Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(73)

Because now Lesley knew that I knew. But sometimes you’ve got to push to win.

‘You always were good at working stuff out,’ she said. ‘Not always exactly quick, but you get there in the end, don’t you?’

‘So what’s it all in aid of?’ I asked. ‘What does Marty want?’

‘He wants to make the world a better place.’

‘How?’

Lesley’s eyes were suddenly cold.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘killing Punch would be a good start.’

‘What if getting rid of Punch fucks everything up?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the city. Maybe he’s part of the ecosystem – maybe he’s necessary.’

Lesley pinched her own cheek and pulled – it stretched a little bit further than was normal.

‘Talk to me about fucking Punch,’ she said. ‘I dare you. The cunt was in my head for months, Peter, fucking with my mind. I don’t care if the whole fucking city falls into a hole. Nobody does. Not really. At least nobody outside the M25.’

‘That’s a bit harsh,’ I said. ‘What’s the city ever done to you?’

‘You don’t get it, Peter,’ she said. ‘London sucks.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Fucking does – London sucks. Sucks the rest of the country dry. You want to get ahead, you have to go to London. You want to get away – go to fucking London. All the jobs, all the money goes to London. The rest of the country gets the leftovers, the bits that London doesn’t want.’

‘Like the DVLA,’ I said.

‘Exactly.’

‘And the BBC, of course.’

‘Not the important bit,’ she said, and checked her watch. ‘Out of time.’ She got up and started pulling on her coat. ‘Any longer and people are going to start looking for you.’

‘I didn’t call anyone,’ I said.

‘More fool you, then.’ She turned to go. ‘Take the holiday, Peter,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘And don’t follow me out.’

I waited until I was sure she couldn’t see me and then scrambled after her – keeping low so the crowd would shield me if she looked back. Dusk had fallen while we talked and I burst out the front door into the warm half-light of Holborn. I looked left and right, but no sign of Lesley or even a stranger with Lesley’s walk.

To the left was Holborn Station, but I didn’t think she’d risk the CCTV coverage on the Underground. Where would she go? Down the back streets and into Lincoln’s Inn, maybe? I was pulling my phone out when an IRV, a silver Astra with Battenberg squares, pulled up with no lights and no siren. The uniform inside leant over and called my name.

‘Yeah?’

‘Get in,’ he said. ‘They’re setting up a perimeter.’

I got in, but even while I was pulling on the seatbelt I was wondering who ‘they’ were since I hadn’t called it in when Lesley arrived. Nightingale wouldn’t have me tracked – right?

I went to click the seat belt in, but an arm wrapped around my chest from behind and I smelt beer and clean hair – Lesley. Something bit into my neck and I heard her tell the driver to cut the lights. Contrary to the films, no safe sedative will put you out instantly. But whatever Lesley had jabbed me with was filling up the corners of my mind with beer flavoured milkshake. I stopped trying to dislodge Lesley’s arm and flailed at the driver. I had some mad idea that if I could distract him we might crash, or at least draw attention to the car. It might have worked. I don’t know, because the milkshake was foaming over my eyes and my last thought was that Nightingale was going to be disappointed and Beverley was going to be really pissed off.





25

An Alarming Lack of Cocktail Parties

I woke up in darkness and, judging from the smell of my own breath, wearing a cloth hood. I was lying on my side on a metal surface with my legs fastened and my arms tied behind my back. There was something yielding that was supporting my head, carefully placed to avoid positional asphyxiation. Which was just as well, since I was definitely not feeling well. Like I said . . . nothing that sedates you that fast is remotely safe.

Even with a hood on, I was unmistakably in the back of Sprinter or a Transit van. I was a bit short of clues otherwise. I tried counting turns as I was thrown from side to side, but lost track and all I could smell was the inside of the hood. I doubted I was going to be recreating this journey with the help of a preternaturally perceptive blind person and a deceptively cheerful flock of geese. I suppose it could have been worse – I could have been head down in a barrel.

I’ve never been that good at judging time without an external reference. Dr Walid thinks it’s because I’m outwardly orientated and always looking to establish my position within the wider environment. He thinks that might be why I’m good at vestigia. But, given that his data pool consists of five people, I’m not giving that theory much weight. Whatever, I think it was about half an hour from when I regained consciousness to the van coming to a halt.

I heard the back doors creak open and was seriously considering lashing out with my feet when hands grabbed my legs and dragged me out. They were strong, whoever it was, strong enough to effortlessly lift me and sling me over their shoulder. And it wasn’t a wide shoulder either, and bony enough to dig into my stomach. What with the aftermath of the sedative, the hood and the jogging up and down, they were all sodding lucky they didn’t have to wash that hood afterwards.