“What’s she done?”
“Passive-aggressive shit mostly. But I can read the signs. It’s like when pets start disappearing, and you know a serial killer’s moved into the area. Or a Korean takeaway.”
She shook her head. “Normally, there’s nothing I like better than listening to you philosophise, but in case you hadn’t noticed it’s the middle of the morning, and we’ve both got jobs to do.” She paused, reconsidered. “I’ve got jobs to do. You’ve got a hard day’s dossing about to be getting on with. So what did you mean last night by things being complicated? And bear in mind I’m not in the mood for games.”
Lamb scratched his head, and when his hand reappeared it was holding a cigarette. “Yeah, funny how that works out. Because when you are in the mood I’ve got Claude Whelan turning my staff over, looking for a Downing Street pointy-head.”
“If you’re after an apology, sod off. Claude was being a pest and you’ve got all the time in the world. If I annoyed just one of you, I call that a result.”
“So it had nothing to do with your jolly at the Ivans’ HQ yesterday evening?”
“。 . . With my what?”
“Which you left at 8:05.”
“You were watching?”
“Well, not personally. But I like to keep an eye on my crew’s work-life balance. And if it looks like life’s winning, I put my thumb on the scales.”
He showed her the thumb he meant. It was visibly sticky.
She shuddered, and said, “So you had them watch the embassy coverage.”
“Well. I only had to get one of them do it, and the rest stuck around in case they missed anything. MOFO, they call it.”
“FOMO.”
He shrugged. “Either way, it’d be what they also call sad, if it wasn’t so fucking hilarious.”
“Jackson—”
“And how was Vassily? I met him once. Long time back. He’d just graduated to Spook Street after working as a gangster’s blunt instrument. I could tell he was destined for greatness.”
“How did you know he was there?”
“I didn’t,” said Lamb. “But I do now.”
He rummaged around in his pockets and produced a plastic lighter.
“What’s going on?” said Diana.
“Well, that’s a long story. And it requires a flashback, a voiceover, and all sorts of technical shit.”
“What on earth are you—？”
“Not to mention a gallon of coffee. There’s a kiosk down the alley.” He gestured with his cigarette in that direction. “Fair’s fair. I bought the ice creams.”
It was worth it just to have ten minutes’ headspace. Diana spent it sieving through what she knew about Sophie de Greer: that she’d worked with Anthony Sparrow, been namechecked by Vassily Rasnokov, been missing for barely four days, and was evidently at the centre of some new clusterfuck, details as yet unknown. Unknown to her, anyway. Apparently Lamb had an inkling.
Which, she thought, carrying four large black coffees back to the bench, meant trouble coming down the tracks.
Upon her return Lamb grunted, accepted three of the coffees, glared at the one she kept for herself, farted leisurely, set the cups in a row, prised the lid off the first, farted again, and said, “Once upon a time—”
“Oh, please. Spare me the grace notes.”
“Shut up and listen.”
Act I
Monkey Business
It had started earlier that week: Lech Wicinski and John Bachelor meeting for a drink in the upstairs bar at The Chandos on St. Martin’s Lane; Lech late, because he didn’t want to come; Bachelor early, having nowhere else to be. These circumstances combined to allow Bachelor to be two drinks up, or down, by the time Lech arrived to pay for his third. The older man was drinking G&T, and had some patter prepared about how more thought went into the T than the G, but Lech wasn’t listening. He was worried Bachelor was going to ask if he could move in—“just for a day or two, until I get a new place sorted.” He’d been guilt-tripped before into letting Bachelor sleep on the sofa, which was how come Bachelor had ended up looking after Lech while he sweated out the virus, a circumstance pretty certain to be mentioned when the favour was asked. So Lech would have to say yes, and a few days would turn into a fortnight, and he’d end up growing old in the company of John Bachelor, spending his evenings in dismal pubs, his weekends counting loose change, his Christmases watching The Great Escape. Simplest thing would be to let Bachelor finish framing his request, then just leave his door keys on the table and take a header through the window. Probably why Bachelor had chosen the upstairs bar. This sort of thing must happen to him a lot.