‘Oh shit,’ said River, and remembered the hide. ‘Birdwatchers?’
‘Uh, not exactly,’ Lech said. ‘I think they’re dogging.’
I’ve just the man for the job, Lamb had said, so Louisa was heading into the underground again, alongside drinkers and filmgoers, the theatre crowd, late-shift retailers, and those with cleaning and maintenance jobs, heading from one place of work to the next. You could always tell day from night on the Tube, she thought. Lighting was constant, temperature didn’t much vary. But you could always tell day from night.
Roderick Ho was with her, not because she needed back-up, but because Lamb wanted rid of him.
Waiting, she scanned ads for banks, for estate agencies, for online services. Credit was available, at rates set by Satan. She thought of Lamb’s face on the phone to River; that pause when River told him the hit team was dead. No details, but River had no gun, and improvisation was messy. Meanwhile, people went to and from work, and stopped out late for a drink, and sank deeper into debt. She had a foot in both worlds: owned her own flat, drove her own car, had shot a few people. But she never had money over at the end of the month, her pension forecast wasn’t rosy, her team had gone dark, there were bodies somewhere, and Lamb had a plan up his sleeve.
A train was approaching. She glanced at Roderick Ho, engrossed in an ad for bathroom fittings, which featured, inevitably, a barely clad female. He’d answered no when Catherine asked who remembered Kay White, who remembered Struan Loy, but Louisa would bet he remembered Sid Baker. Sid had been smart, and while that wasn’t likely to figure among Ho’s priorities, she’d been a looker too, and that ticked his box. Roddy was a looker himself, but only in the active sense: when a woman wandered into view, he looked. Sometimes, she’d noticed, his lips moved, as if he were adding a silent voice-over. In some ways she’d like to hear that, but in many more ways wouldn’t. What happened inside Roderick Ho’s head was best kept secret, like a nuclear launch code, or the PM’s browsing history.
The train stopped, and as they boarded Louisa said, ‘Probably best if we don’t sit together.’ With a quick movement of her head, she indicated the other travellers. ‘You never know.’
Roddy nodded wisely. He’d been going to suggest the same thing. They didn’t call it the underground for nothing. Well, it was under the ground, but even so: exactly the territory you’d find the opposition lurking. You had to be sharp to spot a pro, mind. Case in point, Roddy himself: black hoodie, black jeans – classic, but blended in. Edgy undercurrent, because you couldn’t switch that off, but it wasn’t like he was making it obvious; not like he was sporting a branded baseball cap … There was a poster on a council building near his home, something about fostering children. ‘Not all superheroes wear capes,’ it read. Well duh, thought Roddy. Spider-Man? Captain America? Sheesh. Who writes this stuff? But anyway, yeah, there was an underlying truth there: you didn’t have to dress the role, you just had to play the part. Always be alert, that was the key. Always bring your A-game. Like earlier, when he’d lured that tail into Lamb’s trap – they’d only got this far because he’d done that. The Rodster on all cylinders as usual, ensuring Lamb got the outcome he needed, and now working the underground with the same silent dedication: never a moment’s downtime. Dude has no off button, they probably said about him. Dude is like permanent. Though now he thought about it, a branded baseball cap might be cool. There was a place near him, they did T-shirts and stuff, he could probably get them to slap a slogan on some headgear. Spook at work. Little private joke, because everyone would assume he was wearing it to win cool points, never realising that beneath the outward flair lay constant vigilance.
Someone was kicking his foot. ‘Hey!’
‘… Huh?’
‘It’s our stop.’
Up the stairs and out of the station. It was full-on dark, and the streets had fallen into alternative ownership, those who were deferential by daylight having less reason to play meek now, given that any civilians still abroad had either spared all the change they were likely to, or long since grown blind to those asking. A few middle-aged men in yellow vests passed, discussing the events of their evening, the name Flinty featuring largely. Soon Louisa and Roddy were off the main drag, most of whose restaurants had perspex canopies sheltering pavement tables, and into the back streets, whose terraces were a mixture of shared-residential and business premises, the latter with posters pasted on their doors: made-to-measure tailoring. Gold bought. Cleaning services. A shop window displayed a collage of property cards: flats and houses to let. The next door along was the one they were after.
‘What was his name?’ Ho asked.
‘Just ring the bell,’ she told him.
Late to be a social call, which meant he might be out, might be in bed, but he was neither; was coming down the stairs, she could hear his tread. And remembered how Lamb had described him, so wasn’t fazed when he opened the door and looked up at them.
‘You’re Reece Nesmith?’ she asked.
‘Who are you?’
‘I think you’ve met our boss,’ she said. ‘Can we come in?’
‘So. How does it look from here?’
‘Here’ was a hotel hard by the BBC, one Peter Judd favoured for its bar, fifteen floors up. Its views of London suited him, especially after dark, when they revealed the city as gleaming clusters of power and influence; a collection of properties arrayed for the delight of those with the altitude to appreciate them. Which he was now doing, large brandy in hand.
Desmond Flint gave the question some thought. ‘It looks … expensive.’
Judd laughed. ‘You’ve got that right.’
‘Out of the reach of the ordina—’
‘Oh, please.’ With a hand on the other man’s shoulder, he encouraged him into an armchair. ‘Those who’ve settled for ordinary have only themselves to blame. And anything expensive can be bought and sold. Like the man said, we’ve established what you are, we’re simply haggling over the price. Which brings us rather neatly to tonight’s events.’ Judd sat in the facing armchair, London to his left. ‘So. How was it for you?’
Flint looked around again before answering. If he didn’t feel at home yet, he was starting to relax. Presumably the brandy helped. He said, ‘It felt … different.’
‘In what way?’
‘Just different.’
‘I see. Let me explain. You’ve been used to telling those people to do what they already want to do. And you’ve proved good at that, but it’s a bit like pitching in baseball. All you had to do was chuck the ball. Tonight you had to dissuade them from doing something they’d clearly have enjoyed. That’s more like bowling in cricket. It requires skill and ability. So yes, it felt different. Because you were wielding actual power, rather than simply pointing which way the wind was blowing.’
‘So what you’re saying, they might have just ignored me.’
‘That was always a possibility.’
‘And what would have happened then?’
‘To you? To me? Or to all the lovely plate glass on Oxford Street?’
Flint waited.
Judd sipped his brandy, nodded in approval, and said, ‘If they’d ignored you, I’d be enjoying a much livelier view right now, that’s for sure. As for the rest, I imagine you’d be in the back of a van, a lot of windows would be no more, and whatever credibility you’ve amassed in the eyes of the public would be similarly in pieces, and impossible to put back together again. That enough detail for you?’
‘You bastard.’
Judd looked modest.