She said, ‘The Abbotsfield crew, they’re what, five strong? And probably one down now, given someone went through a window.’
‘Two words,’ said Welles. ‘Suicide squad.’
‘Okay. But even then, how close to the Abbey could they get? There’s no traffic within quarter of a mile. And on foot, they won’t get that close. Not with every pair of eyes on the lookout for dodgy actors.’
‘They don’t need to get close,’ Welles said. ‘These aren’t combat rules, remember? To be a target, you just have to turn up. This crew, if they mow down a crowd at a zebra crossing, they’ll call it a result. Any crowd, any street. They just have to open fire.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But that’s not exactly seizing the media, is it?’
‘No shortage of news crews out there.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Nobody likes it.’ Welles hoisted himself out of his chair. There was a table in the corner on which an ancient coffee machine muttered to itself. ‘You want some?’
‘I’m caffeinated beyond belief,’ Flyte told him. ‘Any more, you’ll have to peel me from the ceiling.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ He filled a cardboard cup from the jug. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here,’ he reminded her. ‘I’m off duty.’
‘Yeah, boohoo.’
‘I feel a discrimination lawsuit coming on.’
‘You make such a thing out of being black,’ she said. ‘Try being blonde. Then you’d know what harassment feels like.’
He laughed.
On one of the screens the picture changed, and Flyte tensed. A disturbance, people pressing forward so a barrier fell.
‘Dev?’
He’d already abandoned his coffee, the cup dropping to the tabletop, rolling onto the floor.
And then there were policemen on the screen; helping people to their feet, moving the barrier so nobody else tripped.
Welles exhaled heavily.
Flyte said, half to herself, ‘So many people there. It’s like a coronation.’
‘“We are not afraid,”’ Welles quoted. ‘They want to be there, show the bastards they’re not winning. That they’ll never win.’
‘But some of us will lose, all the same.’ The screen showed someone who’d borne the brunt of the collapse; a young woman, her face contorted in pain. Broken leg? Broken something. Two officers were crouching beside her, one laying a hand on her forehead.
Welles said, ‘Would you prefer it if the streets were deserted? If they had a memorial service and nobody came?’
She said, ‘They’ve picked soft targets until now. They’re in for a shock.’
‘Not sure there’ll be many of us feeling sorry for them.’
‘No. But it makes me wonder why they got so ambitious. They’re not going to get anywhere near the Abbey.’
‘A snake eating its tail. This wouldn’t be happening if they hadn’t shot up Abbotsfield. They’ve ordered their own victim turnout. What’s the matter?’
Emma had gone white.
Lamb was not far from Regent’s Park, waiting at a junction where a tree overhung the pavement. There were no crowds; outside of the Abbey’s environs, London was muted, as if the arching blue sky were an upturned bowl, clamping down on everything. He had contrived to be late, but not late enough, and it was a full minute before Molly Doran approached, her cherry-red wheelchair buzzing, as if pursued by mosquitoes. He lit a cigarette, then ran a finger round his collar. It came away damp.
‘What speed can you manage on that thing?’ he asked, when she’d come within range.
‘Faster than you’d think.’
Lamb grunted. ‘Might get one myself. Walking’s hell in this weather. Makes my feet swell up.’
‘Is there not a small part of you that gets tired of this?’
He leered. ‘I have no small parts. Remember?’
‘Must be fun working under you, Jackson.’ She steered her chair into the shade. ‘Tell me about Catherine Standish.’
For a moment, the near impossible happened, and Jackson Lamb looked thrown. But he was looming above Molly Doran’s eye level, and it was possible she didn’t notice. ‘She’s a drunk. She makes my tea. Does the typing. So what?’
‘Nobody types any more.’
‘Yeah, I don’t micromanage. Typing or whatever. What’s it to you?’
‘Seems only fair I get some information in return.’
‘In return for what? You’ve told me nothing yet.’
‘You seriously think I’d show you mine without seeing yours first? Come on, Jackson. Even when I did have legs, I didn’t spread them that easily. She was Charles Partner’s girl Friday, wasn’t she?’
‘You never met her?’
‘She was on the exec level. I didn’t get upstairs that often.’
‘You could have left that to me,’ he said. ‘There’s a punchline in there somewhere.’
‘She crops up now and again, in the records. In Partner’s files. Just another of those stories I’ll never hear the end of now.’
‘She’s a slow horse,’ said Lamb. ‘Like all the others.’
‘Except she was the first of them, wasn’t she? She was the one you took with you, from the Park. Why’d you choose her? That’s my price.’
He said, ‘I needed someone to make my tea. And do the typing.’
‘Fuck off, Jackson.’
He removed the cigarette from his mouth and examined the glowing tip. Veins of bright orange under a film of ash. He blew on it, and the ash disappeared. Within moments, it was back.
‘She’s a joe,’ he said at last.
