Agency

82 Wetmark

Wilf,” called Bevan Westmarch, “my man,” as Netherton was approaching the base of the staircase. Netherton had never been anything like Westmarch’s man, nor had they ever particularly been friends. He was drunk, Netherton decided, as he’d been quite prone to be, when Netherton had worked with him, at breakfast or otherwise. So had Netherton, of course, though this made him no more sympathetic now.

“Bevan,” said Netherton, stopping but not offering his hand. “How are you?”

“Very well,” said Westmarch. “Meeting up with our friend Zubov?”

Netherton, quite certain that they hadn’t been seated where Westmarch could have seen them, gave him a bored look.

“Saw him come in earlier,” Westmarch said, “trailing a school of freckled sex dolls. I know he and the missus have split up, but I was still surprised.”

Instantly remembering why Rainey called him that. Nasty when sodden, she said. “Must have missed him,” Netherton said, turning as if to scan the place for Lev, but actually dreading finding him. He wasn’t visible, though, nor were the troupe.

“Still working for the mythical Inspector Lowbeer?” asked Westmarch, as Netherton turned back, with just that hint of wooziness that allowed him a certain deniability in what he said. Netherton’s employment wasn’t a matter of public knowledge, though he’d assumed Westmarch might be aware of it.

“Do you know her, Bevan?” he asked, looking Westmarch in the eye.

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Would you like me to arrange that? She’s very busy, but I could ask her. To fit you in.”

And there, to Netherton’s considerable satisfaction, behind the semiperformative tipsiness, was the fear Lowbeer induced, a visible rictus. “Wouldn’t think of it,” Westmarch said. His hand looked poised to tug a forelock he entirely lacked, his hair having been cut extremely short up the sides, to the very top of his head, where it was arranged in low blond waves, like some Viennese dessert.

“Good to see you, then,” Netherton said, seizing Westmarch’s frustrated forelock-hand and pumping it vigorously. “Lovely day.”

Then swiftly up the unpleasant stairway, scents of the full English receding behind him. Reminding him, now that he was leaving, that he hadn’t yet had breakfast.