When she saw Lamb and Welles her expression didn’t change, but the light in her eyes shifted a pantone, from dark red to darker. There’d always been stories about Molly Doran – how she guarded her fiefdom like a lioness its kill – and she had always encouraged them, because there’s nothing Spook Street enjoys more than a legend, unless it’s a myth. The distance between the two was paper thin; the exact space between one’s last breath and the next thing. Welles had met her in passing only; had once asked – quite late at night – if she needed help getting into a lift. The look he received in response was one they could have usefully taught down the road, where new recruits were drilled in unarmed combat.
‘Jackson Lamb,’ she said. ‘I hardly need to ask, do I? You’re after something.’
‘Would I be here otherwise?’
‘Pay the troll.’
He bent and kissed one over-powdered cheek. For Welles, it felt like a moment that should have been preserved somehow, though not on a camera, not on a phone. It needed Goya, with a lump of charcoal.
Molly said to Welles, ‘He doesn’t do social calls. Only time he shifts his fat arse off a chair is when something promises to relieve his boredom.’
‘I’d visit more often,’ Lamb said, ‘but you cripples make us normal people uncomfortable.’
‘Jesus, man,’ said Welles.
But Molly Doran laughed. ‘He likes to give the impression he’s sparing us the bullshit,’ she told Welles. ‘Truth is, he’s just peddling a different line of bullshit altogether. How’ve you been, Jackson?’
‘My knees have been giving me gyp,’ he said. ‘But I don’t expect sympathy.’
‘See?’ she said to Welles. Then: ‘I don’t allow Dogs on my floor.’
‘I’m not sure you have a choice in the matter,’ he replied.
‘That’s because you’ve never tested the proposition,’ she said, and smiled sweetly.
A flake of powder floated free, as if it hadn’t been expecting that particular muscle to throb.
Welles opened his mouth to reply, but Lamb leaned towards him. ‘Probably best do what she says. She’s run over bigger boys than you in that thing.’
‘And it takes forever to scrape the treads clean.’
‘You’re pushing your luck,’ Welles told Lamb, unpeeling the other man’s fingers from his elbow.
‘You’re a dear boy, I’m sure,’ Molly Doran said. ‘But on this floor, I make the rules. And while not much brings me pleasure these days, fighting my corner does get the juices flowing.’
‘And trust me,’ said Lamb. ‘You don’t want to see her juices flowing.’
Welles looked from one to the other. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes,’ he said. ‘But ten minutes only. Once that’s done, I’m coming in there.’ He nodded towards Molly’s doorway.
Molly considered for a moment, then beamed. ‘I quite like this one,’ she told Lamb. ‘He’s less damaged than your lot.’
‘Give it time.’
‘This once only, you may remain right here,’ Molly said to Welles. ‘But no whistling. I can’t abide whistling.’
She spun on the spot, and headed into her room.
‘If we’re not finished, there’ll be a sock on the doorknob,’ leered Lamb. ‘One of mine, obviously,’ he added, following Molly into her lair.
Which was a long room lined with upright cabinets, set on tracks allowing them to be pushed together when not in use; like library stacks, and imbued with a similar sense that knowledge, information,
Molly reversed into a cubbyhole just wide enough for her chair, and braked. Jackson Lamb eyed a nearby stool with distaste, but perched a buttock on it regardless. If this had happened in Slough House, the team would be praying, hard.
‘I hear David Cartwright’s entered the twilight,’ Molly said.
‘Best place for him.’
‘Young River must find that difficult.’
‘Young River finds dressing himself difficult,’ said Lamb. ‘I don’t want to speculate on his emotional trials.’
‘Oh, he’s bright enough. He just has the disadvantage of having you as his team leader. That would make anyone question their own competence.’
‘I don’t encourage them to think of me as team leader,’ Lamb said. ‘I prefer “pagan deity”.’ He looked at the wall above her head. ‘There was a picture there. Why’d you take it down?’
‘Because I fancied a change?’
‘You like change the way I like milk.’ He glanced round the room, searching out more clues, then turned his gaze back to her. ‘You’re moving?’
She said, ‘I’m being let go.’
Lamb nodded, and gestured towards her wheels. ‘Just so long as they don’t do it on a slope.’
‘I don’t expect sympathy, Jackson. But spare me attempts at humour. I’ve been here decades. They built this room around me. It’s what I know, it’s where I’m comfortable. But apparently I’m … surplus to requirements.’
