She rolled towards him, head to one side. A faint ping from the closed shaft behind him was the lift stopping on another floor, but could as easily have been this woman beginning to speak: he’d not have been surprised if she vented in a series of pips and squeaks—nothing to do with the wheelchair (he told himself); everything to do with that doll-like face, its porcelain veneer.
But her voice, when she spoke, was standard-issue, no-nonsense, mid-morning BBC.
“One of Jackson’s cubs, aren’t you?”
“I . . . Yes. That’s right.”
“What’s he after this time?”
Without waiting for a response she reversed through the doorway she’d appeared from. River followed her, into a long room not unlike a library stack, or what he imagined a library stack looked like: row upon row of upright cabinets set on tracks which would allow for their being accordioned together when not in use, and each stuffed with cardboard files and folders. Somewhere along this lot was the file he’d been told to steal. No, keep it simple. He only had to photograph its contents.
Molly Doran slotted neatly into a cubbyhole designed to accommodate her wheelchair. Her legs were missing below the knee. For all the tales River had heard about her, not one had ever laid down the indisputable truth as to how she’d lost them. The only thing all accounts agreed on was that it was a loss—that she’d once had legs.
She said, “Maybe you didn’t hear me. What’s he after this time?”
“A file,” River said.
“A file. So you’ll have the requisition form then.”
“Well. You know Jackson.”
“I certainly did.”
She was a bird of a woman, though not the usual bird people meant when they used that phrase. A penguin, perhaps; a short fat bird in squatting mode, head tipped to one side; her nose becoming beakish as her head jutted upward. “What did you say your name was?”
“Cartwright.”
“I thought so . . . You’ve the look of him. Your grandfather.”
He could feel himself becoming heavier, as if the time ticking past was accruing weight, loading him down with the consequences of its passing.
“It’s around the eyes. The shape of them, mostly. How is he?”
“He’s sprightly.”
“Sprightly. There’s an old person’s word if ever there was. Women are feisty and old people sprightly. Except when they’re not, of course. What’s this file Jackson’s after?”
River began to recite the number the man on the bridge had given him, but she cut him off.
“I meant what’s it about, dear? What interest does our Mr. Lamb have in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Keeps you in the dark, does he?”
“You know Jackson,” he said again.
“Better than you, I expect.” She appraised him. “How did you get in?”
“Get in?”
“Upstairs. Or have they adopted an open-door policy since this morning?”
“I made an appointment.”
“Not with me you didn’t. Where’s your laminate?”
“I had a meeting with Lady Di.”
“My, aren’t we grand. I didn’t know she lowered herself to parleying with exiles. Or does your grandfather’s name open doors?”
“I’ve never relied on it,” River said.
“Of course not. Or you wouldn’t be a slow horse.”
River didn’t care to follow this thread. And the seconds were ticking away. It occurred to him to take out his phone and show this woman the image of Catherine. All he’d have to do was ask her help.
And Security would be kicking down the doors a moment later.
She said suddenly, “How is he?”
Without needing to ask, he knew she’d changed the subject.
“Lamb? Same as ever,” he said.
She laughed. It wasn’t an especially happy sound. “I doubt that,” she said.
“Believe me,” River said. “There’s been no improvement.”
Twenty minutes now, if that. And he didn’t just have to trace the file and photograph its contents, he had to get somewhere he could transmit them, which meant leaving the Park. Anywhere inside these walls, trying to send an attachment out would be sounding a fire alarm.
The couple in the car would have been checked out by now. His own failure to reappear would have been noted. He doubted they’d put the building into lockdown—he was only a slow horse; could easily have got lost—but they’d send people looking, and soon. He had to make a move. But Molly Doran was talking.
“Jackson Lamb’s lived so long under the bridge he’s half-troll himself now. But you should have met him a lifetime ago.”
“Yeah,” said River. “I bet he was a heartbreaker.”
She laughed. “He was never an oil painting, don’t worry about that. But he had something. You’re too young and pretty to understand. But a girl could lose her heart to him. Or other parts of her body.”
“About this file.”
“For which you don’t have a chitty.”
“Even when he was young, and girls were losing their hearts to him,” River said, “did you ever know him to fill out a form?”
“That’s smooth. I like that.” Without warning, Molly rolled forwards, so her chair was back in the aisle. “You get that from your grandfather, I expect.”
“The thing is,” River said. He leaned forward, bending so his mouth was near her ear. “I’m not entirely supposed to be here.”
“You amaze me.”
