactivated. She doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”
“I’d forgotten that about you,” said Lamb, amiably. “Everyone always goes on about what a corrupt fat lying prick you are. They never mention you can be quite sharp when the mood takes you.”
“I suppose that puts us on a level footing. Though I’m impressed by your security bypass. I’d have thought the house codes were changed daily.”
“Weekly,” said Lamb. He shrugged. “Or whatever. Not actually sure.”
“But you know a man who is.”
Lamb rummaged for something in his coat pocket, but only a cigarette. “Don’t worry, I’m not gunna light it. Wouldn’t want to sully the delicate air.”
“I think that ship’s sailed.”
The cigarette went behind Lamb’s ear. “There’s a kill code,” he said, “which can be triggered remotely. It shuts off the alarms and opens the locks. In case of a sausage situation arising.”
“A . . . what?”
“Did I say sausage? I meant hostage,” said Lamb. “Common error.”
“And that’s not changed weekly,” Judd guessed.
“No, that one remains constant.”
“And Devon Welles used to be Taverner’s home security expert. Well well well.” His gaze flickered round the room, then returned to Lamb. “There’s a contract I’ll be looking at quite closely. Before I sue someone’s fucking arse off.”
“Oh, don’t be too hard on him. I might have suggested you had no business being on his Christmas list. I mean, even less than for the obvious reasons.”
“What are you on about?”
“That the fat corrupt lying prick bit’s public knowledge.” Lamb’s fingers strayed to his ear. “But I told him you were paying the tab of those mercenary fuckers who murdered Emma Flyte.”
Judd stiffened. “You what?”
“I told him—”
“That business in Wales? Bloody cheek! I was the one let Diana know there was a team of hostiles on the loose! I wasn’t the one who loosed them.”
“Speaking for myself, I was raised to find it rude to interrupt. But I appreciate that you public schoolboys have your own code of behaviour, like wearing red trousers and fucking the country up. But yes, to address your complaint, I was lying. Like you just said, that puts us on a level footing. Lucky me.” He reached into his other pocket and this time produced a quarter bottle of scotch. He unscrewed the top. “I’d offer you a drink,” he said again. “But, you know.” He shrugged, and took a swallow.
“So you blackened my name to gain access here—”
“To be fair, blackening your name’s not as easy as you make it sound. Given the bar you’ve set.”
“Now who’s interrupting? You blackened my name to gain access, and for what? What kind of . . . summit is this supposed to be? Diana’s not even here.”