There was a visitor’s chair this side of Dander’s desk, which was a mystery all of its own—visitors weren’t a thing round here—but came in handy as a means of hauling himself up. When he lowered himself into it, Lamb was staring at him with an expression which, in anyone else, he’d take for contempt. But Lech had come to suspect that Lamb’s default expressions—boredom, dislike, irritation—were a series of masks, not so much intended to disguise the way he felt as to make you think he felt anything at all. So he sneered back, feeling his cheeks split under the cotton wool padding Catherine had taped to them. “What’s this, then? Pastoral care?”
“Which would make you what? A sheep?” Lamb pretended to think about that. “Dumb, defenceless, and leaking a trail of shit. Sounds about right. Drink your medicine.”
Lech reached for the glass. Even as its contents scorched to his stomach, he remembered not having eaten since yesterday lunchtime; his late-night excursion in search of food having ended in pain and darkness.
“Jesus, go easy. I’ve only half a bottle left.”
But when Lech slapped the glass back down on the desk, Lamb refilled it with the precise same single measure.
“You had a meet with someone from the Park,” he said, before Lech could take another drink.
“. . . How do you know?”
“Let’s pretend I’m a spy. A pub off Great Portland Street. Who?”
Lech said, “His name’s Pynne. Richard Pynne.”
“Good mate?”
“Not even.”
“Glad to hear it, given how quickly you gave him up. What were you offering?”
“How do you mean?”
“You want a ticket home. You idiots always think you’re special, and if you ask nicely enough the Park’ll spread its legs. But you need to offer something first. Flowers, chocolates, sexy underwear. I’m just wondering how cheap you are.”
Lech said, “I offered him nothing.”
“I’m supposed to believe that?”
He shrugged, reached for his glass, and drained it. Not so burny, the second time. That was how life worked: after a while, you got used to anything.
Lamb’s glass was empty too.
Lech reached for the Talisker, and Lamb made no attempt to stop him. He poured a single measure into his own glass, then waggled the bottle in Lamb’s direction.
Lamb pushed his glass closer.
Starting to pour, Lech said, “I don’t care what you believe, you fat fuck. I offered him nothing.” He kept pouring. “I was looking for information, not giving it away.” The whisky reached the brim of Lamb’s glass, but Lech didn’t let that stop him. It streamed down the sides, pooled on the desk, ran in rivulets for the edge. “Hoping to find out who put me in this shithole.” He shook the last drip from the bottle, and tossed it into a corner. “That clear enough?”
Lamb kept his eyes fixed on Lech’s as he reached for his glass, and lofted it daintily between finger and thumb without spilling a drop.
“And how did that work out?” he said.
“He knew fuck-all.”
“Told you fuck-all, you mean. There’s a difference. Because he’s back at the Park and you’re stuck in this shithole, looking like a half-arsed invisible man.” Lamb moved his head nearer the raised glass and—still without taking his eyes off Lech—tipped the whisky into his mouth. He barely appeared to swallow, but something happened, because the glass was empty, and his other hand was steering his cigarette to his lips. He inhaled, then leaned closer. “Speaking of which, let’s have a look.”
“At what?”
“What do you think?” The words came out as separate blocks of smoke. He scribbled them away with a wave of his hand. “Let’s pretend I’m looking for clues. You know, the assailant was left handed. Has an interest in classical calligraphy. That kind of thing.”
“You’re a bastard, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. But they said that about Sherlock Holmes.”
Lech stared at him.
Lamb said, “Why do you care? Standish says you won’t get it seen to. So you’ll have to get used to being stared at.” He squashed his cigarette out on the inside of his empty glass, then lobbed it into the same corner Lech had thrown the bottle into. “Living artwork like yourself.”
“I—”
“Just take the fucking plasters off.”
Slowly, carefully, Lech did so.
Lamb lit another cigarette, and for a full minute after Lech had peeled the second plaster away said nothing. His cigarette tip glowed and faded, glowed again. The painkillers Catherine had given Lech were doing their job, but his cheeks pulsed in time to that cigarette. He imagined the letters burning scarlet, like hot coals glimpsed beneath ash.
“Probably wise not to get stitches,” Lamb said at last. “You’d have a face like a fucking sampler. What did you ask Richard Pynne?”
Lech said, “I ran a name, Peter Kahlmann. That’s the only thing I can think of, the only thing I did before all this happened.”
“And it tripped a wire?”
“It was flagged.”
“Off-limits, then. Seems harsh, though, doesn’t it? Take your life apart for a breach of protocol.” Lamb shook his head, as though bemused by the cruelties of fate, and stood. He was still wearing his coat. Lech wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him take it off. “How’s your insurance?”
