“Don’t,” she said.
“. . . You don’t either.”
“I won’t. So long as you drop that and go.”
He hesitated a moment longer, probably weighing the truth of her words more than he was his own chances. Then he sagged at the knees slightly, let the truncheon drop to the floor, and made for the doors. He opened them just as River pushed through from the other side, and for a moment the two stared at each other in crazed horror. Then the Black Arrow was gone, back inside the chaos of the storage room.
“I knew there was one behind us,” said River.
“Yeah, well. You were right.”
“Nice bluff.”
“If I was bluffing,” she muttered, holding the possibly empty, possibly not gun two-handed as they headed down the corridor, towards Douglas’s room, and its hatchway to the world.
“It was Duffy.”
“Nick Duffy?”
“Nick Duffy.”
“Nick Duffy, Head Dog?”
“Jesus, Shirley, how many ways you want to say it? It was Nick Duffy, Head Dog. Either he’s gone way off reservation, or we’ve walked into a mop-up.”
She had severed his bonds with the jagged half of a CD (“Lucky you found that.” “Yeah. Lucky.”), and the first thing Marcus had done was grab his cap and peel his revolver free. He felt happier with a gun in his hand. Less happy thinking about the possibility this was a mop-up.
Shirley said, “Those Black Arrows aren’t Service issue. They’re not trained and they don’t bounce.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
They ran for the cover of the skip, ran in a half-crouch, expecting to be fired upon. But no shots came.
“You tipped the light onto the van,” he said, stating the obvious.
“It’s what Nelson would have done.”
“That was smart.”
“For a cokehead, you mean?”
“Wanna bet?”
She grinned.
“That’s Duffy’s gun?” Marcus asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Which way did he go?”
“Not sure. I was avoiding tumbling debris.”
He peered round the edge of the skip, towards the block bordering the railway line.
Shirley said, “If it’s a mop-up, it’s a half-arsed one. Like I said, these Arrows are strictly part-time. And they don’t have guns.”
“Some do,” Marcus said. “Duffy did. And that kid in the van was shot.”
“Well, okay, some do. But most of them have scattered. Should we take the other light down?”
Marcus looked at it, twenty yards away. “It’s aimed at that building.” The factory. “At that hole in its wall.”
“Must be where the entrance is. Wanna take a look?”
“What I want,” Marcus said, “is to find Duffy.”
“Separate ways?”
“Be careful.”
They bumped fists, and split.
Lamb walked away from the pumps, round the side of the 24/7—DVDs, overpriced groceries, and pornographic magazines wrapped in coloured plastic—and lit his cigarette leaning against the free air dispenser. He checked his phone for messages: nothing. Which meant that whatever Cartwright and Guy were up to, either they hadn’t finished yet, or it had all gone fine, or it had all gone badly wrong.
Gonna be a lot of empty desks at Slough House in that case.
He was unsurprised when Catherine Standish appeared behind him.
“They’ll be okay,” she said.
He put his phone away. “Who will?”
“Sean Donovan’s an angry man,” she said. “But it’s not us he’s angry with.”
“Yeah, he’s already killed one man today. Remind me not to piss him off.” He dropped his cigarette and immediately produced another. “He gave you booze, didn’t he?”
Catherine turned her gaze on him, her face expressionless.
Lamb said, “I could smell it, soon as I came through the door.”
“I’m surprised you can smell anything, the fags you get through.”
“What can I tell you? I’m highly sensitive.” He leaned towards her, nostrils twitching, then pulled back. “Only I’m not getting anything now.”
“Lucky you. When’s the last time you changed your shirt?”
“No need to get personal. That’s typical of you spinsters. Once you’re past the menopause, you think you can get away with saying anything.”
She sighed. “Is there a point you’re trying to make, Jackson? Because what I really want to do is get home and have a bath.”
“Did you drink it?”
“Did I drink it? You’ve just finished telling me you’re ‘not getting anything.’ I took that to mean your highly developed sense of smell can detect no whiff of alcohol.”
These last words delivered in a precise, schoolmistressy tone; a warning sign, if Lamb had cared to heed it.
“Yes, well, maybe you stuck your head under a tap or something. You alcoholics can be cunning, I’ve learned that much.”
“Anything you’ve learned about alcoholics is self-taught. Would you mind giving it a rest now? I’m tired.”
“Only he was one of your drinking buddies back in the day, wasn’t he? Sean Donovan. That why he left you a bottle? Old times’ sake?”
She said, “What are you after, Jackson?”
“Just concerned you’re not about to have a relapse. Don’t want to arrive at the office to find you naked and covered in vomit. Which is what we were expecting when you didn’t show this morning, point of fact.”
“Was it?” she said, in a voice that would cut glass.
“Pretty much. First place we looked was the local park bench.”
“Thank you.”
“Second place was under it.”
“Shut up now, Jackson.”
“So why’d Donovan give you booze, if he’s such an honourable guy?”
“Did I say anything about him being honourable?”
“You seem pretty keen on painting him as a white knight. And this is all guesswork, remember? Could be, he’s exactly what he seems to be. A killer drunk driver who thinks the country’s run by lizard people.”
“And this is because you think he left me a drink? Jesus.” Catherine Standish rarely swore. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
Lamb curled his lip. “There’s a difference between offering you a glass and locking you in a room with the stuff.”
“Well pardon me for not getting that. Besides which, it wasn’t Sean left me the drink. It was Bailey. I mean Dunn. Craig Dunn. And he thought he was being kind.”
“Proper little gentleman. Good job I’d toughened you up, isn’t it?”
“You did?” She laughed. Lamb had rarely heard Catherine Standish laugh. “Trust me, it was no thanks to you I kept sober. If I’ve anyone to thank for that it’s my old boss. Because unlike you, Charles trusted me. He showed me friendship, he believed in me, and he kept me on when anyone else would have thrown me to the wolves. So it was Charles Partner let me pour that wine down the sink instead of down my throat, and the only thing you did was turn up and batter that poor boy senseless, when he was going to let me go anyway. Now finish that filthy thing and get back in the car. I want to go home.”
Lamb removed the cigarette from his mouth and studied it for a moment, as if concerned it was as dirty as Catherine had suggested. Then he replaced it, and gave her the same brutal stare. Out on the forecourt a car door slammed, and music briefly blared into life. Then the car departed, and Lamb was still staring, still smoking. At last he dropped it and, unusually for him, ground it out heavily; kept grinding until it was a smear underfoot. All this with his eyes still on Catherine.