Shirley looked at Ho, who was supposed to be running interference, but was too wrapped up in his imaginary phone call. Then again, it might be the most meaningful encounter he’d had in a while. He’d probably end up arranging to meet himself for a drink.
‘Health and Safety,’ she said. ‘Just entering to check for … subsidence.’
‘Ooh, are we about to fall down a big hole?’
‘I’d not be surprised,’ said Shirley, as the current key clicked sweetly into place, the way a jam jar lid comes loose. ‘Probably best to be far away.’
Roddy said, ‘Okay, gotta run. Hang cool,’ and ended his call.
He followed her inside, closing the door behind them.
The shop had only been shut a day or so, and yet an air of finality had dropped on it like a dust sheet. Emptied of goods, the shelving looked rackety and unstable, as if a heavy finger might bring it down, and the space on the counter where the till had sat for decades was seven shades lighter than the surrounding surface. Shirley shook her head. She rarely entered a shop more than two years old. And that retailer’s sweet spot, the gap between opening-day bargains and closing-down sale, she made a point of avoiding.
There was a door behind the counter, leading to the stairs Lamb had mentioned, and Shirley headed straight for it.
Roddy Ho put his clipboard down and followed. She had, he thought, taken long enough to get them in. Lamb would have expected this; when handing her rather than Roddy the skeleton set he’d bestowed upon the latter the ghost of a wink, discernible to no one.
‘Locked.’
‘Yeah, try pulling?’
He pulled, and the door opened on an empty toilet.
‘Ho,’ she said, ‘you’re as stylish as a man-bun.’
The other two rooms were also empty, with bare floorboards that moaned underfoot, and a lingering odour of cigarettes. In the back one there was a steel shutter over the window, padlocked in place. That was good.
‘Okay, gimme the stuff.’
Ho slipped his rucksack from his shoulders.
Shirley unzipped it and got to work.
The studio was buzzing, everyone hyper about the morning broadcast – London had a new hero, the riot-quelling Desmond Flint, and only Channel Go had his number. Already they were trailing an exclusive interview, Peter Judd having promised them an on-air sit-down with his man before the week’s end; one that would demonstrate that UK politics’ former Mr Angry had emerged from his chrysalis; was a man with wise things to say about the mood of the country, and gumption enough to get stuff done. Already Cantor had received calls from the broadsheets, looking at ‘expanding the coverage’, meaning riding his coat-tails. Yeah, right. But his heart wasn’t in it, unable to shake his early morning visitor.
It was stupid, pathetic, an obvious ruse. No way would Taverner be looking to cancel his account. Sure, he’d rubbed her up the wrong way, and yeah, Tommo Doyle had lifted a file from Regent’s Park’s archive, but that was just gamesmanship: Taverner knew that. And maybe he’d passed that file to some foreign media contacts – okay,
‘Damien? Someone trying to reach you.’
‘… Huh?’
‘Caller on line one.’
He punched a button. ‘Cantor.’
‘Mr Cantor?’ The voice had a guttural quality, as if the words were being dragged past an obstruction in the throat. ‘How good to speak to you.’
‘Who is this?’
‘This is your new best friend, Mr Cantor.’
‘My new best friend,’ he repeated.
‘Yes. And I’m calling to let you know how much shit you’re in, and how best to avoid it.’
Trying not to think about windows, Cantor sank into his chair and listened.
When it was done, Lech slipped his phone into his pocket and looked at Louisa. ‘Well?’
‘How’d he take it?’
‘Like he didn’t believe a word I said.’
‘Well, that’s what he’d want you to think either way.’
‘Spoken like a spook,’ he muttered.
‘Glad to hear it.’ She raised her own phone. ‘My turn.’
