It was a starless night, thick black cloud wrapping the sky, and the streetlamps were wreathed in mist, the hedgerows heavy with collected rain. The houses here were large and detached, each walled or fenced off from its neighbour; islanded by lawn and flowerbed, and anchored to the earth by the weight of a century or so. Their gateposts were chipped or crumbling, their driveways as rutted as farmyards’, and their hallways would be stuffed with Labradors and wellingtons, with overcoats handed down from father to son—a tightness masquerading as tradition, unless it was the other way round—because it was old money, in all its shabby glory, that owned villages like this. There’d be poorer elements, their function to mow lawns and repair boilers, but the foxes here would be red and bushy, the squirrels fat and cheeky, unlike their nicotine-addicted counterparts in London parks and alleys, while the human inhabitants would be bluff, smug, and brimming with the confidence born of inherited wealth. Lamb took care to slam the door when he hauled himself out into the cold. There was little point in discretion. He could already see upstairs curtains twitching in the nearest house.
A police car was parked by David Cartwright’s gate. Two other unmarked vehicles were nearby, one with a goon behind the wheel; the other empty, its hazards flashing. He felt its warmth as he passed. Cartwright’s front door was ajar, light puddling onto the driveway. A uniformed policeman stood there, observing Lamb’s approach with the wary contempt a street copper feels for the Funny Brigade. “Help you sir,” he said: three bare words, neither question nor statement. Lamb might as well have pulled a string on his back.
In place of an answer, Lamb produced the belch that had been brewing for the past five minutes.
“Very convincing, sir. But I’m going to need to see something laminated.”
Lamb sighed, and reached for his Service ID.
In the hallway a technician was dusting the banister for fingerprints, looking every inch an extra in a TV show. Star power was provided by the blonde in the black suit talking on her mobile. Her hair was bound in a severe back-knot, but if that was an attempt to dim her wattage, it failed; she could have painted a beard on and still sucked up all the local attention. When she saw Lamb she finished her conversation and slotted her phone into her jacket pocket. She was wearing a white blouse under the suit: her eyes were blue, her manner all business. But she didn’t offer her hand.
“You’re Lamb,” she told him.
“Thanks,” he said. “This time of night, I’m plagued by doubts.”
“We’ve not met. I’m Emma Flyte.”
“I guessed.”
Emma Flyte was the new Head Dog, in charge of the Service’s internal police squad. The Dogs sniffed out all manner of heresies, from the sale of secrets to injudicious sexual encounters: the honeytrap was older than chess, but stupidity was even older. So the Dogs were used to a long leash, roaming whatever corridors they chose, but were currently in the doghouse themselves: Dame Ingrid Tearney, erstwhile head of the Service, had used their offices to further her own interests, and while initiative was frequently applauded, getting caught exercising it was not. Emma Flyte, an ex-police officer, was the new administration’s clean-sheet appointment, though as more than one commentator had noted, if Regent’s Park was looking to the Met for an injection of integrity, it was in serious danger of an irony meltdown.
She said, “You know Mr. Cartwright?”
“Which one?”
“Either. Both.”
“The younger one works for me. His grandfather gave me a job once. You want to show me the damage?”
She handed him a pair of paper boots. “Treat it as a crime scene.”
Lamb left a lot of crime scenes in his wake. Arriving at one after the event was something of a novelty.
So was putting on a pair of paper boots, or so Flyte seemed to think. She watched with fascination as he attempted to slip the first one over his left shoe without bending over.
“It might help if you did your laces up.”
“I don’t suppose . . . ”
She didn’t grace that with so much as a smile.
Sighing, he got down to floor level and tied his laces. That done, the paper boots went on easily. When he regained his feet, his face was red and he was breathing heavily.
“I’d say you’re out of shape,” she told him. “But I’m not sure what shape you’re aiming for.”
He leered. “Offering to take me in hand?”
“Not even with these on.” She wore latex gloves. “It’s in the bathroom. That’s upstairs,” she added, as if his general knowledge wasn’t necessarily reliable in such matters.
Lamb led the way. The staircase was narrow for the size of the house, the pattern on its carpet a faded blurry mix of blue and gold. On the wall were a series of prints, pencil sketches of hands and faces, as if the artist was working up to something big but hadn’t got there yet. On the topmost one, an outstretched palm, the glass was smeared with blood. Lamb paused, then glanced down at the technician below. “Missed a bit.”
