‘Then it is surprising we did not kill more.’
‘I have command of this unit,’ Shin said. ‘Do you really think my daily report will not contain this conversation?’
‘I make daily reports too,’ Danny lied.
Shin fell silent.
An, squatting against the side of the vehicle, looked down at his feet, then at the panels opposite, or at anywhere that wasn’t Danny, wasn’t Shin.
Danny said, ‘I’m going to kill her first. Before we go in.’
‘I am in charge!’ Shin said. ‘You don’t do anything without my orders!’
‘Then your orders should include this,’ said Danny. ‘That I’m going to kill her first. Before we go in.’
He leaned back against the panel and closed his eyes.
From his vantage point J. K. Coe watched Dennis Gimball smoke a furious cigarette, then light a second from the trembling stub of his first. Something was going on in the politician’s mind: you didn’t have to be John Humphrys to work that out. Which was fine. The way Coe felt about pols in general, Gimball in particular, he’d have been happy watching the man’s head explode.
Even so, he tensed when a new figure appeared in the alleyway; rumbling towards Gimball like a threat on legs. There was something wrong with his face, Coe thought, then decided he was wrong. It was the shadows cast by the scaffolding, making crazy the features they fell upon.
When the newcomer reached Gimball he raised his shoulders; made himself bigger.
He was big enough to start with: even with the foreshortening his perspective brought him, Coe could see that. He was black, in a big overcoat, and his hair was razored to straight lines across his brow and round his ears. And still there was that crazy shadowing, and it took another moment for the penny to drop. He wore tattoos. Across his face, his cheekbones, inky markings swirled.
Whatever he said was a low grumble, and Coe couldn’t catch the words.
Gimball stepped back. He waved his cigarette, as if sketching in smoke, and said one word over and over: ‘Now now now …’
Coe walked back towards the ladder, so he was directly over where the pair stood. Is this it? The newcomer didn’t appear to be armed, but didn’t have to be: he looked like he could break Gimball in half if he felt like it. Which didn’t mean he was going to, and didn’t make him a terrorist: he could be a concerned constituent, an over-enthusiastic pollster, or just one of the forty-eight per cent – that tiny minority, some of whom hadn’t yet got over and moved on – making a valid political point. And since any or all of the above could feasibly involve dumping Dennis Gimball in a wheelie bin, interfering would be putting a spoke in the democratic process.
So Coe thought: I’ll just watch for a moment.
Then River came down the alley too, and things got complicated.
Louisa stood, and the bored man along her row looked sharply round: you’re the cop, she thought. Pretending not to notice, she retrieved her mobile from her pocket as she walked to the entrance, muttering into it as if in reply to a caller. Through the windows she could see Shirley by the car, eating chips from the roof. Busted. Everything else looked quiet, though there was a van which had arrived since she’d entered the building. No logo on the side, but a driver at the wheel. He was looking behind him, as if talking to someone in the back. Could be something, could be nothing. If this were a proper op, instead of the Slough House equivalent – more like a work experience outing – the van would have been opened up by now, and its occupants made to sing the national anthem. But they were playing off the cuff, and the most they could do was keep both eyes open.
Unless Shirley did something ridiculous, of course.
River shouted ‘Hey!’, and the man with the tattoo turned. He seemed expressionless, despite the nature of the moment, as if his ink-job was left to do all his features’ work.
‘Not your business,’ he said. ‘Back off.’
River came to a halt two feet in front of the pair. ‘You okay, Mr Gimball?’
Gimball said, ‘I have an important meeting to attend. Address. Get out of my way.’
It wasn’t clear which of the two he was talking to, but River ran with it anyway. ‘You heard the man. Let him by.’
‘I hadn’t finished speaking to him.’
‘But he’s finished speaking to you.’
Gimball said, ‘This has gone on long enough. Shall I call the police? Is that what you want?’
‘No need,’ River said. ‘This gentleman was just leaving.’
But this gentleman had other ideas. When River reached out to grab his elbow he swatted it aside and squared up. He was bigger than River, broader, and it didn’t look like this was the first time he’d raised his fists in an alley, but River had been taught to fight by professionals, and if he hadn’t come top of his class, he’d never come bottom either. Which was a great comfort to him when the tattooed guy kicked him in the stomach.
All of this observed from above by J. K. Coe, who was coming to the conclusion that he’d better either intervene or climb into the building and disappear.
River bent double, and the man put a hand on his head and pushed him backwards. He fell over.
Gimball said, ‘That’s it. I’m calling the police.’ He had his phone out: a visual aid. He waved it about. ‘I’m calling them now.’
The man plucked the phone from his grasp and threw it at the wall, where it shattered.
‘Now now now now now …’
‘Now nothing. You listen to me.’
‘Now now now …’
The man grabbed Gimball by the lapel one-fisted, and pulled him close.
Oh Christ, thought J. K. Coe.
River scrambled to his feet.
‘Now now now …’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
River seized the man by the shoulders, and the man released Gimball and turned, ready to plant a heavy fist in River’s face, but River drove his elbow into the man’s nose first. Blood flew, but the man blocked the follow-up punch with a forearm and lunged forward. The pair went crashing into a wheelie bin, then slid to the ground, the man on top. He raised his fist again, but River was already twisting free: he grabbed the man’s wrist, aborting the punch, and at the same time headbutted him in his already damaged nose while Gimball watched in horror.
‘Let me by!’
But he trembled on the spot like a man at a dogfight, worried that if he tried to pass, one or the other would turn on him.
River was on his feet now, and planted a kick which caught the man on the shoulder, though Coe assumed he’d been aiming for his head. This produced a grunt but no serious damage, and then the man was upright too, bobbing and weaving, muttering words: come on then, come on. He dodged River’s next punch, and the one after, then threw one of his own, aiming for the throat: if it had connected, River would have been all messed up. But he’d pulled back and the jab kissed air: from where Coe was watching, it looked choreographed, deliberate. Gimball was wedged against one of the bins, and might possibly climb inside it soon, if assistance didn’t show up; River and his opponent seemed to have forgotten he was there. It was all about the fight, now. It was all about being top dog. Coe checked his options again, and they hadn’t changed: fight or flight. River didn’t even know he was here, for God’s sake. He could force a window, clamber through and make his way to the street. Go back and scrape River off the ground later. Except …
Except if it was him down there and River up here, River would come to his aid.
He thought about that for a moment, long enough to see the next two seconds of action, neither of which were much fun for River, who caught a blow on the side of the head which would have him hearing bells for a while. Helping River, it occurred to Coe, would involve getting in the way of such moments: giving the man another target to bounce his fists off while River caught his breath. So okay, a window it was, and Coe turned to retrace his steps, but as he did so his foot caught that stray tin of paint, knocking it from its perch; sending it swirling, lid over base, thirty feet down to the alley below.