Old Dog, young Dog. Big Dog, little Dog. The latter had a bruise blooming around his left eye: In days to come it would navigate the gloomier end of the spectrum, concentrating on purples, dark blues, blacks. His mood would roughly match it, his scowl deepening every time he caught someone throwing him a second look.
His partner had a more clinical attitude towards injuries received. You didn’t clench your fist, you marked a card. Then shuffled the deck and dealt yourself the hand you wanted.
Which, in this case, meant running a number-plate through Service software and finding out where its vehicle was.
He glanced at the dashboard. “We’re off the clock.”
“Huh.”
“Want a drink?”
“Suppose.”
“Or would you rather sort out unfinished business?”
It took a moment for that penny to drop, as if it were finding its way through a slot machine. But when it did, lights pulsed and buzzers hummed: If he’d had a handle to pull, young Dog’s eyes would have flashed bells and lemons.
“Skills,” he said.
Old Dog suppressed a sigh. Different language. On the other hand, the language they had in common—the kind most people could be made to understand—was the one they’d be relying on once they caught up with River Cartwright, so he simply nodded, and looked for the best place to turn around.
Avril said, “He’s moving. Slowly.”
“This is London. He might be in his car.”
Daisy said, “Also. Also, he might be doing what he said he was doing. Finding somewhere to lie low.”
“With my gun.”
Daisy looked like she was about to argue a case for having a gun with you most times, just in case, but in the event didn’t.
“How accurate is that thing?”
Al meant the tracker. “It’s Park tech. It works. Just don’t rely on it for a moral compass.”
“We really think First Desk has sent CC to kill someone?”
Avril repeated his point: “He took your gun. And if Taverner simply wanted someone threatened, leaned upon . . .”
She wouldn’t have co-opted someone in their seventies.
They were on Farringdon Road. CC was in Shoreditch. “We need another cab.”
“Well, if we don’t stop someone dying,” Al said, “at least we’re breathing life into the economy.”
But he stepped off the kerb and raised an arm, and only four taxis went by before one stopped.
Judd texted Diana:
He walked the steep incline of the shabby backstage corridor, which was harshly lit and uncarpeted, towards a bucket and mop standing sentry by a door, a reminder of how easily an evening of indulgence might tilt. Through that door, in the club proper, the only lights were a dim glow behind the bar, which stretched the full length of the farthest wall and was bordered by a row of tables, currently burdened by upside-down stools. Beyond the bar, a pair of swing doors led to the lobby, through which, in the building’s wildest dreams, young people would rush to buy overpriced drinks. On the other side was a staircase that went both directions, downstairs to the toilets; upstairs to the balcony. Another staircase, leading up, came to a halt by the door he’d just come through.
Right now, the building’s emptiness felt like a long-nursed grievance. The dim light didn’t reach the dance floor’s corners, which squatted out of sight as if covering up some misfeasance requiring that mop and bucket. There was a smell of bleach, with undernotes of stale beer. Best to stay by the bar for his encounter with Belwether. Just the two of them—
