“So the report says. And Bow’s not been on the books for a while. So not what you’d call an obvious candidate for assassination, even if he’d ever done anything important.”
“Which you’re sure he hadn’t.”
“You know what personnel records are like. Secure stuff’s redacted, and anything more sensitive than a routine drop-and-poke is secure. But Bow’s file’s an open book barring some drink-related incident near the end. He did a lot of toad work. Cash for info, mostly gossip. He worked in a nightclub, so he picked up a lot.”
“Which would have been used for blackmail purposes.”
“Of course.”
“So revenge isn’t out of the question.”
“But it was all a long time ago. And like I say, natural causes.”
“So why’s Lamb interested?” River mused.
“No idea. Maybe they worked together.” She paused. “A note says he was a talented streetwalker. That doesn’t mean what it sounds like, does it?”
“Happily, no. It means he was good at shadowing people. Following them.”
“Well, then. Maybe Lamb just heard he’d died, and got sentimental.”
“Yes, but seriously.”
Catherine said, “Bow didn’t have a ticket for his journey. And he was supposed to be at work. I wonder where was he going?”
“I’d never heard of him until two minutes ago. I doubt my speculations are worth much.”
“Mine either. But it’s got Lamb off his arse, so there must be something to it.” She fell silent. To River, her gaze seemed to turn inward, as if she were looking for something she’d left at the back of her mind. And he noticed for the first time that her hair wasn’t entirely grey; that in the right light, might even look blonde. But her nose was long and pinched, and she wore hats, and it all added up to a kind of greyness, so that was how you saw her when she wasn’t there, and after a while became the way you saw her even when she was. A sort of witchiness that might even be sexy in the right circumstances.
To break the spell, he spoke. “Wonder what kind of something.”
“Assume the worst,” Catherine said.
“Maybe we should ask him.”
Catherine said, “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
It wasn’t such a good idea.
A few hours later, River heard Lamb whomping up the stairs like an out-of-breath bear. He waited a while, staring at his monitor without seeing it. “Maybe we should ask him.” Simple enough while Lamb was elsewhere; a different proposition with him on the premises. But the alternative was to sit looking at reams of indigestible information, and besides, if River backed down, Catherine would think him chicken.
She was waiting on the landing, eyebrow raised.
Well, no.
Lamb’s door was open. Catherine tapped, and they went in. Lamb was trying to turn his computer on: he still wore his coat and an unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth. He eyed them as if they were Mormons. “What’s this, an intervention?”
River said, “We were wondering what’s going on.”
Puzzled, Lamb stared at River, then plucked the cigarette from his lips and stared at that instead. Then returned it to his mouth and stared at River again. “Eh?”
“We were—”
“Yeah, I got that. I was having a what-the-fuck moment.” He looked at Catherine. “You’re a drunk, so wondering what’s happening’s a daily experience. What’s his excuse?”
“Dickie Bow,” Catherine said. Lamb’s crack didn’t visibly affect her, but she’d been in the business a while. She’d been Charles Partner’s PA while Partner had run the Service; had filled that role until finding him dead in his bathtub, though her career had been interrupted by, yes, being a drunk. Along the way, she’d picked up clues about hiding emotions. “He was in Berlin same time as you. And died last week on a bus outside Oxford. That’s where you’ve been, isn’t it? Tracing his journey.”
Lamb shook his head in disbelief. “What happened? Someone come round and sew your balls back on? I told you not to answer the door to strangers.”
“We don’t like being out of the loop.”
“You’re always out of the loop. The loop’s miles away. Nearest you’ll get to being in the loop is when they make a documentary about it and show it on the History Channel. I thought you were aware of that. Oh god, here’s another one.”
Marcus Longridge had appeared behind them, carrying a manila folder. “I’m supposed to give this to—”
Lamb said, “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Longridge,” said Marcus.
“I don’t want to know. I was making a point.” Lamb plucked a stained mug from the litter on his desk, and threw it at Catherine. River caught it before it reached her head. Lamb said, “Well, I’m glad we’ve had this chat. Now fuck off. Cartwright, give that to Standish. Standish, fill it with tea. And you, I’ve forgotten your name again, go next door and get my lunch. Tell Sam I want my usual Tuesday.”
“It’s Monday.”
“I know it’s Monday. If I wanted my usual Monday, I wouldn’t have to specify, would I?” He blinked. “Still here?”
