“Got any proper food?”
She put the box on his desk. “Your parents should have asked for a refund.”
“Yeah, and your parents should have asked for a . . . Hang on.”
“What?”
“That fire off the Westway.” He was pointing at one of his screens: a report filed by an arson investigator the previous morning. “Look what was found in the wreckage.”
Among the cremated furniture, the collapsed ceiling, the reeking, sodden remnants: two glass bottles, probably containing whisky.
“Confirmation awaited,” Roddy read aloud.
“I saw that in the paper,” said Ashley. “Someone died.”
They looked at each other.
“You think—？”
“I think we’re cooking with leaded,” said Roddy, and reached for a handful of Ashley’s nuts and berries. Stuffing them into his mouth, he continued, “I think we’ve hit the motherlode.”
And then he threw back his head and screamed.
The day was losing the light when Diana reached the mews. The driver had discreetly dropped her at Marble Arch and continued on his way to the Park on her instructions: his subsequent admission that he’d lost her en route wouldn’t do much for his credibility, but—she’d assured him—he’d flourish once she’d rendered the current situation null and void, a guarantee she justified to herself on the ground that if she failed to do so, he’d be the least of her worries. At Marble Arch she’d dipped underground, reappeared wearing headscarf and sunglasses bought from a street trader, and had set off on foot across Hyde Park. Late summer cast a warm glaze on everything, and there was a sweet sense of liberty in the air that the young, at least, were revelling in, but Diana felt a chasm between her own and their early evenings: they weren’t being fucked over by sundry enemies, and they all had phones to play with. Still, visions of Anthony Sparrow being chewed by wild dogs amused her on the way. And now she was crossing the cobbles towards the safe house, one unknown to Park records. Opposite its front door, the tropical plants in their terracotta exile had settled into shadow.
The door swung open before she reached it. The shabby character on the threshold was one John Bachelor; an appropriate place for him, inasmuch as he was someone you just naturally wanted to wipe your feet on. Inside, Jackson Lamb squatted in an armchair like a yeti in a biscuit tin: spilling over its edges, but not seeming to care. Last time Diana had been here, the fragrance was furniture polish and fresh paint. Now the air was muddy with the remnants of what appeared to be a four-course Indian meal for seven: tinfoil trays lay everywhere, studded with plastic cutlery, and luminous spillages glistened on every surface within Lamb’s reach, and also a fair distance away. Underneath all that, an expert nose might detect his trademark smog of cigarette smoke and damp wardrobes.
In the armchair facing him, legs folded beneath her like a resting fawn, was Sophie de Greer.
“Here’s an interesting thing,” said Lamb. “Back when he was still breaking legs for a living, our friend Vassily was known as The Fireman. Guess why.”
Diana looked at Sophie de Greer, who said, “He worked as a debt collector. There were stories that it was best to pay up when he came knocking. Or you’d find your home a pile of ashes.”
“Well, aren’t you just spilling all your secrets.”
“That would be down to my interrogative skills,” Lamb said, and farted modestly. “The good doctor’s poker face slipped when I told her she’d been burned. After that, well. You know me. Get the bit between my teeth, I’m like a dog with a boner.”
“You certainly have similar table manners.” Diana scanned the room. “Enjoy your meal?”
“Tasted better than skinny feels, I can tell you that.” One of Lamb’s hands disappeared down the back of his trousers, and he scratched energetically. “Speaking of dogs. You eluded them, I see.”
“No thanks to your idiots. Who trained them, Laurel and Hardy?”
Lamb shrugged. “They were like that when I got them.”
He raised a hand, which somehow now held a cigarette, and de Greer tossed him a lighter.
“Bring me a chair,” Diana said, without turning round, and when Bachelor carried an upright through from the kitchen, she gestured towards it for de Greer’s benefit.
After a moment, de Greer unwound herself and abandoned the armchair.
Sinking into it, Diana said, “A drink would be nice.”
“Mi casa su casa,” said Lamb, making no move towards the bottle at his elbow.