Real Tigers полностью

So the rich, by which he meant the powerful, took messy violence in their stride—it was the cost of doing business—which was one of the reasons Peter Judd hadn’t wasted time grieving the loss of his school friend. The traditional press, hanging on Twitter’s coat-tails, was no doubt picking up the threads of the story now, and he’d be called on to comment: pointless to deny there was a delicious irony in an old chum of the Home Secretary falling victim to public savagery. But he’d never had difficulty in counterfeiting anger or remorse—appalling barbarism, whose perpetrators, I am confident, will feel the full might of British justice—so wasn’t fazed by the prospect, and wouldn’t lose sleep over Sly’s death either. People died. It happened. How Monteith’s dropping the ball affected his own game plan mattered more to Judd right now.

Satisfied the bench was as clean as it was going to get, he sat. It was shaded by trees set in a railinged square, which wasn’t actually square at all but oblong: near Praed Street, not far from Paddington, and off the refined map. Hotels lined each side, but they were for downscale foreign tourists or out-of-town businessmen, neither of whom were likely to be haunting the area in the early afternoon. This made it a safe spot for a one-off meeting, and while waiting for this to happen, Judd paged through the Standard. As usual, he featured within, which was good news—the day the Mickey Mouse papers ignored him, he’d know his career was over. What it actually said didn’t matter. So long as it carried a photo, he was golden.

He heard the clacking of her heels on the path a full minute before she appeared.

Judd rolled the paper again, and used it to tap the space on the bench next to him. “It’s reasonably dirt-free,” he said. Then added, “The bench, I mean. Not this rag.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“Would you? Would you really? Well, how very nice for you.” His tone slipped from penthouse to pavement. “But when I say sit, you sit.”

Diana Taverner sat.

•••

Sean Patrick Donovan.

That was the name River found, a recent recruit to Black Arrow; hired as Chief Officer i/c Strategy-Operations, a suitably pseudo-military title for one of these outfits—River had no trouble imagining a bunch of Territorial Army vets, Prison Service rejects and ex-community coppers making up the ground crew. Probably unjust but he hurt almost everywhere, Nick Duffy’s blows having had the cartoon-like quality of spreading the pain of their impact outwards, until every available inch felt tender and ill-used. His grip on his mouse tightened, but he had to keep thoughts of vengeance at bay, focus on the task at hand—Sean Patrick Donovan.

The name hadn’t been hard to come by: Sly Monteith had announced it in a release to the trade press back in February—delighted to announce and formidable experience in the armed forces, etc etc. A brief online trawl revealed that Donovan’s formidable experience included a stretch in a military prison prior to dishonourable discharge, a fact that received significantly less coverage. There was a photo, Donovan and another appointee, Benjamin Traynor, flanking their new boss, a champagne flute between two pint mugs. Neither of them cracking a smile, though Monteith’s superior expression more than made up. Look at my dancing bears, thought River. Well, he’d had that smirk wiped off his face good and proper.

Ex-army; high rank; hard time. That ticked a lot of boxes as far as River was concerned: there might be other suspects, but this one would do to start with. He winced as another flash of pain lit up his body’s circuitry, bit down until it passed away, then emailed what he’d found to the other slow horses, yards away.

Long past the hour Marcus Longridge mumbled something about getting lunch, and slipped out of the office pretending not to hear Shirley Dander’s response, which involved a chicken baguette. The yard smelled worse than ever; the street was hot as hell. In the bookies by the station he filled out a betting slip for the 3:20 at Towcester, which he’d diligently researched under cover of work, and while he waited stood and glared at the tin bastard of a roulette machine. It kind of looked alive, with a demon’s eyes and grinning mouth . . . Wrapped up in this, Marcus forgot to follow the race, and glanced up just in time to catch the closing moments, which was like being sucker-punched by a supermodel: a beautiful moment nearly like pain. £160, straight to his trouser pocket. A sweet return on twenty quid.

He collected his winnings and patted the machine on his way out; insult to injury.