verge of opening up to Marcus simply because he was the one she was sharing an office with: And what was he smiling at? Did he think he was being friendly? Take a deep breath, she told herself; but a mental one. Don’t let him see.
This was the crux of Communications: find out all you can, but give nothing away.
She said, “The jury’s still out on that. What do you make of him, anyway?”
“Well, he’s running his own department.”
“Some department. More like a charity shop.” She slapped a hand on her PC. “This should be in a museum for a start. We’re supposed to catch bad guys with this shit? We’d have a better chance standing on Oxford Street with a clipboard. Excuse me, sir, are you a terrorist?”
“Sir or Miss,” Marcus corrected her. Then said, “We’re not expected to catch anyone, we’re supposed to get bored and go join a security firm. But the point is, whatever we’re here for, Lamb’s not being punished. Or if he is, he’s enjoying it.”
“So what’s your point?”
He said, “That he knows where some bodies are buried. Probably buried a few himself.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
“I failed English. Metaphor’s a closed book to me.”
“So you think he’s handy?”
“Well, he’s overweight and drinks and smokes and I doubt he takes much exercise that doesn’t involve picking up a phone and calling out for a curry. But yeah, now you mention it, I think he’s handy.”
“He might’ve been once,” Shirley said. “But there’s not much point in being handy if you’re too slow to be any good at it.”
But Marcus disagreed. Being handy was a state of mind. Lamb could wear you down just standing in front of you, and you wouldn’t know he was a threat until he was walking away, and you were wondering who’d turned the lights out. Just Marcus’s opinion, of course. He’d been wrong before.
“I suppose,” he said, “if we stick around long enough, we might find out.”
Coming back down the coach Lamb rubbed a finger in his eye, which made him look grieving, or at any rate like he had a sore eye. The depot manager seemed uncomfortable, ill at ease with a stranger’s sorrow, or else he’d noticed Lamb with his arm down the back seat, and was wondering whether to address the topic.
To short-circuit any such attempt, Lamb said, “The driver around?”
“What, who was driving when …?”
When my brother kicked off, yes. But he just nodded, and wiped his eye again.
The driver didn’t much want to talk to Lamb about his uncooperative passenger; the only good ones are the ones that walk away being the standard bus-driver take on the general public. But once the depot manager had made a final apology and shuffled back to his office, and Lamb had indicated for the second time that morning that he had a twenty pound note in his possession, the driver opened up.
“What can I say? I’m sorry for your loss.”
Though seemed happy enough about his own possible gain.
Lamb said, “Was he talking to anyone, did you notice?”
“We’re supposed to keep our eyes on the road, mostly.”
“Before you started.”
The driver said, “What can I say?” again. “It was a bleedin’ circus, mate. Couple of thousand stranded, we was just getting them shifted. So no, I didn’t notice, sorry. He was just another punter until …” Realising he was heading up a conversational cul-de-sac, he tailed off with “you know.”
“Until you got to Oxford with a stiff on your back seat,” Lamb supplied helpfully.
“He must have gone peaceful,” the driver said. “I pretty much kept to the limit.”
Lamb looked back at the coach. The company livery was red and blue, its lower half flecked with mud. Just an ordinary vehicle, that Dickie Bow had stepped on and never stepped off again.
“Was there anything unusual about that trip?” he asked.
The driver stared.
“Corpse aside.”
“Sorry, mate. It was just, you know. Pick ’em up at the station, drop ’em off
This was the crux of Communications: find out all you can, but give nothing away.
She said, “The jury’s still out on that. What do you make of him, anyway?”
“Well, he’s running his own department.”
“Some department. More like a charity shop.” She slapped a hand on her PC. “This should be in a museum for a start. We’re supposed to catch bad guys with this shit? We’d have a better chance standing on Oxford Street with a clipboard. Excuse me, sir, are you a terrorist?”
“Sir or Miss,” Marcus corrected her. Then said, “We’re not expected to catch anyone, we’re supposed to get bored and go join a security firm. But the point is, whatever we’re here for, Lamb’s not being punished. Or if he is, he’s enjoying it.”
“So what’s your point?”
He said, “That he knows where some bodies are buried. Probably buried a few himself.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
“I failed English. Metaphor’s a closed book to me.”
“So you think he’s handy?”
“Well, he’s overweight and drinks and smokes and I doubt he takes much exercise that doesn’t involve picking up a phone and calling out for a curry. But yeah, now you mention it, I think he’s handy.”
“He might’ve been once,” Shirley said. “But there’s not much point in being handy if you’re too slow to be any good at it.”
But Marcus disagreed. Being handy was a state of mind. Lamb could wear you down just standing in front of you, and you wouldn’t know he was a threat until he was walking away, and you were wondering who’d turned the lights out. Just Marcus’s opinion, of course. He’d been wrong before.
“I suppose,” he said, “if we stick around long enough, we might find out.”
Coming back down the coach Lamb rubbed a finger in his eye, which made him look grieving, or at any rate like he had a sore eye. The depot manager seemed uncomfortable, ill at ease with a stranger’s sorrow, or else he’d noticed Lamb with his arm down the back seat, and was wondering whether to address the topic.
To short-circuit any such attempt, Lamb said, “The driver around?”
“What, who was driving when …?”
When my brother kicked off, yes. But he just nodded, and wiped his eye again.
The driver didn’t much want to talk to Lamb about his uncooperative passenger; the only good ones are the ones that walk away being the standard bus-driver take on the general public. But once the depot manager had made a final apology and shuffled back to his office, and Lamb had indicated for the second time that morning that he had a twenty pound note in his possession, the driver opened up.
“What can I say? I’m sorry for your loss.”
Though seemed happy enough about his own possible gain.
Lamb said, “Was he talking to anyone, did you notice?”
“We’re supposed to keep our eyes on the road, mostly.”
“Before you started.”
The driver said, “What can I say?” again. “It was a bleedin’ circus, mate. Couple of thousand stranded, we was just getting them shifted. So no, I didn’t notice, sorry. He was just another punter until …” Realising he was heading up a conversational cul-de-sac, he tailed off with “you know.”
“Until you got to Oxford with a stiff on your back seat,” Lamb supplied helpfully.
“He must have gone peaceful,” the driver said. “I pretty much kept to the limit.”
Lamb looked back at the coach. The company livery was red and blue, its lower half flecked with mud. Just an ordinary vehicle, that Dickie Bow had stepped on and never stepped off again.
“Was there anything unusual about that trip?” he asked.
The driver stared.
“Corpse aside.”
“Sorry, mate. It was just, you know. Pick ’em up at the station, drop ’em off
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