“I’m sorry.”
But what was that in your hand, she thought—was that a knife?
“What happened?”
This was Marcus, with—inevitably—Shirley in tow, chanting “Fight! Fight!” under her breath.
“I dropped something,” Louisa said.
“Yeah, right.”
Shirley said, “Did he talk again? Make him talk again.”
“Shut up, Shirl.” Marcus moved across the room, stooping to collect the fallen mug on his way. This he set in front of Coe before crouching until they were on the same level. “Are we going to have a problem with you?”
Louisa said, “It was my fault, Marcus.”
“I’m talking to Little Grey Riding Hood here,” Marcus said, without shifting his gaze. “I’m wondering if he’s planning on starting to act up. You know, loud squawks and flying cups. Shit like that.”
When Coe replied, it was in a near whisper. “You gunna tie me to a chair and shave my toes off with a carving knife?”
“. . . Don’t plan to.”
“Then I’m not scared of you.”
Marcus looked over his shoulder at the women. “I think I found his boundaries.”
“Leave him alone, Marcus,” Louisa said wearily.
“Yeah, leave him alone, Marcus,” said Lamb.
Christ on a bike, Louisa thought. How did he do that? All he needed was a puff of smoke—and then a more urgent line of enquiry took shape, and she said, “What happened to River? Is he dead?”
“Fine, thanks. Yourself?”
“Lamb—”
“I realise I may have extended my Christmas break a smidgin, but really, people, has any work gone on here at all?”
His Christmas break had started last September. Louisa could count on her fingers how many times she’d seen him since.
She said, “Answer the question. River . . . ”
“He’s not dead.”
Instead of the relief she might have expected, a wave of tiredness came crashing upon her, as if she’d developed an adrenalin leak.
“As far as I know.”
“Then why,” she began, and gave up. The why would emerge in its own good time, or not at all. Pointless to expect better from Jackson Lamb.
Who was surveying his slow horses now, the way a battery farmer might inspect his chickens.
“You.” He pointed at Shirley. “You look different. Why?”
She patted the top of her head, where her buzz-cut was a softer, downy peach-fuzz. “I’m letting it grow out.”
“Huh.”
“It makes me look like a young Mia Farrow,” she said. “If she’d been dark instead of blonde.”
“Yeah,” said Lamb. “And if she’d eaten Frank Sinatra instead of marrying him.”
Ho, who’d trotted into the room on Lamb’s heels, said, “And I’ve grown a beard.”
“Really? Where?”
“On my . . . ” Ho’s voice trailed away.
“This is almost too easy,” Lamb said. Then tilted his head to one side. “You’re different too, though. Not just the chin pubes. How come you look all shiny?”
“He’s been showering,” Marcus said.
“Seriously?” Lamb looked at Ho, stunned. “You’ve found a girlfriend?”
“That’s not what he—”
“Jesus. And this is an actual relationship? Not an abduction? Well well well.” Lamb dropped the appalled expression, and beamed round at the company. “See what you can achieve with a little application?” He patted Ho on the shoulder. “It does me good to see you rise above your disability.”
“I don’t have a disability,” Ho said.
“That’s the spirit. You should bring her into the office, introduce her.”
“Really?”
“Christ no, not really. It’s not a fucking coffee bar. And speaking of the fairer sex, our new lady friend settling in? Where is she, anyway?”
Marcus said, “Did you just call her a lady?”
“Of course. Always be polite when referring to a woman of a certain age,” Lamb said. “In case the mad old cow turns vicious.”
Louisa said, “She’s upstairs, I think. In Catherine’s office.”
“Now, now. It’s not Standish’s office any more. Remember?”
“That why you’ve been sulking?”
He ignored that; focused instead on JK Coe, who had clasped his hands on his desktop, as if to make sure they wouldn’t betray him. Lamb studied him for a moment or two, then said, “Does he speak?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Do you speak?”
Coe shrugged.
“What was he, raised by hamsters?”
“He was talking earlier,” Shirley said. “You must’ve scared him.”
“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Louisa said.
Now Lamb turned to her. “What’s your problem? You look like Santa shat on your sofa.”
“You let us think River was dead.”
“No, River let you think River was dead. I just didn’t spoil the joke.”
“So what’s he playing at? Whose body was it? And where?”
“Who am I, Google? I don’t know whose body it was, and what Cartwright’s playing at, my guess is Secret Agents. Why change the habit of a lifetime? As for where, it was out in the sticks, at his grandpa’s. Why do old people live in the country, do you think? Do they start in the city and just get lost?”
“So somebody’s dead, but not River?”
“How many more times?” Lamb rolled his eyes at Ho. “Women, eh?”
“Yeah, I know what you—”
“Shut up,” Louisa told him.
“So where’s River now?” asked Marcus.
“France.”
“Why?”
“That’s where the killer came from.”
“We have a killer now?”
“The body in the bathroom,” Lamb said. “I’m assuming he wasn’t a plumber.”
“And he came to kill River?”
“Let’s think that through carefully,” said Lamb. “Using our brain.”
Louisa said, “He means, whose house was it?”
“But River’s often at his grandad’s,” Marcus objected. “If I was gunna hit River, I might follow him and do it there. Out of the city, empty roads, easy getaway.”
“I’m sure we’ve all spent hours planning the best way of killing River,” Lamb said. “But our assassin came all the way from France, which sounds more like a job than a hobby. So let’s assume he was after Grandpa. Business before pleasure and all that.”
“So who killed the killer?”
“One Cartwright or other. Does it matter?” Lamb slumped heavily into the nearest chair, which was the absent River’s. “What we actually need to know is what the hell’s going on. And since young Cartwright’s not here to tell us, and old Cartwright’s lost the plot, we’re going to have to work it out ourselves.”
Louisa said, “Has he really lost it? The old man?”
“I’ve had more illuminating conversations with ducks,” Lamb assured her.
“River said he was worried about him.”
“Been confiding in you, has he, young Double-Oh Three-and-a-Half?”
“Well, he—”
“But not enough to pick up a phone and let you know he’s alive.” He shook his head sadly. “Kids today, eh? Who’d have ’em?”
Shirley said, “France is pretty big.”
“Excellent. We have a geographer. Any further insights?”
“All I meant was, River must have had more to go on than just that.”
“Yeah, well, you have a point, oddly enough. River found a train ticket in the dead man’s pocket. Plus a café receipt . . . Christ. An actual fucking clue. He must think he’s died and gone to heaven.” He looked at Louisa. “Not literally. Keep your hair on.”