“Except that’s a gradual thing,” Ho said. “And this wasn’t.”
The smoke from Lamb’s cigarette hung motionless in the air.
Catherine said, “What do you mean, Roddy?”
And here was his night’s triumph, though it involved fewer blondes than he’d wanted. “They moved into the village in the space of a few months. A whole bunch of them.”
“How many?” Lamb asked.
Handing his printout to Catherine, Ho said, “Seventeen of them. Seventeen families. And they all arrived in Upshott between March and June, nineteen ninety-one.”
And he had the satisfaction of seeing, for once, Lamb lost for an instant reply.
Stomping up the slope Griff Yates had led him down earlier, River had to rest halfway. But the pounding in his head was fainter, and he was starting to notice he was alive, when he could easily have been sprayed across this landscape as a fine red mist.
The thought of encountering Griff again was starting to energise him too.
Redcap waited at the top. He was little more than a dark outline, but River’s brain was firing again, and a name popped into it. He said, “You’re Tommy Moult.” Outside the village shop, selling packets of seeds from his bike basket. That was where River knew him from, though they’d never spoken beyond a hello. “What are you doing here this time of night?”
“Picking up strays.” Tufts of white hair sprigged out from Moult’s cap. He must have been seventy: he had a well-lined face, and dressed like he lived under a hedge with an ancient tweed jacket that smelled of outdoors, and trousers that were knotted round his ankles. Makeshift bike clips, River supposed, though less sanitary possibilities occurred. His voice was a rough gargle: the local accent poured over pebbles. An unlikely saviour, but a saviour all the same.
“Well, thanks.”
Moult nodded, turned and walked. River followed. He had no idea which direction they were headed. His inner compass was spinning crazily.
Over his shoulder, Moult said, “You’d have been all right. They don’t target the buildings. If they did they’d be rubble, and those trees would be matchsticks. See the humps in the land back there?”
“No.”
“Well, they’re bronze age barrows. The military don’t plant ordnance on them. Draws criticism.”
“I suppose Griff knows that too.”
“He didn’t plan on you being blown to bits, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’ll bear that in mind next time I see him.”
“He just wanted to scare you shitless.” Moult halted so suddenly River nearly bumped into him. “What you probably ought to know is that Griff’s been in love with young Kelly Tropper since she took the stabilisers off her bike. So what with you and her being so friendly—and in the middle of the day—well, you can see he might take that amiss.”
“Jesus wept,” said River. “That was like—that was
Tommy Moult glanced skywards.
“Yesterday afternoon. And he knows about it?
“You’re familiar with the phrase global village?”
River stared.
“Well, Upshott’s the village version of that. Everyone knows everything.”
“Bastard could have killed me.”
“I suppose, to his way of thinking, it wouldn’t have been him doing the killing.”
Moult tramped off. River followed. “It seems further than it did before,” he said after a while.
“Same distance it’s always been.”
A penny dropped. “We’re not heading back to the road, are we?”
“Be a shame,” Moult said, “to go to all this effort, not to mention having the poop scared out of you, and then just scoot home with your tail between your legs.”
“So where are we going?”
“To find the only thing round here worth finding,” Moult said. “Oh, and by the way? It’s top secret.”
River nodded, and they walked on into the dark.
“Okay,” Lamb said at last. “That must be why I keep you round. Now back to your toys, button-boy. If they’re all sleepers then they’re long-term fakes, fakes being the operative word. Their paperwork must be good, but there’ll be a chink of light somewhere. Find it.”
“It’s after midnight.”
“Thanks,” Lamb said. “My watch is fast. And when you’ve done that, do a background on Arkady Pashkin, which is spelt exactly like I’ve just said it.” He paused. “Is there a reason you’re still here?”
Catherine said, “That’s good work. Well done, Roddy.”
Ho left.
She said, “Would it kill you to tell him well done?”
“If he doesn’t do his job, he’s just taking up space.”
“He found this.” Catherine waved the printout. “And another thing—‘chink of light’?”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Christ, I’m getting old,” said Lamb. “Don’t ever tell him, but that was unintentional.”
She went out to the tiny kitchen, and put the kettle on. When she returned, he’d pushed his chair back and was staring at the ceiling, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Catherine waited. At length, he spoke.
“What do you make of it?”
It appeared to be a genuine question.
She said, “I presume we’re ruling out coincidence.”
“Well, it’s not like Upshott had a sale on. And like Ho said, there’s no other reason to move there.”
