Something in her word choice triggered a response, but before Lamb could get it out a burst of coughing overtook him – a great heaving earthquake of a fit, heavy enough to rattle not only his own body, but some of those he’d buried. The desk trembled. Catherine watched, wordlessly, and it occurred to her to wonder what she’d do if he died, which didn’t, at that moment, seem out of the question. He could die right there in front of her eyes.
But her natural instincts took over. She returned to her own office and came back with a clean glass, a bottle of water and a box of tissues. She poured him some water, handed him the tissues. He grabbed a handful and buried his face in them, and then, when the heaving started to subside, poured the water in one seamless dazzle down his throat.
Before he’d finished mopping himself, she said, ‘When was the last time you had a check-up?’
‘There’s an annual medical. You know that.’
‘Yes. And when was the last time you took it?’
‘It was a coughing fit. It’s passed.’
‘You smoke too much. You drink too much. I doubt you sleep at night so much as pass out. Do you ever exercise? Don’t even answer that.’
‘My body is a temple,’ said Lamb.
‘Interesting viewpoint,’ Catherine said. ‘So what does that make your lifestyle choices? The Taliban?’
He grunted.
She stood again. ‘So where are we? Something’s going on, we don’t know what, but at least one of us is bang in the middle of it. And meanwhile the country’s on red alert. Does any of this seem familiar to you?’
‘My whole life feels like a repeat most days.’
‘It’s going to feel like a series finale if you don’t start taking some exercise.’ She left him there, and went to put her coat on.
Lamb sat in the dark and poured another drink.
And after a while, lit another cigarette.
THE CLUB COULDN’T HAVE been Ho’s choice, they decided, because instead of a soundtrack that was to the brain what the cider press was to an apple, it had a back-to-schooldays vibe going on. They were in a mezzanine booth with a view of the dance floor; a view, too, of Roddy Ho, part of a group on the far side of the open space. He hadn’t seen them, being busy with his companions, plus he was wearing sunglasses. This had nearly tipped the balance in favour of abandoning him to possible death, but River had argued that this wouldn’t be fair on Shirley.
‘Since when have you given a toss what Shirley thinks?’
He shrugged.
The club was in Stockwell. After being dropped at its door, Ho had marched up and down the pavement for forty-seven minutes, texting. Louisa had circled the block a few times, but he hadn’t clocked her; she’d dropped River at a nearby junction, where he’d have been spotted easily if Roddy had shown even the mildest interest in his surroundings. If I wanted to kill you, River thought, you’d be dead already. But this probably wasn’t true: there’d been many previous occasions on which River had wanted to kill Roderick Ho, and his innate sense of not wanting to go to prison had always held him back.
Eventually another taxi had arrived and disgorged about sixteen people, one of them a young, attractive, possibly Chinese woman, who suffered Roddy to kiss her on the cheek, and briefly held his hand while he paid first the taxi fare, then the entrance fee at the club. By the time River and Louisa had regrouped and made their own way inside, the gang had found a table and were waiting for Roddy to return from the bar, to which he had to make three trips. This kept him busy enough that he didn’t see them coming in, though the shades couldn’t have helped.
‘You reckon that’s the fabled girlfriend?’ Louisa asked.
‘Her name’s Kim.’
‘Actually, yes, he may have mentioned that. You think he ordered her off the internet?’
‘I’d guess he made her in his basement, except she looks too well put together.’
Because they were on an op they were drinking mineral water, or would have been, but it cost so much they decided to have beer instead: if they were going to be scalped, they might as well feel some benefit. River had texted Shirley to say where they were. She hadn’t replied, but that didn’t surprise them: Shirley could be pissed off for days after an AFM.
‘Though she’s been less … disruptive lately,’ River said. ‘More muted.’
‘I think she’s off the marching powder.’
‘She misses Marcus.’
Louisa didn’t want that conversation. She looked around. ‘Do this often?’
‘Clubbing? Please.’
She eyed him critically. ‘You brush up okay. Or might do. I’ve never actually seen it happen.’
‘We’re supposed to be on surveillance.’
‘We’re supposed to be in a nightclub. Chatting, drinking, whatever. There’s a girl over there giving you the eye, by the way.’
He turned to see.
‘Gotcha.’
