‘There were three somethings, you said. At King’s Cross. You didn’t say what they were.’
‘Panic attacks,’ said Lamb. ‘There were three panic attacks.’
River nodded.
‘Not including yours,’ Lamb said.
And that had been the most significant conversation River had had with Jackson Lamb.
Until today.
Jed Moody would turn up eventually. A couple of hours after everyone else, but nobody made an issue out of this because nobody cared, and anyway, nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of Moody, and most sides of Moody were the wrong one. A good day for Moody was when some character took up residence at the bus stop over the road, or sat too long in one of the garden patches in the Barbican complex opposite. When this happened, out Moody would go, even though it was never serious—was always kids from the stage school down the road, or someone homeless, looking for a sit-down. But whoever it was, out Moody would slope, chewing gum, and sit next to them: never engaging in conversation—he just sat chewing gum. Which was all it took. And when he came back in he was a little lighter of step for five minutes: not enough to make him good company, but enough that you could pass him on the stairs without worrying he’d hook a foot round your ankle.
He made no secret: he hated being among the slow horses. Once he’d been one of the Dogs, but everyone knew Jed Moody’s screw-up: he’d let a desk-jockey clean his clock before making tracks with about a squillion quid. Not a great career move for a Dog—the Service’s internal security division—even without the subsequent messy ending. So now Moody turned up late and dared anyone to give him bullshit. Which nobody did. Because nobody cared.
But meanwhile Moody wasn’t here yet, and River Cartwright was still upstairs with Jackson Lamb.
Who leant back in his chair, folding his arms. There’d been nothing audible, but it became apparent he’d farted. He shook his head sadly, as if attributing this to River, and said, ‘You don’t even know who he is, do you?’
River, half his mind still at King’s Cross, said, ‘Hobden?’
‘You were probably still at school when he was successful.’
‘I dimly remember him. Didn’t he use to be a Communist?’
‘That generation were all Communists. Learn some history.’
‘You’re about the same age, aren’t you?’
Lamb ignored that. ‘The Cold War had its upside, you know. There’s something to be said for getting teenage disaffection out your system by carrying a card instead of a knife. Attending interminable meetings in the back rooms of pubs. Marching for causes nobody else would get out of bed for.’
‘Sorry I missed that. Is it available on DVD?’
Instead of replying, Lamb looked away, beyond River, indicating they weren’t alone. River turned. A woman stood in the doorway. She had red hair, and a light dusting of freckles across her face, and her black raincoat—still glistening from the morning rain—hung open, showing the collarless white shirt beneath. A locket on a silver chain hung at her breast. A faint smile hovered on her lips.
Under one arm she held a laptop, the size of an exercise book.
Lamb said, ‘Success?’
She nodded.
‘Nice one, Sid,’ he told her.
Sidonie Baker put the laptop on Lamb’s desk. Without looking at River she said, ‘There’s been some kind of accident. Downstairs.’
‘Does it involve rubbish?’ Lamb asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then relax. It wasn’t an accident.’
River said, ‘Whose is that?’
‘Whose is what?’ Sid asked.
‘The laptop.’
Sid Baker might have walked out of a commercial. It didn’t matter for what product. She was all clean lines and fresh air; even her freckles seemed carefully graded. Underneath her scent, River detected the whiff of fresh laundry.
Lamb said, ‘It’s okay. You can rub it in.’
It was all the clue River needed. ‘That’s Hobden’s?’
She nodded.
‘You stole his laptop?’
She shook her head. ‘I stole his files.’
River turned to Lamb. ‘Would they be more or less important than his rubbish?’
Lamb ignored him. ‘Did he notice?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Sidonie said.
‘Sure?’
‘Pretty sure.’
Lamb raised his voice. ‘Catherine.’
She appeared in the doorway like a creepy butler.
‘Flash-box.’
She disappeared.
River said, ‘Let me guess. Feminine wiles?’
‘Are you calling me a honey trap?’
‘If the cliché fits.’
Catherine Standish returned with a flash-box she placed on Lamb’s desk next to his clock. She waited, but Lamb said nothing. ‘You’re welcome,’ she told him, and left.
Once she’d gone, Lamb said: ‘Tell him.’
‘His key-fob’s a memory stick,’ Sid said.
‘A flash drive,’ River said.
‘That’s right.’
‘And he keeps his back-up files on it?’
‘Seems a reasonable conclusion. Given that he carries it everywhere.’
‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? If it’s attached to your keys.’
‘There’s certainly something on it. A couple of mega-bytes’ worth.’
‘Maybe he’s writing a novel,’ River said.
‘Maybe he is. You didn’t find a draft in his rubbish, did you?’
He was going to lose this conversation if he wasn’t careful. ‘So you picked his pocket?’
