“Man likes a drink.”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“What do you want, his horoscope?” He exhaled, and his head was wreathed in smoke. “How did he look at the party?”
“Not like someone who’d been on the whisky all night, if that’s what you mean.”
“Despite having two bottles sent to his room within thirty minutes of his arrival. Any hookers delivered with them?”
“It’s not that kind of place.”
He gave her a sardonic look. “They’re all that kind of place.”
“We have a file on him. Obviously. Twelve-year-old Balvenie’s expensive, but it’s his preferred brand, and two bottles is not without precedent. I’ve seen you put a bottle away before heading out for a drink.”
“Thanks for reminding me. It’s getting on for that time.”
He stood and stretched and yawned all at once. It was like watching a building collapse, backwards. When that was done, he said, “One and a half litres over a two-day stay. Yeah, okay. Not entirely unheard of, in my experience.”
“Wide as that most assuredly is.”
“I’m impressed he eats the bottles, though,” said Lamb. “That’s hardcore.”
And he padded away, leaving Diana busy with the paperwork again; confirming that whatever Rasnokov had done with the two empty bottles of Balvenie, they hadn’t ended up in his bin.
Act III
Ape Shit
In the San’s basement was a gym, described in the brochure as fully equipped, but lacking, Shirley noticed, a wooden horse. If they’d had one, she’d have half-inched a couple of spoons and dug a tunnel. Instead, there was a row of treadmills, on one of which an idiot was walking at a speed that indicated she needed to be somewhere in a hurry, and with an expression suggesting she was late. Most of the inmates—the brochure said “guests”—seemed similarly wrapped, tending to appear calm to the point of disconnection while at rest, but harried by demons when they thought no one was watching. Another good reason for making tracks as soon as possible. Shirley was pretty sure being a mentalist wasn’t catching, but wouldn’t want to bet her sanity on it.
Her morning keep-fit routine didn’t take long—everyone always went on about how important cooling down exercises were, so Shirley skipped the workout and just did those instead. Some ankle touches, some glute stretches. You could hear things popping if you did them correctly, unless you only heard that if you were doing them wrong. Then several minutes of downward dog, the least dignified position Shirley had attempted without at least one other person being involved. The walls were mirrored, and it was impossible not to catch sight of herself: her head looked like a tomato this side of bursting. Time to call it a day.
Leaving, she ran into a grey-headed woman who was backing through the door carrying a yoga mat. She dropped it when they collided, and the pair mutely watched as it unrolled, releasing visible dust into the air. Then looked at each other.
“My fault.”
“Uh-huh.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Ellie Parsons,” she said. “Panic attacks.”
“Shirley Dander,” Shirley replied. “Substance abuse,” and pushed through the door.
She showered in her room. According to the computer-generated schedule pushed beneath her door there was a group session in half an hour at which her presence was “expected.” Yeah, she thought, scrubbing a hole in the misted mirror. Except her presence had other ideas; she’d send her absence along as a proxy. Hope this suits. Judging by the mirror, it would have to: her reflection wasn’t taking any crap. Her last act of freedom had been a buzz cut, which was what she generally went for when on a war footing. No way was this baby attending any session she didn’t want to.
In black jeans and grey hoodie, her usual trainers, she set out for a walk round the grounds. The woman at reception gave her a smile, which was a plus, but also said something about “twenty minutes,” which Shirley took to be a reminder about the group session. Everyone on bucket seats, sharing bad moments. Seriously: fuck. Shirley had no problem with people seeking help, but also had no problem, end of. The fact that she hadn’t punched anyone yet proved her self-control, right?
The San nestled in a dip between hills, its tree-lined driveway a gentle slope ending in a gravelled expanse in front of the house, which was redbrick, with blue and white woodwork round windows and gables, and a big copper beech behind. It had been a farmhouse in a previous existence, the brochure explained, but those days were long gone. For obvious reasons, there was a certain amount of security: a wall blocked any view of the building from the road, and the gates were controlled from within the house—there was an intercom, and a camera, and you presumably had to have good reason for entering, along with the right ID. There were no guards in evidence, but she had that sense of an unseen presence which came with surveillance, though also with habitual cocaine use. She guessed there’d be more cameras among the trees; maybe someone observing her on a screen right now, admiring her buzz cut.