Devon blinked. They might as well have done; he hadn’t been paying attention. Nor had he spirited Judd away as swiftly as he’d implied, having been momentarily paralysed by the scene on the dance floor: Louisa, her younger colleague; a knife across the throat and a bullet to the chest. The two responsible were nowhere when the ambulance arrived. Spooks of the old-school, he’d later gathered, and not being there was something old spooks grew good at. Failing which, they never became old spooks at all.
He said, “The Dogs took over. The place was locked down. You want to know what happened, read the papers.”
“Which is where I say, there’s been nothing in the papers.”
Devon made no response.
“And you say, so nothing happened.”
“It’s your world, Lamb. You must be used to it.”
“If it was my world, I’d be the one charging ninety grand for babysitting. And you’d have an ashtray on your desk.” He pushed back suddenly—the chair had wheels—and crashed into the wall. This was punctuation. “You know what the whole shitshambles was in aid of?”
“Like I said. Your world.”
“Have a stab at this, then. Whose—”
“‘Have a stab’? For fuck’s sake!”
“—Whose shitshambles was it? Or do you think Charles Stamoran just woke with a mad leprechaun singing in his ear?
“Epic fail on that count.”
“Yeah. What with that and the whole having-a-massive-stroke thing, he must be feeling a bit of a tit.” Lamb put his cigarette in his mouth, rolled it from one side to the other, then withdrew it again. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“You haven’t apologised for being here.”
“Think of it as an intervention. If I wasn’t here you’d be writing invoices, and some poor bastard’d be looking at bankruptcy.”
“Our clients are mostly corporations. They get what they pay for. And I don’t write invoices.”
“First Desk.”
“. . . What?”
“Thought I’d cut to the hunt, given you’re busy avoiding the question. Diana Taverner. Used to be your boss, remember?”
“She squeezed Stamoran.”
“And aimed him in Judd’s direction.” He tapped the end of his cigarette against his nose. “I’m failing to detect any surprise here. Though I know how good you guys can be at concealing your responses.”
“‘Us guys’?”
“Former Dogs. Lighten up. Speaking of which . . .” He waggled the cigarette.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“I’m not asking permission,” Lamb said. “I’m asking for a match.”
Devon said, “Am I shocked Lady Di is behind the attempted hit? No. Does you telling me about it surprise me? Again, no. Because you’re clearly after something. So tell me what it is, I’ll tell you to fuck off and then—well. Then you can fuck off.”
“That takes me back. ‘Lady Di.’ No one calls her that any more.”
“Can we skip ahead to where you fuck off?”
“You want to be careful. You’re starting to remind me of me. How much do you know about your client?”
“I know he pays his bills.”
“I’m sure someone does.” Undaunted by its unlit condition Lamb replaced his cigarette in his mouth, and appeared to inhale deeply. “Why do you think Taverner wants him black-ribboned?”
“Assuming your retro slang means what I think it does, I have no idea. Above and beyond the obvious.”
“That being?”
“He’s Peter Judd.”
“Yeah, that would do it for me. Taverner, though, she’s got to tread carefully in case HR find out she’s killing people, and make her do an awareness course. Those things go on for days.”
Devon said, “I’d assume he’s got something on Taverner she doesn’t want getting out. They’ve been moving in the same circles so long, they probably breathe each other’s secrets.”
“And those aren’t even the nastiest circles he swims in. Did you look at his CV before taking him on?”
“I don’t do the paperwork.”
“Because it’s not what he’s got on Taverner that’ll interest you. It’s what he’s done in the past.”
Devon said nothing. Whatever Lamb was about to tell him was the reason Lamb was here, and he needed further prompting like a wolf needs a toothpick.
Lamb said, “When your pal Emma Flyte was killed, who do you think the shooters were working for?”
The hanging gardens of the Barbican hadn’t so much been hanged as thrown themselves off balconies. Greenery dangled from railings to the lake below, the surface of which was carpeted with algae so thick that smaller ducks waddled across rather than paddled through it. Walkways overlooked this, and from strategically placed benches a viewer could gaze down on a Ballardian vision made brick. They could film a
He said, “I don’t even know why I’m here. I’m not a slow horse any more.”
