River shrugged. “Even the complete bullshit, it’s useful to know who’s buying into it. Because they’re the type might decide to strap on a suicide belt and pop down the local shopping centre. So if it’s out there, the Service keeps track. Monitors, records, stores.”
“And I thought we had dipshit jobs.”
“It’s mostly outsourced. There are people happily spend their lives paddling about the internet, researching bonkers theories. The Service keeps a few on retainer. It’s like having ready-trained dung beetles.”
“Doesn’t sound too secure,” Marcus objected.
“Well. They’re probably not told they’re doing it for MI5.”
“They probably think they are, though.”
“But who’s gonna listen to a twenty-four-carat nerd?”
“Speaking of which,” said Lamb.
Ho paused in the doorway, mug in hand. “What?”
“Never mind.” Lamb took the tea and used a surviving software package for a coaster. Ho swallowed an objection, and resumed his seat. “So, now you know. The tinfoil-hat tomes, bedtime reading for teenage boys and middle-aged virgins. Thank God we won the Cold War, eh?”
“What’s any of this got to do with us?” Louisa asked.
“It’s what they want. Monteith’s so-called tiger team.” Lamb scratched an armpit, then slid his hand under his buttocks. “They want the whackjob files, and you’re going to help them get them.”
“Why us?” said River.
“Well, we’ve established they’re fucking idiots,” Lamb said. “Who else they gonna call?”
Marcus said, “And where are they kept? These files.”
“I’m so glad you asked.” Lamb levered himself out of the chair a few inches, and hovered. They braced themselves. Then he shook his head, and lowered back down. “Not gonna happen,” he said. Then: “Yeah, where are the files? Go find out, will you?”
“Can’t Ho do that?”
“You’ve changed your tune. Weren’t you calling him a useless twit this morning?” He looked at Ho. “His words. Not mine.”
Ho nodded gratefully.
“‘Twat,’ I told him. You’re a useless
“Can’t Ho do it?” River said.
“Ho, Ho, Ho,” Lamb said. “It’s like Santa’s ghetto round here.”
“Grotto.”
“
A monstrous fart erupted without warning.
“Ah, good. I was worried that was trapped. Right, fuck off, the lot of you. Back here with answers, five sharp.”
This addition to the atmosphere made them glad to troop out, but Lamb called Louisa back. “You ran online interference last year, right? Loitering in restrooms?”
“Chat rooms.”
“Whatever. When you’ve worked out who our Mr. X is, see if you can find his footprints in any of the likely places. Bananas hang in bunches, so maybe he’s been seeking company. He wants the whackjob files. Be good to know why.”
Louisa said, “You do realise, whoever he is, he probably doesn’t use his own name online?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, it’s a bit like looking for a car without knowing the make, colour or registration.”
“If you’re not challenged, you won’t grow.”
Louisa stared.
Lamb shrugged. “I get emails from HR. Some crap’s bound to rub off.”
“How deep is the Park into this?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Whenever we get mixed up in one of Diana Taverner’s schemes, somebody gets hurt.”
“I hope you’re not questioning my judgement.”
“Just an opinion.”
“Well, you know what they say,” said Lamb. “Opinions are like arseholes.” He showed yellow teeth. “And yours stinks.”
When Louisa left, he turned to Ho, who was staring sullenly at his screens. “Ready to do some real work for a change?”
“. . . Suppose.”
“There’s a good little monitor monkey.”
He told Ho what he wanted.
•••
It was the heat. It was the heat and the bottle, but mostly the heat.
But also mostly the bottle.
Catherine was hungry but couldn’t eat, because eating would disturb the unity of the tray. If she ate the sandwich, the apple or the flapjack, or drank the water, she would bring the wine into focus, so it was best if she left things as they were, allowing the wine to blend into the background. If she continued not to notice it, its threat would be neutralised. It would offer no danger.
She had run a bath a while ago—what kind of kidnapping was this, where they served you drinks in an en suite prison?—but the action had dredged up unwanted images, because the bath was where she’d found Charles Partner’s body. A shot to the temple was not as neat as it could be made to sound. The contents of a head were untidy when displaced. She let the water drain away, and wearing only her slip returned to the bedroom, where the tiny bottle of Pinot waited like a hand grenade.
Partner had called her Moneypenny occasionally, an offhand note of affection. She had been sober for some time when he killed himself, and had remained sober ever since. So why did the wine bother her now?
