Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(37)

“We’re old friends, so you won’t mind me saying, but you look rough as fuck. Like you were up half the night being gang-banged and the rest writing thank-you notes.”

“As always, I’m touched by your concern.”

“Yeah, well, you want any other part touching you, you’ll need to smarten your act up.” He belched. “A man my age is coming into his prime. But a woman of yours, it’s pretty much over. So a little effort, you know?”

Resisting several urges, she said, “It’s been a long week.”

“Yeah, I heard about the genius on the security detail.”

Diana stifled a groan. The genius in question had left his gun and the PM’s passport in an aeroplane toilet, where it had been found by cabin crew on a flight home from Geneva. These things were usually hushed up, but the attendant doing the finding had been French.

“I assumed he was putting out to tender,” Lamb said. He pushed the remains of his first cone into his mouth, and went on: “Picture of the target, tool to do the job.” He made a gun of finger and thumb, and squeezed an imaginary trigger. “I’m surprised a queue didn’t form.”

“You can laugh. But if he doesn’t get fired, you’ll be finding desk space for him.”

“Up your bum. I’ve barely room for the moody tossers I’m saddled with now.”

“What about Cartwright’s desk?”

“I’ve converted it into a shrine.”

“You’re missing him.”

“I’ve had kidney stones I miss more. And as for your latest reject, No Khan Do? If it wasn’t against the rules, I’d give her back.” He looked at what was left of his second cone, grimaced, tossed it over his shoulder and visibly ran a tongue round his gums. “She’s trouble.”

“What’s she done?”

“Passive-aggressive shit mostly. But I can read the signs. It’s like when pets start disappearing, and you know a serial killer’s moved into the area. Or a Korean takeaway.”

She shook her head. “Normally, there’s nothing I like better than listening to you philosophise, but in case you hadn’t noticed it’s the middle of the morning, and we’ve both got jobs to do.” She paused, reconsidered. “I’ve got jobs to do. You’ve got a hard day’s dossing about to be getting on with. So what did you mean last night by things being complicated? And bear in mind I’m not in the mood for games.”

Lamb scratched his head, and when his hand reappeared it was holding a cigarette. “Yeah, funny how that works out. Because when you are in the mood I’ve got Claude Whelan turning my staff over, looking for a Downing Street pointy-head.”

“If you’re after an apology, sod off. Claude was being a pest and you’ve got all the time in the world. If I annoyed just one of you, I call that a result.”

“So it had nothing to do with your jolly at the Ivans’ HQ yesterday evening?”

“. . . With my what?”

“Which you left at 8:05.”

“You were watching?”

“Well, not personally. But I like to keep an eye on my crew’s work-life balance. And if it looks like life’s winning, I put my thumb on the scales.”

He showed her the thumb he meant. It was visibly sticky.

She shuddered, and said, “So you had them watch the embassy coverage.”

“Well. I only had to get one of them do it, and the rest stuck around in case they missed anything. MOFO, they call it.”

“FOMO.”

He shrugged. “Either way, it’d be what they also call sad, if it wasn’t so fucking hilarious.”

“Jackson—”

“And how was Vassily? I met him once. Long time back. He’d just graduated to Spook Street after working as a gangster’s blunt instrument. I could tell he was destined for greatness.”

“How did you know he was there?”

“I didn’t,” said Lamb. “But I do now.”

He rummaged around in his pockets and produced a plastic lighter.

“What’s going on?” said Diana.

“Well, that’s a long story. And it requires a flashback, a voiceover, and all sorts of technical shit.”

“What on earth are you—?”

“Not to mention a gallon of coffee. There’s a kiosk down the alley.” He gestured with his cigarette in that direction. “Fair’s fair. I bought the ice creams.”

It was worth it just to have ten minutes’ headspace. Diana spent it sieving through what she knew about Sophie de Greer: that she’d worked with Anthony Sparrow, been namechecked by Vassily Rasnokov, been missing for barely four days, and was evidently at the centre of some new clusterfuck, details as yet unknown. Unknown to her, anyway. Apparently Lamb had an inkling.

Which, she thought, carrying four large black coffees back to the bench, meant trouble coming down the tracks.

Upon her return Lamb grunted, accepted three of the coffees, glared at the one she kept for herself, farted leisurely, set the cups in a row, prised the lid off the first, farted again, and said, “Once upon a time—”

“Oh, please. Spare me the grace notes.”

“Shut up and listen.”