She needed to get to Chelsea. When it came to taking down Sparrow, his Russia-planted appointee was the smoking gun of choice.
Judd had the tone of one stroking his chin. “Some investments are best flushed, you know. As soon as the stock starts to fall.”
“And some investors get caught in the blast when what they thought was a bust goes boom.”
“Now, that’s not an especially accurate—”
“I need some fucking money.”
“There’s my girl. You know Rashford’s?”
“On Cheapside?”
“Talk to Nathan. He’ll be behind the bar.”
She felt a slight loosening of the tension that had been gathering in her chest since the words first reached her.
“Consider it a hedged bet. And Diana? Joking aside, if this actually happens—if you’re out on your ear?”
“You’ll stand by me when everyone else has fled?”
“That’s sweet. No, I’ll splash every last detail of our association across the national breakfast table. Without you I’ve no skin in the game, but I can embarrass all kinds of fuck out of the government. Their own intelligence service, funded by Chinese capital? Even the PM’ll have his work cut out, lying his way past that.”
“Peter—”
“I realise that means suspension will be the least of your worries, but I’ve never been the sentimental type. I hope you understand.”
Understand? She’d have been alarmed if he’d pretended otherwise.
Judd, imagining himself dramatic, ended the call.
Keeping her phone to her ear, continuing a conversation that was now the only observable thing about her, Diana headed for Cheapside, her hat shielding her from the capital’s digital voyeurs.
They’d opened the door before he’d knocked, he’d walked in scattering ash in his wake, and just like that the house was his: a little darker for his presence, less safe. Underneath the smoke, he smelled of coffee. A creamy smear on his lapel was recent. This probably counted, in Lamb’s world, as box-fresh.
He revolved on the spot, taking in his surroundings, and by the time he was facing them again, a new cigarette had appeared in his mouth. It was pointing downwards when he spoke. “Fancy a walk?”
“. . . Sorry?” said Bachelor.
“Oh, did I say ‘fancy a walk’? I meant fuck off. Me and Mystic Meg have things to discuss.”
Bachelor had known Lamb by reputation, but the reality was higher definition. Like when you’ve heard about a lorry ploughing through a front window, and then see it happen. He glanced at Sophie, and Lamb caught him at it.
“You need permission? Christ, it’s been three days. Your cycles can’t be in synch already.”
“I’m supposed to be watching over her.”
“Yeah, and one day this might be a musical. Meanwhile, take a turn around the block.”
De Greer put a hand on Bachelor’s arm. “John? It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Lamb beamed. “There, we’re all happy. Now get your fucking skates on.”
“I won’t be far away,” Bachelor said.
“Don’t spoil the moment.”
They watched through the window as he trudged across the cobbles and under the archway, leaving the mews.
“Wrap him one more time round your finger, he’s gunna burst like an overripe condom.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Condoms. Rubbers. The man puts one on his—”
“He’s very nice. He’s been taking care of me.”
“He might as well be wearing an Emergency Exit sign. Soon as it’s necessary, you’ll go straight through him. Of course, he hasn’t worked that out yet.” The cigarette between Lamb’s lips rose to point upwards. “Your mother. Alexa Chaikovskaya. She was old school KGB, right?”
“In the secretarial division.”
“And rose to colonel. Shows an admirable dedication to sharpening pencils.”
“She’s in a home now. With nurses, carers. She’s not in good health.” De Greer bit her lip briefly. “They told me she’d be turned out on the street. If I didn’t do what they asked.”
“Impressive,” said Lamb. “The lip chewing. You take lessons, or does it come natural?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s better. Now, while Sir Galahad’s off imagining all the ways you might fall on his sword, why don’t we drop the crap? You work for Vassily Rasnokov. He dangled you in front of Number Ten’s chief gremlin, who’s just the type to be impressed by the superforecaster credentials, and next thing we know you’re shaping government policy.”
“Shaping?” De Greer shook her head. “I was adding my voice to a prevailing chorus, that’s all. Helping steer Rethink in the direction it was already headed.”
“Course you were.” Lamb rummaged in a pocket and found a disposable lighter. “Sparrow already had it in for the Civil Service, didn’t he, because of the cash mountains waiting for whoever replaces it with private contractors. But a little encouragement never hurts. Set a mole to writing briefs for a cabinet already a few boats short of a ferry company, you’d be entitled to think job done. But Rasnokov’s more ambitious than that, don’t you think?”
“What I think is, you’re not like I’d pictured,” she said.
