Whelan found that he was holding his whisky tumbler once more; had frozen in the act of delivering it to his mouth. He said something which didn’t work, so cleared his throat and said it again. “There’s no need.”
“Ah, what the hell. We’re both men of the world. You were Galahad when you were over the river, right? She didn’t know that, but it took me thirty seconds to find out. And took my boy Ho not much longer to trawl through the duty-books for the nights Tregorian was duty officer. And guess what? There you are. Galahad, calling in a Collect request.”
“I’ve heard enough, Lamb.”
“Word is, you’re a happily married man. Making a Hollywood musical of the fact, let alone a song and dance. So how come you needed rescuing from the clutches of the Met, Claude? After they’d picked you up for kerb-crawling way out in London Fields? Quite the regular, apparently, trawling for tarts every night. Watching but not buying—always worries the working girls, that. Thought they might have a headcase on their hands.” Lamb leered. “So. Things not so rosy in the bedroom? Lovely wife a little icy where it matters?”
Whelan said, “Claire—she—it’s been some years since—look, none of this is your business, none of it. We have a very special marriage.”
“Just not a particularly active one.”
“Shut up! How dare you! What could you possibly know about . . . Just, just shut up. That’s all.”
Lamb said, “None of my business. That’s right. Or wasn’t, up until the moment you learned of your elevation to First Desk, and started worrying Tregorian might do some nasty maths—you know, putting two and two together. Not hard to square whichever Dog came round to prise you from the Met’s grasp—nothing like a promotion to ensure loyalty—but you can’t bribe a gossip, can you? Or you can, but it does no fucking good. Best thing is, get her out the way before any pennies start to drop. Bit unfair, some might call it, but that’s life in the big leagues, eh, Claude?”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Good. So anyway, Tregorian’s retiring—medical grounds. Post-traumatic bed-wetting, or whatever the PC term is. Seems all those bodies round the place have put her off coming back. So you can add sorting her pension out to your to-do list.” Lamb smiled a crocodile smile, every bit as fake as its tears. “Then she’s off both our backs.”
Whelan stared at him for what felt like a long time, though it didn’t discomfit Lamb. At last he said, “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What will it take to get you off my back?” He glanced around the office. “A desk at the Park?”
Lamb said, “Well, I’m glad we’ve had this little chat.” He dropped his cigarette into a mug of ancient tea, where it briefly disappeared, then bobbed to the surface, alongside several others. “I’ll expect to hear from Finance in the morning. Leave the door open, would you? I like a through draught.”
Whelan didn’t move.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Lamb. “That last bit meant fuck off. Didn’t they teach you subtle over the river?”
“They taught me lots of things,” Claude Whelan said at last. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”
He drained what was left in his tumbler and placed it on Lamb’s desk. Then he left. This time, he took the stairs swiftly.
When the door downstairs slammed shut Catherine Standish appeared from the room opposite Lamb’s, and crossed the landing in her usual quiet manner.
“Do you reckon that last bit was a threat?” Lamb said.
“He certainly hoped you’d think so.”
“Huh.” He leaned across to pour the last of the whisky into the glass Whelan had been using, then pushed it nearer Catherine.
She sat.
He said, “If he survives another month of Diana Taverner, I’ll maybe start to take him seriously. Until then, he’s just a mouth in a suit. I’ve had bowel movements that worry me more.” He reflected a moment. “Quite recently, come to think of it.”
“A topic for another day,” said Catherine. “That was a good thing you did. For Cassie, I mean.”
“Who’s Cassie?”
“Marcus’s wife.”
Lamb said, “I just like fucking with Finance, you know that.”
“He didn’t say anything about Patrice.”
“No, well, they’re probably still cutting him up. Wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions about cause of death just because he’s got a few holes in him.”
Catherine picked up the tumbler and held it in front of her, using both hands, as if it were a chalice. Lamb’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.
She said, “You stopped Shirley from making him talk.”
“Uh-huh. Missing fingernails or water-filled lungs might have made ‘self-defence’ tricky to pull off.”
“You’re aware there’ll be abrasions where we cuffed him?”
“That would account for him being so cross and dangerous when he got loose. Necessitating extreme measures.”
“Lamb—”
“For fuck’s sake. He killed an agent, not to mention an ex. You think anyone’s going to care he got his ticket punched? When they’ve finished with his body they’ll burn it and dump the ashes. Nobody’s going to be issuing warrants.”
“And what about Coe?”
Lamb said, “Yeah, Coe, you know, I think he might work out.”
“He shot an unarmed man, Jackson! Who was tied to a radiator!”
“Okay, so whoever coloured him in went over the lines. But he was doing a job. You think I was going to watch that French punk taken away in a Black Maria? When I’ve got a joe plastered over a wall downstairs?”
“So you were letting him do your dirty work? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“A good boss provides opportunities for personal growth and development. I think we were all winners, on the day.”
“Lamb, this isn’t a laughing matter. Coe needs arresting or he needs help. One or the other.”
“I don’t care. I’m losing staff at a rate of knots here.”
She said, “You once told me it didn’t matter about staff leaving. That there’d always be other fuck-ups to take their place.”
“I like it when you talk dirty. Are you going to drink that?”
“Isn’t that why you gave it to me?”
“Force of habit.”
Catherine said, “Yes, I’m aware of how habits work, thank you.”
To prove she wasn’t the only one who knew that, Lamb lit another cigarette. He inhaled, removed it from his mouth, and addressed his next question to it, rather than to Catherine. “So. Are you coming back?”
“Are you asking?”
“I just did.”
“No, you asked whether I was or not. That’s different from asking if I will.”
Lamb said, “It’s a good job you’re on the wagon. I hate to think what crap you’d come up with drunk.”
Catherine raised the glass to her lips and breathed in. She smiled a little, though to herself rather than at Lamb. Then she put it back on the desk.
Lamb retrieved it, and poured its contents into his own.
She said, “Shirley’s a mess. So is Roddy. God knows what state River’s in. And Coe . . . Well, we’ve covered Coe. He’s either PTSD or a psychopath. It would serve you right if I left you to it.”