“Tell him to undo his seatbelt and head for the nearest concrete wall at eighty-five.”
“Is that Lamb?” asked River, who wasn’t doing eighty-five, but only because the bus in front wasn’t either. “Does he know where Sid is?”
Louisa blanked him out, because she hated having two conversations at once. “We’ve had a little difficulty, but nothing that can’t be worked out.” Admittedly, working it out might involve scrubbing the internet. They were probably on footage shot by fifteen different mobiles. “Normal harmony will soon be resumed.”
“Yeah, I can hear the horn section from here. Could you dicksplain to young Vin Petrolhead that the reviews of his latest misadventures ruined my nap? He’d better hope he’s killed attempting a wheelie, because what I have in mind for him will be more protracted.”
“I’ll let him know. Yellow car.”
“What now?”
“Nothing. Where’s Sid Baker?”
There was a moment’s silence. “What’s she got to do with it?”
“I’d explain, but I have no bloody clue.” River was on the wrong side of the road, causing an oncoming driver to veer into the bus lane while blasting a terrified
She said, “We don’t know where Sid is. Her phone was in that house.”
Lamb hung up.
River queue-jumped four cars by climbing the luckily unoccupied pavement and joined the big roundabout just in time to miss ending both their stories under sixteen wheels of Norwegian logistics.
Catherine was on one of her periodical search-and-swoops, excavating paperwork placed on Lamb’s desk for his signature that had migrated—unsigned—to unexpected places: beneath his desk, behind the coat stand, into a carrier bag containing stray items of laundry that hung on the back of his door. Whether he arranged this to amuse himself or irritate her wasn’t worth dwelling on. The two outcomes were so nearly synonymous, any difference had long ceased to matter.
Lamb, meanwhile, was at his desk, having just come off a call, and was staring at his ceiling, his expression suggesting either deep thought or indigestion. He had recently both farted and removed his shoes, which put Catherine in the uncharacteristic position of being eager for him to light the cigarette he was playing with, instead of rolling it between the fingers of his right hand: a slow, stately process that threatened to mesmerise her. So much so, it was with a start that she noticed he was no longer focused on the ceiling but watching her, his upper lip curled. “You’re getting warmer,” he said.
“It would make my life less difficult if you didn’t play games with official documentation.”
“Make it less entertaining, you mean.”
“You think I enjoy this?”
“Course you do. I can read you like a . . .”
“Book?”
“Parish newsletter.”
“They’re used for kindling.”
“Now you get it. Of course you enjoy this, because otherwise what’ll you do? Sit in your room and not drink? I tried that once. Longest ten minutes of my life.” He tucked the cigarette behind his ear and reached for his phone. “Plus, it gives you the opportunity to do what you do best. Which is stick your neb where it’s not invited. I’ll put this on speaker, shall I? Save you bursting an eardrum.”
She made to leave, but he extended a shoeless foot to impede her passage. Whoever he’d called had answered. He said, “Did I thank you for the Talisker?”
“You grunted. I assumed that was as good as I’d get.”
Catherine recognised Diana Taverner’s voice.
Lamb said, “I was speechless. Not every day someone gives me Talisker. Which in retrospect should have got me thinking harder. I’d have been just as happy if you’d refrained from poncing fags off me. So why a bottle of Talisker?”
“Do you have to keep saying ‘Talisker’?”
“Products don’t place themselves.”
She sighed. “Did you call just to play games? I gave you the
“We both know you don’t give a donkey’s arse who’s grassed you up to HR. More to the point, HR don’t either. If they wanted to pull you up on your managerial style they’d have found a hundred reasons by now, starting with the way you wipe your feet on your PA every morning. No, that was the excuse you made to get me to come running so I’d hear all about Cartwright getting canned, in the expectation I’d pass the happy news on to Cartwright myself.”
“Getting you running anywhere would take more than an excuse. I’d need death threats and an angry dog.”
