Nick Duffy watched their progress from the third floor of the other derelict block. Tailing them from the Barbican, he’d thought they’d spotted him, despite his car being an anonymous silver hatchback like every second set of wheels on the road; there’d been a definite phase when Louisa Guy had exhibited paranoid tendencies: slowing excessively for one amber light, pedal to the metal for another. When that happened, Duffy knew, you kept your cool; assumed that the usual traffic inhibitors would do their job, and a regular, even speed would bring the target back into focus at the next crowded junction. Failing that, you always had back-up.
Except, like now, when you didn’t.
What he did have was the next best thing in the circumstances, which was knowing where they were headed, because Dame Ingrid Tearney had told him.
“They’re aiding and abetting an ex-convict in the commission of a crime involving a breach of national security.”
This with her usual, unflappable delivery. Duffy suspected that if Tearney were ever to break news of imminent nuclear catastrophe, it would be in the same style, though in those circumstances she would no doubt resort to calling him “dear boy,” her invariable way of sweetening a pill.
“And you want me to stop them?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
They were in Dame Ingrid’s office, with its view that had once been green, but was now mostly brown: since the hosepipe ban, the plant life in the park opposite had been dying. This had happened before, but this time it was hard to believe that things would revert to normal. It was as if a tipping point had been reached, and the city, maybe the planet, was sliding into irreversible decline.
But since there was nothing he or anyone else could do about this, Duffy shrugged it off, and listened to Dame Ingrid’s story of Sylvester Monteith’s tiger team, and how it had turned on him and bitten his head off.
Since speaking to Lamb, Dame Ingrid had conducted a little research of her own, following the exact same path River had taken. One Sean Patrick Donovan, she explained to Duffy, was the chief suspect.
“Dumping the body in Central London,” he said. “Sounds like he was trying to make a point.”
And it explained what River Cartwright thought he’d been doing this morning. But the fact that Cartwright had walked away unaided indicated that whatever was happening now, it wasn’t going to be written up on official notepaper.
That was fine by him. Duffy had been Head Dog long enough to know which end did the wagging. If Dame Ingrid needed something done under the bridge, then under the bridge he’d go.
“The files are of no consequence,” Tearney said. “Archived material of a rather lurid nature. I suspect that Mr. Donovan’s wide range of experience, either in the military or in its house of correction, has left him somewhat paranoid. It’s always a shame when a career goes so spectacularly awry.”
“But you’re happy to let him get away with it?”
“When you get to my age, dear boy, you’ll understand that nobody really gets away with anything. But in this very specific instance, yes, I’m happy for him to appear to have got away with this.”
The word
“I want you to track him to his lair, Mr. Duffy. To run him to earth. And ensure that his paranoia doesn’t lead him into more serious misadventures.”
“I see.”
“I very much hoped you would. You’re happy to undertake this without support?”
“Without back-up? Yes, Dame Ingrid. I’m happy to do that.”
Because acting without back-up broke every rule in the Service’s code of practice, which meant she’d be putting a very big tick on his side of the ledger. And given his earlier run-in with Lady Di, Nick Duffy was feeling the need for a friend in high places.
Besides, this was what he was born for. Leaning on agents who stepped out of line was one thing. Squashing potential enemies of the state was entirely another.
When Cartwright and Guy disappeared through a side door into the abandoned factory, Duffy lowered his binoculars and wiped the sweat from his eyebrows. It wasn’t dark yet, though shadows were lengthening on the wasteground below. Whatever played out here in the next short while, there was no danger he’d miss anything.
Nick Duffy, in fact, prided himself on missing very little.
“Where’s your car?” said Lamb.
“. . . Why?”
“Because I thought it might need a wax and polish. Jesus, answer the question.”
Ho pointed through the window, in the direction of the nearby estate. He had a local resident’s parking permit in the name of an actual local resident, though as the resident in question was ninety-three and homebound, she was never likely to discover this. Come to think of it, she might be dead by now. Either way, there was probably a law said your boss couldn’t make you lend him your car.
On the other hand, if such a law existed, it almost certainly didn’t apply to Lamb.
“Good. I’ll have a dump while I’m waiting.”
“. . . Waiting?”
