London Rules полностью

An, squatting against the side of the vehicle, looked down at his feet, then at the panels opposite, or at anywhere that wasn’t Danny, wasn’t Shin.

Danny said, ‘I’m going to kill her first. Before we go in.’

‘I am in charge!’ Shin said. ‘You don’t do anything without my orders!’

‘Then your orders should include this,’ said Danny. ‘That I’m going to kill her first. Before we go in.’

He leaned back against the panel and closed his eyes.

From his vantage point J. K. Coe watched Dennis Gimball smoke a furious cigarette, then light a second from the trembling stub of his first. Something was going on in the politician’s mind: you didn’t have to be John Humphrys to work that out. Which was fine. The way Coe felt about pols in general, Gimball in particular, he’d have been happy watching the man’s head explode.

Even so, he tensed when a new figure appeared in the alleyway; rumbling towards Gimball like a threat on legs. There was something wrong with his face, Coe thought, then decided he was wrong. It was the shadows cast by the scaffolding, making crazy the features they fell upon.

When the newcomer reached Gimball he raised his shoulders; made himself bigger.

He was big enough to start with: even with the foreshortening his perspective brought him, Coe could see that. He was black, in a big overcoat, and his hair was razored to straight lines across his brow and round his ears. And still there was that crazy shadowing, and it took another moment for the penny to drop. He wore tattoos. Across his face, his cheekbones, inky markings swirled.

Whatever he said was a low grumble, and Coe couldn’t catch the words.

Gimball stepped back. He waved his cigarette, as if sketching in smoke, and said one word over and over: ‘Now now now …’

Coe walked back towards the ladder, so he was directly over where the pair stood. Is this it? The newcomer didn’t appear to be armed, but didn’t have to be: he looked like he could break Gimball in half if he felt like it. Which didn’t mean he was going to, and didn’t make him a terrorist: he could be a concerned constituent, an over-enthusiastic pollster, or just one of the forty-eight per cent – that tiny minority, some of whom hadn’t yet got over and moved on – making a valid political point. And since any or all of the above could feasibly involve dumping Dennis Gimball in a wheelie bin, interfering would be putting a spoke in the democratic process.

So Coe thought: I’ll just watch for a moment.

Then River came down the alley too, and things got complicated.

Louisa stood, and the bored man along her row looked sharply round: you’re the cop, she thought. Pretending not to notice, she retrieved her mobile from her pocket as she walked to the entrance, muttering into it as if in reply to a caller. Through the windows she could see Shirley by the car, eating chips from the roof. Busted. Everything else looked quiet, though there was a van which had arrived since she’d entered the building. No logo on the side, but a driver at the wheel. He was looking behind him, as if talking to someone in the back. Could be something, could be nothing. If this were a proper op, instead of the Slough House equivalent – more like a work experience outing – the van would have been opened up by now, and its occupants made to sing the national anthem. But they were playing off the cuff, and the most they could do was keep both eyes open.

Unless Shirley did something ridiculous, of course.

River shouted ‘Hey!’, and the man with the tattoo turned. He seemed expressionless, despite the nature of the moment, as if his ink-job was left to do all his features’ work.

‘Not your business,’ he said. ‘Back off.’

River came to a halt two feet in front of the pair. ‘You okay, Mr Gimball?’

Gimball said, ‘I have an important meeting to attend. Address. Get out of my way.’

It wasn’t clear which of the two he was talking to, but River ran with it anyway. ‘You heard the man. Let him by.’

‘I hadn’t finished speaking to him.’

‘But he’s finished speaking to you.’

Gimball said, ‘This has gone on long enough. Shall I call the police? Is that what you want?’

‘No need,’ River said. ‘This gentleman was just leaving.’

But this gentleman had other ideas. When River reached out to grab his elbow he swatted it aside and squared up. He was bigger than River, broader, and it didn’t look like this was the first time he’d raised his fists in an alley, but River had been taught to fight by professionals, and if he hadn’t come top of his class, he’d never come bottom either. Which was a great comfort to him when the tattooed guy kicked him in the stomach.

All of this observed from above by J. K. Coe, who was coming to the conclusion that he’d better either intervene or climb into the building and disappear.

River bent double, and the man put a hand on his head and pushed him backwards. He fell over.

Gimball said, ‘That’s it. I’m calling the police.’ He had his phone out: a visual aid. He waved it about. ‘I’m calling them now.’