Bachelor was already fetching a glass.
Diana stared at de Greer, now perched on the kitchen chair, and looking like an applicant for a job she didn’t want. “So you’re who all the fuss is about.”
“Sorry.”
“Let me guess. You were planted to steer Sparrow in the right direction. Chip away at the democratic processes.”
“It was nothing he didn’t want to hear. You know what he calls backbenchers? Chimps.”
“When I’m ready for your input, I’ll let you know.” Accepting the whisky Bachelor poured, she took a hefty swallow. “And this included curbing the Service, did it? When I nod like this, that’s me letting you know.”
“Rasnokov would prefer you not to be First Desk. That’s a compliment, when you think about it.”
“Jesus. I’m going to enjoy wrapping you up and sending you back to him.”
An approaching cloud signalled that Lamb had lit up. “That’s if you can find him,” he said.
“I’m prepared to put her in separate parcels,” Diana said. “And send one to every address we have.”
Lamb looked at Bachelor, lurking in a corner. “That walk you took earlier?”
“。 . .Yes?”
“Take it again.”
Bachelor looked like he was about to complain, but Diana’s basilisk stare dissuaded him. The air in the room shifted with the opening and closing of the door.
“You’re not very nice to him,” de Greer said.
“On the other hand, I’m not pulling him round the room by his cock. So, you know. Swings and roundabouts.”
“Why won’t I find Rasnokov?” Diana said.
“Because he burned a building down the other night with someone still in it.”
“。 . . Let’s start at the beginning.”
“Rasnokov slipped out of the Grosvenor first night he was here. The same night a garden flat off the Westway burned to a cinder. Two empty bottles of whisky were found in the rubble.”
“The Balvenie.”
“Yeah.” Lamb blew a smoke ring. “Rasnokov may be a murdering thug. But he’s not cheap.”
“Who was the victim?”
“Don’t know. But I can guess.”
“So guess.”
“An understudy.”
“Right.” Diana looked at de Greer. “Did you know about this?”
“I don’t even know what an understudy is.”
“Well, there’s a body in a burnt-out flat without an identity,” said Lamb. “Which means that somewhere there’s an identity lacking a body.”
“Rasnokov has a fake identity waiting for him,” de Greer translated.
“More than that. A whole fake life someone’s been living. Probably for years.” Lamb reached for the bottle, and poured a measure bordering on obese. “Some poor bastard with a passing resemblance to our Vaseline, and with Rasnokov’s own face plastered all over his ID, has been decorating a legend. And now it’s ready for Rasnokov to move into. A vacant possession.”
“Rasnokov’s going to disappear?”
“If he’s got any sense, he’ll fake a death. You don’t just walk away from a job like his. Not with Norman Bates for a boss.”
“But he can’t just step into this . . . ready-made life. If the fake Rasnokov’s been creating a whole existence, then people will know him. And they’ll know he’s been replaced. The resemblance can’t be that great.”
Lamb looked at Diana. “Feel free to chip in.”
Diana said, “The resemblance wouldn’t need to be total. When Rasnokov steps into the dead man’s shoes, he’ll be about to relocate, somewhere far away. Somewhere nobody knows him.”
“Couldn’t he do that with a fake passport?”
“Lots of people do,” said Lamb. “Trouble is, it’s all surface tension. Put a little weight on it, your foot goes through.” He held his glass up, and stared into its amber brilliance. “Wherever Rasnokov ends up, he’ll be leaving behind an actual lived life. A quiet one, sure—our fake will have kept himself to himself, no close friends, no family—but with real roots. He’ll have real jobs behind him, real debts and savings, credit history, career map, maybe the odd drink-driving escapade. All of it paper-trailed up the arse.”
“And what about the dead man? What was in it for him?”
“Whatever Rasnokov promised him,” Lamb said. “He must have thought his time was nearly up, that Rasnokov would arrive with money and a clean passport and cut him loose. Or maybe he knew what was coming, because he’d have had to be a fucking idiot not to.” Lamb sucked hard on his cigarette, its lit end a manic glow. “Maybe that was the deal. Maybe Rasnokov plucked him from prison, offered him five years of life and all he could eat, after which . . . pfft. Might not seem so bad if the alternative’s a slow death in an icy cell. But either way, the understudy came to London as arranged, and sub-let a room for cash. And what his name was these past years, and where he lives, all the things Rasnokov plans to slip into sometime soon, no one knows.”