“Like I said. When I say so.” He kicked Patrice’s foot. “Show me this video.”
Ho fiddled with his phone, then passed it over. Lamb watched the YouTube moment, sneered, then tossed the phone back. Ho caught it, nearly, then went scrabbling about on the floor.
Lamb kicked Patrice again. “You kill Cartwright too?”
Patrice was conscious, but hadn’t spoken yet. Maybe he couldn’t. Once he’d gone down Lamb had stamped on his face, just to be sure, and he currently had fewer teeth than he’d started the day with. His jaw was a purple mess, his jacket and shirt blood-soaked. Lamb’s shoe hadn’t got off scot-free, come to that, but he wasn’t avidly image-conscious, so didn’t mind.
“You listening?”
“I can make him talk,” Shirley said quietly.
“I don’t doubt it.”
She’d do it the way Marcus had shown her: with a cloth over the face, and a jugful of water.
“Seriously, I can—”
“No.” But Lamb too spoke quietly.
Shirley had Patrice’s gun. It still reeked; something that didn’t get mentioned much in the movies, in the books. Her hands would be stained with its residue. Anyone would think she’d pulled a trigger.
The room seemed curiously empty, given there were five of them. Six if you counted Patrice. But no Marcus. Nobody was going to be counting Marcus again.
Lamb looked at Catherine. “The old man okay?”
She nodded. It was the first thing she’d checked. Moira Tregorian had fainted when Catherine opened the door. She was still upstairs, descent being beyond her yet. Catherine had rescued the bottle of whisky from her drawer—its long-term purpose being to lure Jackson back from a clifftop, or encourage him over one; whichever situation cropped up first—and had poured both David and Moira a hefty slug. As for herself, she’d wavered. For half a second, maybe less, she’d spent a small eternity balanced on the rim of a glass.
Ho had recovered his phone, and was leaning against River’s desk. He looked smaller—diminished—they all did. They really needed to call the Park. The police, even. This was Lamb’s kingdom, but kingship had its limits.
Lamb said, “If he killed River, I doubt he bothered to bury him after. Someone check the news, see if there are bodies on the streets.”
Nobody moved.
“Did I die too, and not notice? Because if I’m a ghost, I’ll tell you this. I go
“I’ll do it,” said Ho.
Catherine thought he sounded about twelve.
On River’s desk were the contents of Patrice’s pockets: a passport in the name of Paul Wayne, a mobile phone, a wallet containing euros and sterling. A ticket for the chunnel train. Did it still get called the chunnel? She hadn’t heard that in years. On his way past the desk, she noticed, Ho lifted the mobile. She didn’t doubt Lamb saw this too, but he said nothing.
JK Coe was against the wall. His head was uncovered, and his hands jammed into his hoodie’s pouch. Catherine could read nothing in his eyes, which were fixed on Patrice, who despite the damage Lamb had wrought was not only conscious but alert, as if the blood and associated liquids pooling from his jaw were a mask, beneath which he was planning his escape.
She shuddered. When he’d kicked through the door, gun in hand, she was sure she was on her last breath.
Lamb dropped to his haunches suddenly; did so without a sound, though there were times he’d audibly creak and groan if he had to do anything strenuous, like reach into a pocket. His face inches from Patrice’s he said, “Are you the last of them? Or is your bossman, Frank, is he around too?”
Patrice’s eyes betrayed no emotion. His lips didn’t move. Catherine didn’t think his lips moved. It was hard to tell, though, messed up as his face was.
She said, “It’s not going to work, Jackson. He’s not going to talk.”
Lamb looked up at her, and for a moment there was something in his eyes she’d never seen before, and then it was gone. She wasn’t sure what it had been.
Roderick Ho appeared. He was holding Patrice’s phone.
“There’s only one number been called from this,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“And if I piggyback on the Service program—”
“You can trace it,” said Lamb. “So what are you hanging about for?”
Louisa had finished her coffee and was having a pee when her phone rang, of course. She’d have ignored it, except it was Lamb.
Knowing him, he’d register the acoustic, and that was all she’d hear about for weeks.
“Yeah,” she said, trying to keep her voice low, so it wouldn’t bounce off the porcelain.
“Where are you?”
“A bar off Pentonville. What’s up?”
Because he didn’t sound normal.
“How soon can you get to the Embankment?”
“What’s happened, Lamb? Who got hurt?”
She didn’t want to say “killed,” but that’s what she meant. Last time she’d heard Lamb sound like this—
“I ask how fast you can get somewhere, I don’t expect you to waste time asking questions. Call me on the way.”
He disconnected.
