Lamb said, ‘If you had issues with him, I could have spoken to HR. Arranged an intervention.’ He tapped Moody’s shoulder with his foot. ‘Breaking his neck without going through your line manager, that shit stays on your record.’
‘We didn’t know it was him.’
‘Not sure that counts as a defence,’ Lamb said.
‘He had a gun.’
‘Better,’ Lamb said. He regarded the pair of them. ‘He used it earlier, if it helps. Shot Sid Baker with it.’
‘
‘Christ, is she—’
River found his voice. ‘She’s alive.’
‘Or was twenty minutes ago,’ Lamb corrected. Bending his knees, he went through Moody’s pockets. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Ten minutes ago.’
‘Maybe fifteen.’
‘And you were planning on what, waiting for it all to go away? What were you doing here anyway?’
‘We’d been over the road.’
‘In the pub.’
‘Can’t afford a room?’ Lamb produced a mobile phone from Moody’s pocket. ‘Where’s the gun?’
Harper gestured behind him.
‘He look like using it?’
Harper and Guy exchanged glances.
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ Lamb said. ‘This isn’t a court of law. Did he look like using it?’
‘He was carrying it.’
‘He didn’t point it exactly.’
‘You might want to reconsider your position on that,’ Lamb said, fishing a faded brown envelope from inside Moody’s jacket. ‘Son of a bitch!’
‘He was in your office.’
‘We figured he was on a raid.’
Watching the pair of them in contrapuntal gear, River recognized something new going on; a shared conspiracy that hadn’t been apparent before. Love or death, he figured. Love in its most banal guise—a quick fumble in the stairwell, or a drunken snog—and death in its usual weeds. One of the two had fused this pair together. And he flashed again on that moment on the pavement outside Hobden’s, when whatever had been starting to grow between himself and Sid Baker ended.
Her blood was on his shirt still. Possibly in his hair.
‘He had a balaclava on.’
‘Didn’t look like a junkie thief.’
‘We didn’t mean to kill him, though.’
‘Yeah,’ said Lamb. ‘It’s all very well being sorry now, isn’t it?’
‘What’s in the envelope?’ River asked.
‘You still here?’
‘He took that from your office, didn’t he? What’s in it?’
‘The blueprints,’ Lamb said.
‘The
‘The secret plans.’ Lamb shrugged. ‘The microfilm. Whatever.’ He’d found something else: Moody’s black-wrapped form hid more pockets than a magician’s. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he said again, only this time with less venom; almost with admiration.
‘What’s that?’
For a moment, it seemed Lamb was about to secrete what he’d found in the folds of his overcoat. But he held it up to the light instead: a brief strand of black wire, the length of a straightened paperclip, with a split-lentil head.
‘A bug?’
‘He bugged your office?’
‘Or maybe,’ River said, ‘he was on his way to bug your office.’
‘After the evening he’d had, I doubt tapping my office was top of his list,’ Lamb said. ‘No, he was cleaning up. Prior to getting out.’ He hadn’t finished his body-search yet. ‘Two mobiles? Jed Jed Jed. I’m surprised you had enough friends to carry one.’
‘Who’s he been talking to?’
‘Thank God you’re here. Would I have thought of that?’ A mobile in each hand, Lamb pressed buttons with each thumb; surprisingly dextrous for a self-proclaimed Luddite. ‘Now that’s strange,’ he said, in a tone indicating that it wasn’t. ‘This one’s barely used. Just one incoming call.’
River wanted to say ‘Ring back,’ and only the cast-iron knowledge that Lamb wanted him to say it too kept his tongue in harness.
Still sitting, Min and Louisa kept their own counsel.
After a moment’s thought, Lamb pressed a few more buttons, and raised the mobile to his ear.
It was answered almost immediately.
Lamb said, ‘I’m afraid he can’t come to the phone right now.’
And then he said, ‘We need to talk.’
Down a quiet street in Islington—its front doors perched atop flights of stone steps; some with pillars standing sentry; some with Tiffany windows above—Robert Hobden walked, raincoat flapping in the night wind. It was after midnight. Some of the houses were dressed in darkness; from others, light peeped behind thick curtains; and Hobden could imagine the chink of cutlery, and of glasses meeting together in toasts. Halfway down the street, he found the house he was after.
There were lights on. Again, he caught an imaginary murmur from a successful dinner party: by now, they’d be on to the brandy. But that didn’t matter: lights or not, he’d still be ringing the bell—leaning on it, in fact, until the door opened. This took less than a minute.
‘Yes?’
It was a sleek man speaking, dark hair brushed back from a high forehead. He had piercing brown eyes which were focused on Hobden. Dark suit, white shirt. Butler? Perhaps. It didn’t matter.
‘Is Mr Judd in?’
‘It’s very late, sir.’
‘Funnily enough,’ Hobden said, ‘I knew that. Is he in?’
‘Who shall I say, sir?’
‘Hobden. Robert Hobden.’
The door closed.
