But right now River seemed to be at the centre of events, because it was the slow horses that had everyone uptight tonight. Sid Baker was under the surgeon’s knife; somebody else was dead; and there were rumours that Jackson Lamb had orchestrated the kidnapping of that internet kid. Whatever the truth, there was a general air that shit was about to hit the fan. But it was all internal. There was no ministerial presence. Spider would have noticed: when the Minister was in the building, the ripples spread outwards.
But suit or not, Webb felt sidelined. Taverner didn’t like him showing up on the hub uninvited—this was the flipside of being under her wing: she didn’t want anyone knowing about it—but he couldn’t sit here under the unwavering gaze of files and folders much longer without starting to feel like he, and not River, had failed an important test.
He didn’t think he could, anyway. But after reflecting for a moment on whether he minded pissing Lady Di off, he decided he might manage it a little longer.
‘How did you do?’
Catherine Standish said, ‘Dermot Radcliffe hired a Volvo three weeks ago. Family holiday, he said. He wanted plenty of boot space.’
Taking this detail in, Louisa felt her heart pound her chest.
‘And they just told you that?’
‘Why wouldn’t they? I’m his sister, desperately trying to reach him. Our mother’s in hospital.’ Catherine sat and picked up her coffee cup. It was cold to the touch. She put it down and recited from memory the car’s number plate.
‘Of course, we don’t know they’re using it now.’
‘They left Roupell Street in a hurry,’ Min Harper said. ‘So they either took that car or stole another one. In which case, that car’s still nearby, and their new one’ll be reported missing soon.’
‘Can’t drive anywhere through London without showing up on CCTV.’
‘Which would be great if we were at the Trocadero,’ said Ho. He meant the nerve centre of the city’s surveillance systems, with its massed ranks of monitors covering every inch of the capital. ‘But I’ve only got a laptop.’
‘Still,’ said Catherine. ‘That might do the trick.’
Three pairs of eyes turned her way.
‘Triple-D cars come fitted with sat nav,’ she said.
Joanna Lumley was the saviour of the Gurkhas, who’d been shabbily treated by a succession of British Governments. Joanna Lumley was a formidable woman. The Gurkhas had been denied the right to live in the country they’d served in the war, and Joanna Lumley had deplored this state of affairs. So Joanna Lumley, in one of those quintessentially English turns of event, had turned a Government on its head and bent it to her will. Forcibly charmed, the Government bestowed upon the Gurkhas rights of residence. In return, the Gurkhas worshipped Joanna Lumley as they might a god.
So how was Hassan supposed to ignore her commands?
He didn’t want to open his eyes.
He opened his eyes.
There was nothing to see, of course. But at least this nothing was actually there, as opposed to the huge unexisting blankness through which he’d been falling a short while ago.
Things hadn’t changed. He was still folded into the boot of a car, still hooded, gagged and bound. He was still being thrown about like a pea in a whistle. And he could still hear Joanna Lumley, though she was no longer talking to him; she seemed, rather, to be offering directions to somebody else.
Joanna Lumley hadn’t been talking to Hassan at all.
On the other hand, for the moment at least, Hassan was back in the land of the living.
Nick Duffy said, ‘Is this a joke?’
‘I’m returning your car. I was worried they’d take it out your wages.’
‘You pulled a gun on me.’
‘No, I delegated that. And she didn’t pull it on you, she pulled it on your boy.’ Jackson Lamb, who was still in the driving seat, placed a meaty elbow on the rim of its open window, and mock-whispered: ‘The gun’s in my pocket. Case you thought I was getting excited.’
‘Out of the car.’
‘You’re not having me shot, are you?’
‘Not out here, no.’
‘Good. Only I was wanting a word with Lady Di.’
He sat back, and pressed the button that closed the window.
Duffy opened the door, and held a hand out.
Panting with the effort—a piece of drama Duffy wasn’t falling for—Lamb levered himself on to the pavement, then produced the weapon from his coat pocket.
For a brief moment, everyone within sight tensed.
Lamb put the gun in Duffy’s outstretched hand, then farted loudly. ‘Sausage sandwich,’ he said. ‘I’ll be doing that all morning.’
