‘Andy stepped into something big, and then he died. You think that’s a coincidence?’
‘It’s a matter of perspective. If Andy was your size, anything he stepped in must have looked big. Any more beer?’
‘No.’
‘Good. That one was a fucking insult.’ He stood so suddenly Reece thought he was on the attack. His cigarette hung from his mouth. ‘Look. People die. You should get used to that. And if you want to get all paranoid about it, that’s your choice. Word of advice, though. Be careful dropping names like Rasnokov’s, and keep your fantasies to yourself or you’ll only be a nuisance. And you’re small enough to squash. Something else you should be used to by now.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Reece.
‘Now that’s disappointing. I was hoping for “Follow the yellow brick road”.’
And then he was gone.
Reece crossed to the window, and watched him heading down the street, trailing smoke. His high-vis vest lay on the floor, a camouflage accessory no longer required. Reece wondered where he’d stolen it from, in that brief interval after leaving Old Miles’s; wondered if he’d left a genuine yellow vest wearer in a similar heap somewhere, then decided he didn’t care. Andrey would have thought it a detail worth worrying over, but Andy had been a writer. And look where that had got him.
Though maybe the fat bastard had been right. Maybe being dead was just the next thing that had happened to Andy in his short, all senses, life.
In a sudden spurt of anger, he kicked out at the nearest pile of books. Homespun bookmarks flew, snippets of Andrey’s tadpole writing on them: useless clues – Reece couldn’t decipher half, and the rest were in Russian. But it didn’t matter. Nothing he did could bring Andy back, and his best attempt so far, snagging a real-life spook from Andy’s favourite hang-out, had only resulted in a string of insults and a sitting room stinking of smoke. Everybody was a bastard. That included Andy and, probably, himself.
After a while he collected the books and set them in a pile again. The bookmarks would never find their way back to their rightful pages, so he just gathered them together and tucked them inside the top volume. Maybe, tonight, he’d set something in motion he’d never get to hear about. It was more likely, though, that all he’d done was afford half an hour’s amusement to a fat spy.
He put the empty bottles in the recycling box and the scarred yellow vest in the bin.
Then he went to bed.
THE KITCHEN AT SLOUGH House had been fitted in the late seventies, and had undergone renovation since, inasmuch as a calendar had been hung there in 2010. That had been taken down, but the nail used to fix it in place remained, now graced by a tea towel, which had previously dangled from the one drawer knob that didn’t come away in the hand. This new assignment sometimes allowed the towel to nearly dry out, not that it was used much, but it did tend to absorb available moisture. The room’s other main advantage was that it was of a size that could almost accommodate two people without argument erupting, provided neither one was Roddy Ho.
Who, sniffing suspiciously, said, ‘What’s that supposed to be?’
‘Focaccia.’
‘It’s got bits on it.’
‘It’s supposed to. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one before. You eat enough pizza.’
‘Pizza’s round.’
‘You’re aware that being round is not a food group?’ The bread Lech Wicinski had made the previous evening nestled in silver foil on the battle-scarred kitchen counter. ‘Try some. It won’t kill you.’
‘I don’t want to get crumbs on my shirt.’
Lech eyed the garment in question: a green, paisley-swirled specimen Ho had buttoned to the throat. ‘Crumbs might improve it.’
Louisa joined them, bearing an empty mug. She looked at Ho, then at Lech, then at the bread, then at Lech again. ‘You made that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What, with like flour and stuff?’
‘Flour, yes. And also stuff.’
She nodded, though not in a way that indicated she was up to speed yet. ‘And then what? Did you drop it?’
‘Christ, what is this? I made some bread, I didn’t finish it all. So I brought the rest in. Where’s the problem?’
‘It’s just, that doesn’t happen much round here.’
‘Which? The baking or the bringing it in?’
‘All of it,’ said Louisa. ‘Including the part about not finishing it yourself.’ She emptied the kettle into the sink and refilled it, a process Ho watched without comprehension. ‘Fresh water?’ she said. ‘For coffee?’ Then back to Lech: ‘If you’re planning on starting a bake-off, I’ll tell you now, it’ll end badly.’
‘If I start a bake-off,’ said Lech, ‘it’ll be to decide which of you lot to chuck in an oven.’
‘Why bake stuff anyway?’ asked Ho. ‘It’s available in shops. Duh.’
‘I hate to say this,’ said Louisa, ‘but the shirt has a point.’
‘So you’re not a cook either.’
‘Me? I can barely defrost.’
‘What’s wrong with my shirt?’ asked Ho.
‘It looks like a frog threw up on you.’
‘It’s Italian designed.’
‘So’s the bread,’ said Lech. ‘But it was made by a Pole in the East End.’
Catherine had appeared in the doorway. ‘What are you all doing?’
