Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(101)

“I’d worn him out,” Shirley said, opening her eyes.

“Yes.”

“I’d have kicked his helmet clean off his shoulders.”

“I could tell.”

“With his head still in it.”

The paramedic was maintaining his disappointed outlook. “You shouldn’t eat chicken if you need medical treatment.”

“Is that an actual law?” Shirley asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Specific to chicken?”

Speaking of actual law, there was a police car approaching, and also a black SUV, probably one of those originally dispatched to the San. Without thinking about it Whelan reached out a hand, and Shirley took it and pulled herself to her feet, leaving the punnet where it lay. The paramedic started saying something about not moving when you were injured, advice probably worth listening to, though neither were. The last hour had either contracted or expanded, whichever was the right way of indicating that it had happened in its own time zone, while other events taking place elsewhere had moved at their own pace, leaving them stranded in a moment of their own. For as long as it lasted, it seemed they were partners; and if it were already beginning to end, well, only diamonds are forever.

“Where’s my chocolate?” asked Shirley.

From the back seat, Sparrow studied de Greer. She still thought she was in for a lobbying job, a whole new life, and in normal circumstances he’d enjoy bursting her bubble, but the last thing anyone needed was an hysterical woman in a moving car.

As if reading his thoughts, she looked over her shoulder. “Where are we going?”

“Like I said, somewhere safe. Until any difficulties have been smoothed away.”

“And you’re coming too?”

“Me? No. But Benito will take care of you, so no worries on that score.”

“Where, exactly?”

Benito said, “I can’t tell you that. More secure. You understand.”

If she didn’t, she decided not to make an issue of it.

They were heading towards Elephant and Castle. Much further, and they’d be outside Sparrow’s comfort zone. He said: “Anywhere along here’s fine,” despite it being a barely peopled road at whatever time it was now—he checked. Four fifty. Anyone abroad would be poorly paid, if not actively indigent. London was hostile territory, depending on the hour and the post code. But he could take care of himself, as he’d actively demonstrated in both woodland and boardroom. Anyone accosting him—or demanding a meeting—would be dealt with in short order.

Benito said, “The corner after this one.”

“Why not this one?”

The rolling of an Italian’s shoulders can be multilingual. “Tube station.”

I’m not catching a fucking tube.

“Are they even running yet?”

De Greer said, “You won’t have long to wait.”

No longer than it takes an Uber to show. Through his window, the shopfronts, the buildings, were decelarating. He glimpsed a sleeper in a doorway, and posters boasting happy-meals, cut-price getaways, cash prizes. Two men loitered by the locked-up station entrance, and both stopped smoking at the same moment, flicking their cigarette ends in opposite directions, as if aspiring to the condition of a firework. Benito cruised to a halt.

Sparrow leaned forward, putting his head between de Greer’s and Benito’s. “You’re going to be comfortable,” he told her.

“Thanks,” she said. “Will I see you soon?”

He opened his door. “. . . No.”

“Well,” de Greer said. “You got that right.”

Before he could climb out, one of the men climbed in, forcing Sparrow into the middle of the seat.

“What the fuck? . . .”

The other man had walked round, and was getting in the other side.

De Greer said to Benito, “Thank you.” Then to Sparrow: “I was remembering something you said once. About how the true hero of Psycho was the psycho. Because he just carried on being a psycho.”

“. . . What are you on about?”

“I’ll leave you to think about it. Bye.”

Her door closed with a definitive clunk.

The men hemming Sparrow in had a familiar feel; thick legs, cable-tense arms, the kind of hard-bodied trunks you might find in a wood. Neither spoke, but sat with their big shoulders forcing him into a supplicant’s cringe, staring ahead at a road that was on the move again.

“Alessandro—”

“Benito.”

“Benito, am I missing something?”

“What makes you ask that, Mr. Sparrow?”

“Because I’m still in the car. And de Greer isn’t.”

“Right.” He changed lanes, to overtake a night bus. “An interesting woman, Dr. de Greer. We had a most enjoyable conversation.”

“. . . When?”

“Shortly before you called me. It was strange, she knew exactly how our conversation would go. They have a name, don’t they? People who can predict outcomes?”

“Benito—”

A heavy hand on his shoulder discouraged further protest.

“She knew the things you’d promise, and the threats you’d make,” Benito continued. Traffic was gathering and the streetlights had grown weary, their glow a pallid offering that seemed to drop to the ground rather than reach into the dark. “And what she wanted to know was, how about if all your promises, about dropped charges and secure visas, could be fulfilled by someone else. She mentioned Regent’s Park?”