he’ll be bringing staff, and there’ll be high-level talks, and all of this needs to run smoothly. If it doesn’t, well, the Park’ll obviously need someone to blame.”
“And that would be us.”
“That would be you.” He gave a brief smile which might haveindicated humour, but neither Min nor Louisa were convinced. “Any problems with that?”
“Sounds like nothing we can’t handle,” Min said.
“I’d hope not.” Webb came to a halt again. Min was starting to have flashbacks to walking his two boys when they were younger. Getting anywhere was a struggle: anything in their path that snagged their interest—a twig, a rubber band, a till receipt—resulted in a five-minute delay. “So,” Webb went on, too casually. “How’s things over your manor, then?”
Our manor, Min wanted to parrot. Innit.
Louisa said, “Same old same old.”
“And Cartwright?”
“No different.”
“I’m surprised he sticks it out. No offence. But he was always full of himself. He must hate it over there. Away from the action.”
There was barely disguised satisfaction in the pronouncement.
Min had decided he wasn’t a fan of Spider Webb. He wasn’t a particular fan of River Cartwright come to that, but there was a base line these days that hadn’t always been there, and it was simply stated: Cartwright was a slow horse, same as himself, same as Louisa. Once, that hadn’t meant more than being tarred with the same brush. But now, if they didn’t stick together exactly, they didn’t piss on each other in front of others. Or not in front of Regent’s Park suits, anyway.
He said, “I’ll pass on your regards. I know he has fond memories of your last meeting.”
At which River had clubbed Webb unconscious.
Louisa said, “Does Lamb know you’re, ah, seconding us?”
“He will soon. Is he likely to kick up a fuss?”
“Well,” Louisa said. “If it annoys him, I’m sure he’ll keep it to himself.”
“Yeah,” said Min. “You know Lamb. Natural born diplomat.”
“Oh Christ,” said Lamb. “Not you again.”
Back at Oxford station, after another half-hour wait for a train, Lamb was looking for someone to tell him where the lost property office was, and the first face he saw was the weasel’s: still twitchy, still officious, and definitely not happy to cast eyes on Jackson Lamb.
He made to walk straight past, but Lamb’s cover as just another member of the public was wearing thin. He caught hold of a uniformed elbow. “A word?”
The weasel looked down at Lamb’s hand, up at Lamb’s face, and then, slowly, deliberately, at the transport policeman a few yards away, showing a pretty blonde woman how to read a map.
Lamb released his grip. “If it’s of any interest,” he said, “I still have that twenty pound note.” In the teeth of the expectations of a Reading bus driver, he might have added. “So there’s no reason we can’t proceed in a friendly fashion.”
He smiled to illustrate ‘friendly fashion,’ though the yellow-stained result might have passed for ‘evil intent.’
It was more probably the mention of money than the amiable overture that worked. “What is it this time?” the weasel asked.
“Lost property. Where is it?”
“That would be in the lost property office.”
“This is going splendidly,” Lamb said. “And where’s that?”
The weasel pursed his lips and looked pointedly at the spot where Lamb’s wallet nestled in his inside pocket. It was clear that mere promises were no longer cutting ice.
Finishing his geography lesson, the policeman glanced across. Lamb nodded at him, and received a similar nod back. Then he asked the weasel: “Worked here long?”
“Nineteen years,” the weasel said. His tone suggested this was something to be proud of.
“Well if you want to make it to nineteen years and a day, start playing nice. Because I’ve spent nineteen years and then somefinding things out people don’t want me to know, so a bit of publicly
“And that would be us.”
“That would be you.” He gave a brief smile which might haveindicated humour, but neither Min nor Louisa were convinced. “Any problems with that?”
“Sounds like nothing we can’t handle,” Min said.
“I’d hope not.” Webb came to a halt again. Min was starting to have flashbacks to walking his two boys when they were younger. Getting anywhere was a struggle: anything in their path that snagged their interest—a twig, a rubber band, a till receipt—resulted in a five-minute delay. “So,” Webb went on, too casually. “How’s things over your manor, then?”
Our manor, Min wanted to parrot. Innit.
Louisa said, “Same old same old.”
“And Cartwright?”
“No different.”
“I’m surprised he sticks it out. No offence. But he was always full of himself. He must hate it over there. Away from the action.”
There was barely disguised satisfaction in the pronouncement.
Min had decided he wasn’t a fan of Spider Webb. He wasn’t a particular fan of River Cartwright come to that, but there was a base line these days that hadn’t always been there, and it was simply stated: Cartwright was a slow horse, same as himself, same as Louisa. Once, that hadn’t meant more than being tarred with the same brush. But now, if they didn’t stick together exactly, they didn’t piss on each other in front of others. Or not in front of Regent’s Park suits, anyway.
He said, “I’ll pass on your regards. I know he has fond memories of your last meeting.”
At which River had clubbed Webb unconscious.
Louisa said, “Does Lamb know you’re, ah, seconding us?”
“He will soon. Is he likely to kick up a fuss?”
“Well,” Louisa said. “If it annoys him, I’m sure he’ll keep it to himself.”
“Yeah,” said Min. “You know Lamb. Natural born diplomat.”
“Oh Christ,” said Lamb. “Not you again.”
Back at Oxford station, after another half-hour wait for a train, Lamb was looking for someone to tell him where the lost property office was, and the first face he saw was the weasel’s: still twitchy, still officious, and definitely not happy to cast eyes on Jackson Lamb.
He made to walk straight past, but Lamb’s cover as just another member of the public was wearing thin. He caught hold of a uniformed elbow. “A word?”
The weasel looked down at Lamb’s hand, up at Lamb’s face, and then, slowly, deliberately, at the transport policeman a few yards away, showing a pretty blonde woman how to read a map.
Lamb released his grip. “If it’s of any interest,” he said, “I still have that twenty pound note.” In the teeth of the expectations of a Reading bus driver, he might have added. “So there’s no reason we can’t proceed in a friendly fashion.”
He smiled to illustrate ‘friendly fashion,’ though the yellow-stained result might have passed for ‘evil intent.’
It was more probably the mention of money than the amiable overture that worked. “What is it this time?” the weasel asked.
“Lost property. Where is it?”
“That would be in the lost property office.”
“This is going splendidly,” Lamb said. “And where’s that?”
The weasel pursed his lips and looked pointedly at the spot where Lamb’s wallet nestled in his inside pocket. It was clear that mere promises were no longer cutting ice.
Finishing his geography lesson, the policeman glanced across. Lamb nodded at him, and received a similar nod back. Then he asked the weasel: “Worked here long?”
“Nineteen years,” the weasel said. His tone suggested this was something to be proud of.
“Well if you want to make it to nineteen years and a day, start playing nice. Because I’ve spent nineteen years and then somefinding things out people don’t want me to know, so a bit of publicly