By dint of a brief, illegal shortcut up a one-way alley, Marcus had changed direction and was heading west, manoeuvring his black tank through the city streets like he was piloting an image on a PC, and the worst that could happen was game over. Twice, as he strayed into oncoming traffic, Shirley stopped breathing, and her grip on the door handle was tight enough it would take a monkey wrench to loosen.
Her voice squeakier than she’d have liked, she said, “We going fast enough yet?”
“Sooner we get there, sooner I’ll slow down.”
Shirley was hoping this would come to pass without any pedestrians smeared across the tarmac; or, worse, her own sweet self propelled through the windscreen.
She looked across at her partner. Was that still the word, now they’d been sacked? Or was he just another semi-stranger; one of the increasing number in her life who buggered off when things got tricky? Except he hadn’t, had he? Things officially turned tricky about an hour ago, and here he still was, skyrocketing her through the city streets; heading full-tilt for what might turn out to be just another windmill.
Maybe he could read her mind.
“Back in the crash squad, we had a joke,” he said. “When is a door not a door?”
“. . . When it’s ajar?”
“When it’s a pile of fucking matchsticks,” Marcus said. “We weren’t especially subtle.”
“No, I get that.”
“If there’s a chance something bad is happening, we want to be there before it starts. Otherwise we’re already on the defensive, and that’s not anywhere you want to be when the bad shit’s going down.”
He was slipping into the macho rhythms of his Service career, Shirley realised, and in a rare moment of tact decided not to call him on it.
An amber light turned red maybe two seconds before they cruised past, leaving an angry squall of honking in their tracks.
“Hence the need for speed.”
“So we can arrive before the bad thing starts,” Shirley said.
“Yep.”
“And maybe get our jobs back.”
“Maybe.”
“And keep Cartwright and Guy from getting toasted.”
“. . . Yeah. That too.”
“I still think you should slow down,” Shirley said.
“Why?”
“Because that’s a cop car you just passed,” she told him; information immediately rendered old news as the car in question flashed its bar-lights, and the familiar two-tone lament began its upward spiral, demanding everyone’s attention, but specifically theirs.
Roderick Ho was proud of his car. Some other horses he could mention (he was thinking of Cartwright) didn’t even own a set of wheels, let alone a Ford Kia, electric blue with cream flashing, and seriously punishing sound system—Ho favoured music that came with health warnings, in Gothic lettering. The seats were cream too, with reciprocal electric-blue seaming, and the windscreen ever so slightly tinted, to keep onlookers guessing. Online, where Ho mutated into Roddy Hunt, DJ superstar, he referred to it as the chick-magnet, and in real life kept it immaculate, regularly treating it to squishes from a spraycan of new-car smell. In return for which it had obstinately refused to live up to its nickname, but then that was the problem with pre-owned wheels: the previous owner had used up its luck.
Still a great ride, though. Probably every bit as good as the other kind, he thought, coming to a halt at the kerb where Jackson Lamb stood waiting.
Waiting, holding a polystyrene coffee cup, and shaking his head: “Jesus wept.”
Ho wound down his window. “What?”
“If you have to ask,” Lamb told him, “you wouldn’t understand the answer. Would it make you feel like a lackey if I sat in the back?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” Lamb squeezed into the rear, spilling not very much coffee as he did so. “Why does it smell of cheese?”
The evening was darkening at last; one or two streetlights had popped on; others remained dormant, either on a different schedule or broken. The home-goers on the pavements had given way to pleasure seekers, heading into the Barbican for an event, or drifting towards bars on Old Street. Roderick Ho checked his rearview and caught Lamb on one of his fishing expeditions, hands emerging from both pockets; one clutching a cigarette, the other applying his lighter.
Lamb said, “Keep your hair on. It’s one of those e-cigarettes.”
“No it’s not,” Ho pointed out.
“It’s not?” Lamb examined the burning end suspiciously. “Crap. I’ve been ripped off.”
Ho cut his grumbled protest short when he realised Lamb had spotted the parking permit on his windscreen. “It’s cover,” he said.
“Cover,” Lamb repeated.
“And a safeguard against identity theft.”
Lamb’s laughter was two parts cough. He exhaled so much smoke he resembled a damp bonfire. “Identity theft? Trust me, kid. You couldn’t give yours away.”
Ho scowled.
