Free Dead Lions by Mick Herron Page B

be the fucking Intelligence Service,” Lamb pointed out. “Okay, you’re seconded. I don’t get a say in the matter, do I?” The wolfish grin which accompanied this carried a promise of happier days, when he would have a say in the matter, and would say it loud and clear. “Which leaves me with this crew.”
    “I’ll do it,” River said again.
    “For Christ’s sake, this is MI5, not a kiddies’ playground. Operational decisions don’t turn on who says bagsies. I decide who goes.” Lamb counted them off from the right. “Eenie meenie minie mo.” At mo, his finger rested on River. He moved it back to Shirley. “Meenie. You’re it.”
    River said, “I was mo!”
    “And I don’t base operational decisions on children’s games. Remember?” He pressed eject, and the CD drawer slid open. He tossed the disc in Shirley’s direction, and it sailed through the open door. “Butterfingers. Pick that up and watch it again. Then go find Mr. B.”
    “Now?”
    “No, on your own time. Of course now.” He looked round. “I could have sworn the rest of you had jobs to do.”
    Catherine arched her eyebrows at River, and left. The others followed, with visible relief, leaving only Ho and River.
    Lamb said to Ho, “I might have guessed Cartwright would want to continue the discussion. But it beats me why you’re still here.”
    “It’s my office,” Ho explained.
    Lamb waited.
    Ho sighed, and left.
    River said, “You were always going to do that, weren’t you?”
    “Do what?”
    “All that crap about putting the kettle on, fetching your lunch.It was a wind-up. You need us. Somebody has to do your leg-work.”
    “Speaking of legs,” said Jackson Lamb, and raised his so they stuck out horizontally, then farted. “I was always going to do that, too,” he pointed out. He put his feet back on the ground. “Doesn’t make it any less effective.”
    Whatever you thought of Lamb’s act, nobody ever accused his farts of lacking authenticity.
    “Anyway,” he went on, unperturbed by his toxic gift. “If it hadn’t been for Standish, we wouldn’t have gone all round the houses. Don’t like being out of the loop , for Christ’s sake. Can’t blame it on the rag at her age. Unless pickling herself in booze all those years had a preservative effect. What do you think?”
    “I think it’s pretty strange you’re so sure Bow was murdered when the post-mortem said his heart gave out.”
    “That doesn’t answer my question, but I’ll let it pass. Here’s another one.” Lamb folded his right leg over his left. “If you wanted to poison someone without anyone finding out, what would you use?”
    “I’m not really up on poisons.”
    “Hallelujah. Something you’re not an expert in.” Lamb had this magic trick: he could produce a cigarette out of almost nowhere; out of the briefest dip into the nearest pocket. In its opposite number he found a disposable lighter. River would have protested, but smoke could only improve the atmosphere. It was improbable Lamb was unaware of this. “Longridge hasn’t brought my lunch yet. I hope the sorry bastard’s not forgotten.”
    “So you do know his name.”
    He regretted that as soon as he’d said it.
    Lamb said, “Jesus, Cartwright. Which of us does that embarrass more?” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, and the coal glowed orange, half an inch long. “I’ll be in late tomorrow,” he said. “Stuff to do. You know how it is.” A thin cloud of tobaccosmoke turned his eyes to slits. “Don’t break your neck down the stairs.”
    “Up the stairs,” River said. “Ho’s office, remember?”
    “Cartwright?”
    River halted in the doorway.
    “You don’t want to know how Dickie Bow died?”
    “You’re seriously gunna tell me?”
    “It’s obvious, when you think about it,” Lamb said. “Whoever killed him used an untraceable poison.”

 
    U ntraceable poison, thought River Cartwright.
    Jesus wept!
    On the tube, an attractive brunette sat next to