Its owner, former owner, sat next to her; Daisy opposite, in a pull-down seat. She could sense tension in his rigid posture. Daisy, on the other hand, might have been on her way to a spa afternoon. This was a worry. When Daisy seemed calm, it was best to lock the doors.
When Avril flexed her hands, shaking stiffness away, her knuckles felt sore.
They were getting closer though. If they avoided more hold-ups, they’d reach CC’s location in minutes.
CC could hear voices, which wasn’t right. The whole point was, Judd would be on his own. Or what was he supposed to do, mow down a room full of strangers?
And Christ, look at him: A killer in elbow patches . . . You could take James Bond, turn him inside out, doodle silly features where his face used to be, and still be nowhere near how wrong CC was for the role. This wasn’t who he’d always been—this shabby duffer who spent his days pottering in a library—but it was who he was now, and even in his quiet hours he couldn’t recall the man who’d known horror and fear, who’d lived with the possibility of being turfed from his bed by balaclavaed strangers keen to put a bullet in his head. That had been his life, but its only lasting value lay in the bonds he’d forged. He’d betray the Park in a heartbeat for his comrades: like flapping a duster in the wind. And if they’d sought justice for Pitchfork’s victims by murdering the man himself, his only regret was that they hadn’t allowed him to help. Slaying a monster was a forgivable thing; protecting one’s loved ones a duty. Enough. His heart skipped a beat, and the gun slapped his hip. Laying a hand across his pocket to steady it, he walked through the door.
“I don’t know what you’re on about, but would you mind shifting out the way?” His eyes flickered upwards, then back at Shirley. “I’ve somewhere to be.”
She nodded. “That’s what they say about old dogs, isn’t it? Always in a hurry.”
“Ah.” He reappraised her. “You’re Park?”
“Service,” said Shirley.
“Slough House,” Roddy added. “. . . What?”
But the Dog was grinning widely. “You’re slow horses?”
For fuck’s sake, thought Shirley. “A little respect? We’re Service. Why are you here?”
But any hope of respect had gone. “Yeah, see, we had a report that a couple of Einsteins were eating yellow snow back here. So I came to take pictures for our WhatsApp group.”
“It’s not snowing,” said Roddy.
“He means we’re stupid.”
“Now we’re clicking,” the Dog said. “Let’s see your cards, then. I mean, you do have cards, don’t you? Or do they just stick labels round your neck?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I could listen to you rubbing yourself off all day. But we’re busy, so here.” Shirley fished in her pocket and produced a tube of hand cream. “That’ll speed you up.”
“Funny funny.” He took the tube from her hand. “You comedians part of Cartwright’s posse, are you?”
“He’s part of ours, more like,” said Roddy.
“Shut up,” Shirley said. “What’s Cartwright got to do with anything?”
“Yeah, the other reason I’m here is to explain myself to you. So why don’t the pair of you fuck off back to Slough House, where you can get on with your colouring books and sniffing plasticine, and leave me to do my job.”
“Except if you were doing your job you’d have pulled some weight by now,” said Shirley. “Instead of just throwing it around.”
“You want me to throw things around? I can do that. Here.” He tossed the tube of hand cream in Shirley’s face.
“Oh shit,” said Roddy.
. . . and when Louisa looked over the edge to the dance floor below, there was Judd, and also River and Sid, and nothing worse than a conversation was happening, River saying,
