‘Yes, well. It is at the moment,’ said Peter Judd, as the red-sweatered mastermind on the corner collected the dump bin and threw it at the window again. ‘It is at the moment.’
White walls meant a clean conscience, Catherine liked to imagine. Back in her worst days, in that Dorset retreat where the Service sent its damaged people, she’d had fevered nights; dreams of being trapped inside a glass house, whose shifting rooms offered no escape. And during the days spent coming to terms with her new reality –
Well, here it was.
The mews cottage Lamb had led them to, on a cobbled lane near Cheyne Walk, had the white walls she’d dreamed of; white walls and little else. The kitchen was functional – a fridge hummed; an oven waited – but there was no furniture, no carpets, no art; only windows, each framing a view that perfectly matched the time of day. It was a blank canvas, with no regrets. A small house, but one that seemed pure and unsullied. Not yet stained.
‘Well, fuck a number of ducks,’ said Lamb. ‘Someone spent a lot of time on all fours for the keys to this pad.’
Louisa, Lech and Shirley checked it out: two rooms upstairs, plus bathroom; kitchen and sitting room down. Approaching two million quid, Louisa thought: like everyone who’d recently bought property she’d acquired an estate agent’s gene, impossible to switch off. Lech and Shirley, both London renters, viewed it as they would a palace or a cathedral; somewhere they might get to visit, but short of revolution, meteor strike or raging zombie virus, nowhere they’d ever live. Lamb, meanwhile, had perched in the sitting-room’s window recess, where the incoming light etched a golden thread round his bulk. Henry VIII, Catherine found herself thinking. Minus the finery, obviously. But with the same propensity for getting his own way, and not much caring who faced the blade.
Roddy Ho had found an outlet in the corner, and was charging his laptop. This was possibly at odds with the going-dark scenario, but he’d roll his eyes at any suggestion that his online presence might be detected. That was the thing about Roddy, thought Catherine. He couldn’t open a door without hurting himself or offending a woman, but give him a keyboard and he could skip a fandango with his eyes shut.
The others reappeared. The house was clean, as advertised: no bugs, no tripwires.
‘What about the neighbours?’ asked Louisa.
‘We’ll tell ’em we’re rat-catchers, and might be here a while,’ Lamb said. He turned to the others. ‘So – Dildo Baggins and Captain Coke. Been sandbagging tourists, I gather.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘We thought he was Park.’
‘Well, according to Taverner he wasn’t, which means you two shat in your porridge. So you might as well start planning your leaving party. I can’t come, by the way. I’m drinking in my office that night.’
‘We were going to return his stuff,’ Shirley sulked.
‘Is that the highest priority right now?’ said Lech. ‘I mean okay, we screwed up. But people are dying.’
‘River’s still not called in,’ said Louisa. ‘Nor has Sid.’
‘Cartwright’s gone dark,’ said Lamb. ‘So either he’s remembered his training, or someone’s pulled his blinds down. We’ll find out which when he turns up or his corpse starts to smell. Meanwhile, I’ve got my own problems. Anyone got a light?’
Catherine said, ‘Just for once, could we try not polluting the air?’
He stared at her as if she’d just invoked an impossible creature, like a unicorn, or a secret vegan. ‘And how would that help?’
‘We’d all breathe more easily.’
‘Help me, I meant.’
‘You don’t seem surprised Sid’s alive,’ Louisa said.
Lamb had conjured a cigarette from nowhere, but tucked it behind his ear. ‘I’m more surprised some of you are. She was the only one of you smart enough to look both ways crossing the road.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Mention it. Of course, she’s also stupid enough to turn to Cartwright for assistance. Bit like seeking Prince Andrew’s advice on choosing your friends.’
‘Editorialising aside,’ Catherine said, ‘do you have a next move planned? Because if all we’re going to do is lie low, we might as well sort out sleeping arrangements.’
‘Happy to share with anyone,’ said Lamb, raising a buttock and farting long and loud.
Ho said, ‘Three rooms, six of us. We should probably pair off.’
‘In your dreams,’ Louisa told him.
Lech said, ‘There’s a team of GRU killers out there knocking off slow horses past and present. Maybe that’s what we should be focusing on.’
‘Hashtag-face has a point,’ Lamb conceded. ‘Anyone care to contribute? And remember, there’s no such thing as a bad idea.’ He retrieved the cigarette from his ear. ‘Just the time-wasting fuckwit who offers one.’
Shirley said, ‘How many of them are there?’
‘How many clowns fit in a car?’
