His fingers continued their caressing motion, and she realised he was plugged into an iPod. Perhaps he genuinely hadn’t noticed she was here, she thought, which possibly made what she did next unfair: scooping a stapler from River’s desk she lobbed it so it landed on Coe’s keyboard. The actual one, not the imaginary one he was playing. The effect startled her as much as the stapler did him: he shot to his feet with a shout of rage, and stuff went flying: his iPod, the chair he’d been sitting on, a mug, its contents.
“
“Jesus! I didn’t—”
“
His hood had fallen back, and he still looked washed-out, messy and pale, but dangerous too, like a cornered rat. Something glinted in his fist. It disappeared almost immediately into the pocket of his hoodie.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Louisa said.
He seemed about to say something, but changed his mind. Collecting his iPod instead, he righted his chair and slumped back down. The mug remained on the floor, its contents joining the several years’ worth of blood, sweat and tears soaked into the carpet. Mostly tears.
“I’m sorry.”
But what was that in your hand, she thought—was that a
“What happened?”
This was Marcus, with—inevitably—Shirley in tow, chanting “Fight! Fight!” under her breath.
“I dropped something,” Louisa said.
“Yeah, right.”
Shirley said, “Did he talk again? Make him talk again.”
“Shut up, Shirl.” Marcus moved across the room, stooping to collect the fallen mug on his way. This he set in front of Coe before crouching until they were on the same level. “Are we going to have a problem with you?”
Louisa said, “It was my fault, Marcus.”
“I’m talking to Little Grey Riding Hood here,” Marcus said, without shifting his gaze. “I’m wondering if he’s planning on starting to act up. You know, loud squawks and flying cups. Shit like that.”
When Coe replied, it was in a near whisper. “You gunna tie me to a chair and shave my toes off with a carving knife?”
“. . . Don’t plan to.”
“Then I’m not scared of you.”
Marcus looked over his shoulder at the women. “I think I found his boundaries.”
“Leave him alone, Marcus,” Louisa said wearily.
“Yeah, leave him alone, Marcus,” said Lamb.
Christ on a bike, Louisa thought. How did he do that? All he needed was a puff of smoke—and then a more urgent line of enquiry took shape, and she said, “What happened to River? Is he dead?”
“Fine, thanks. Yourself?”
“Lamb—”
“I realise I may have extended my Christmas break a smidgin, but really, people, has any work gone on here at all?”
His Christmas break had started last September. Louisa could count on her fingers how many times she’d seen him since.
She said, “Answer the question. River . . . ”
“He’s not dead.”
Instead of the relief she might have expected, a wave of tiredness came crashing upon her, as if she’d developed an adrenalin leak.
“As far as I know.”
“Then why,” she began, and gave up. The why would emerge in its own good time, or not at all. Pointless to expect better from Jackson Lamb.
Who was surveying his slow horses now, the way a battery farmer might inspect his chickens.
“You.” He pointed at Shirley. “You look different. Why?”
She patted the top of her head, where her buzz-cut was a softer, downy peach-fuzz. “I’m letting it grow out.”
“Huh.”
“It makes me look like a young Mia Farrow,” she said. “If she’d been dark instead of blonde.”
“Yeah,” said Lamb. “And if she’d eaten Frank Sinatra instead of marrying him.”
Ho, who’d trotted into the room on Lamb’s heels, said, “And I’ve grown a beard.”
“Really? Where?”
“On my . . . ” Ho’s voice trailed away.
“This is almost too easy,” Lamb said. Then tilted his head to one side. “You’re different too, though. Not just the chin pubes. How come you look all shiny?”
“He’s been showering,” Marcus said.
“Seriously?” Lamb looked at Ho, stunned. “You’ve found a
“That’s not what he—”
“Jesus. And this is an actual relationship? Not an abduction? Well well well.” Lamb dropped the appalled expression, and beamed round at the company. “See what you can achieve with a little application?” He patted Ho on the shoulder. “It does me good to see you rise above your disability.”
“I don’t have a disability,” Ho said.
“That’s the spirit. You should bring her into the office, introduce her.”
“Really?”
“Christ no, not really. It’s not a fucking coffee bar. And speaking of the fairer sex, our new lady friend settling in? Where is she, anyway?”
Marcus said, “Did you just call her a lady?”
“Of course. Always be polite when referring to a woman of a certain age,” Lamb said. “In case the mad old cow turns vicious.”
Louisa said, “She’s upstairs, I think. In Catherine’s office.”
“Now, now. It’s not Standish’s office any more. Remember?”
“That why you’ve been sulking?”
He ignored that; focused instead on JK Coe, who had clasped his hands on his desktop, as if to make sure they wouldn’t betray him. Lamb studied him for a moment or two, then said, “Does he speak?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Do you speak?”
Coe shrugged.
“What was he, raised by hamsters?”
