Louisa thought better of replying. Another reason for not making an effort with a newcomer was that newcomers didn’t usually welcome it. This was temporary, that was their mantra. This couldn’t be happening to them, so would soon stop. Wrongs would be righted, the curtain would fall. When it rose again, everything would be just the way it was.
“Anyway,” Ashley said. “I’m going back to the Park.”
She tipped the handful of fruit and nuts into her mouth.
“Of course you are,” said Louisa. “See you tomorrow.”
She headed down the stairs. Passing Ho’s office, she didn’t bother calling a farewell, her mild guilt at having played him—again—not being enough to warrant an apology. The way she saw it, Ho would do something offensive within the next little while, and the books would be balanced again. Having a dick for a colleague means never having to say you’re sorry.
Lech Wicinski was waiting in the bus queue opposite; the only one not wearing a face mask, though from a distance he looked like he was. Louisa crossed the road to join him.
“Wimbledon,” he said.
“We’re doing code words now?”
“That’s where she lives. You drove in, right?”
She had driven in, yes.
“So let’s go.”
“If you’re under the impression this decisive crap comes off as macho, you’re way off beam,” she told him, but he shrugged.
Her car was near Fortune Park, and three minutes later they were in it and heading back towards Aldersgate Street, where both noticed, but neither commented on, Shirley Dander, entering Barbican tube station. Shirley, who saw them but pretended not to, wasn’t catching a train; was heading, rather, for the footbridge leading into the Barbican itself, where she followed the painted yellow line before dropping down to Whitecross Street. The food market had packed its bags, but she found the man she was after, who worked on one of the Thai stalls, in the pub on the corner. Shirley was one of his regulars, both for the food he provided during working hours and for the cocaine he supplied on demand, and the manner in which they greeted each other and shared five minutes’ gossip must have appeared, to a casual onlooker, like genuine friendship: they were good mates, these were brief times, but there were future meetings on the cards. When Shirley left, her wallet was lighter but her pocket reassuringly held a cellophane envelope, enough to keep her from hitting the ground for a few days to come, if she practised a little restraint.
Which might involve not taking any at work.
Yeah, kind of. Not that the Service had noticed lately; as far as Regent’s Park was concerned, Shirley might as well be training mice to build catapults.
Which showed how much Catherine Standish knew. If Lamb felt like throwing Shirley out of her job, he wouldn’t need an excuse.
The hit she’d taken earlier had worn off, leaving her feeling dumpy and out of sorts. The obvious fix for this was close to hand, but she didn’t feel ready to dip into that yet.
So she spent the next two hours on cruise control. If the City was the Square Mile, to its east was the Hipster Hectare, and Shirley kind of liked hipsters, for not being afraid to look the way they did, and not being ashamed of their stupid opinions. But they were rarer than they once were, most of their ventures—cereal restaurants, beard oils—having proved the opposite of recession-proof, and she soon tired of the safari. The original plan had been to kill time in a bar or two and then dance her mood away, but already it felt like her mood would win, regardless of the bounty in her pocket and the freshly ironed tee on her back. Catherine bloody Standish. Not to mention Lech bloody Wicinski and Louisa bloody Guy. That pair were plotting something—a KGB colonel?—and the thought of being left out was grating on her. What had she done to be excluded? Okay, so what Lech had said about Old Street station might have been more or less true, inasmuch as, yes, she had coshed a civilian there and left him comatose in a public toilet, but that bare summary had hiphopped over that she’d done so to save Lech having his face smashed in. Which you’d think he’d show a little gratitude, even if a bit of hands-on remodelling might have improved his looks in the long run.
