‘Oh, shut up. I told Taverner not to fuck with my joes. She probably won’t. But having them tailed by her L-plate muppets isn’t full-on fuckery. More like heavy petting.’ He hefted his mug. ‘Besides, I told them about it, didn’t I? And I don’t imagine Dander will shrug it off.’
Catherine let that sink in. Then said, ‘Somebody might get hurt.’
‘I’m pleased you’ve grasped the essentials.’ He took a magnificent slurp of tea. ‘Besides, Taverner’s heart’s not in it. She’s up to something, and it’s not going well.’
‘And this is a cause for rejoicing? We’re all on the same side, remember?’
‘Jesus, have you learned nothing? When they tell you to take it one day at a time, that doesn’t mean do a memory wipe each morning.’ He set the mug down. It couldn’t possibly be empty yet. ‘If we were all on the same side, we wouldn’t have to watch our own backs.’
‘We can’t watch our own backs. We have to watch each other’s.’
‘That, sir, is arrant pedantry,’ Lamb said, in a fair approximation of Winston Churchill. ‘Up with which you can fuck right off.’
He was impossible in this mood, which was something it had in common with all his other moods.
Catherine said, ‘What do you mean, Taverner’s not going well?’
‘I mean she might have made a mistake.’
‘In picking on your crew?’
‘Christ, no. That’s a no-brainer. No, it’s what she said last night, then pretended she hadn’t. She’s worried about something, and as she has no personal life, it’s something to do with the Park.’ He squinted at the ceiling. ‘And off-book, or she’d not be worried. Anything in-house, she can blame on someone else.’
‘You think she’s running a black op?’
‘Last time she tried that, heads rolled. Well, not rolled exactly. But definitely sat on a tabletop looking alarmed.’
‘Thanks for the memory. What do you plan to do?’
‘I plan to have a big lunch and a long nap,’ said Lamb. ‘But send Ho up first. Don’t see why I should be the only one making an effort.’
The hotel was just off Kingsway, and was a discreet and mildly shabby concern, the kind of place where you might bring a hooker, but only if you were classy enough to pay for the whole night. Peter Judd collected his key at reception and asked if there was a kettle in the room. He gestured to the plastic bag he held, which was all the luggage he carried. ‘I’ve brought my own biscuits,’ he said, in a tone of self-congratulation that implied that walking into a supermarket, grasping the general concept, and successfully walking out with a purchase was an achievement on a par with Prince Charles posting a letter by himself.
‘All our rooms are provided with full amenities,’ he was assured.
‘I’m very glad to hear that,’ he said. ‘Whatever it means. Could you ring when my guest arrives?’
Which happened within the hour.
His guest was a man in early middle age, running to fat, and with sweaty jowls which weren’t shaved too closely; less a style statement than lack of care. His hair hadn’t been washed of late, and his shirt was too snug a fit for bystanders’ comfort, so God knew what wearing it felt like. He looked round the room suspiciously before venturing inside; stood with the door hanging open behind him, like an exit strategy for dummies. Judd, who had arranged the two available armchairs in the centre of the room, was pouring boiling water into a teapot. ‘Put wood in hole,’ he said, in a comedy accent. ‘That’s what you northerners say, isn’t it?’
‘I’m from Hertfordshire.’
‘Yes.’ He carried the teapot to a small table on which he’d already placed two teacups and the now opened packet of biscuits. ‘I didn’t put them on a plate,’ he said. ‘I assumed you don’t go for airs and graces.’
The man had closed the door at last, and at Judd’s invitation took one of the two chairs.
‘So,’ said Judd, taking the other. ‘Desmond Flint. Flinty. I presume your nickname comes from adding a Y, rather than from your unyielding nature?’
Flint just stared.
‘Well, it cuts down on imaginative effort, I suppose,’ said Judd. ‘Forgive me if I appear ill at ease.’ He was as ill at ease as a cat in a basket. ‘At Oxford I quite often encountered those who, ah, identified as working class. But what they meant was, they went to only a minor public school. Do you take milk? There are little tubs.’
‘Why am I here?’
‘To tell me what you’re doing. What you think you’re doing. With the, ah, you know. The Yellow Vests.’
‘And why the hell should I do that?’
‘Because there’ll be something in it for you.’
Flint kept staring a moment longer, then shook off whatever grim spell he’d fallen under. His words, when they came, were greased by familiarity.
