Real Tigers by Mick Herron

it.”
    â€œThat’s what I was told months back,” Marcus said, picking up his spoon again. “Still got to shoot someone, didn’t I?”
    â€œI doubt you’ll get that lucky twice.”
    â€œWell just in case I do,” Marcus said, “you know what I don’t need? I don’t need a partner pissing and moaning behind me. That shit throws your aim off.”
    Shirley picked up her spoon too, but her bowl was empty. Watching her tap the one against the other, causing a high-pitched note to ring around the room, Marcus was struck, not for the first time, by how intense her concentration could be. With her near–buzz cut and her broad shoulders, an idiot might think her mannish, but there was nothing remotely masculine about her skin tone or her deep brown eyes. Still. Crouched over the ruins of her ice cream, she might almost disappear into androgyny. But either way, she had a right hook could knock you off your feet.
    She looked up at him. “Is that what we are? Partners?”
    â€œIn the absence of a better offer,” he said.
    â€œIn that case, I’ll have another one of these, partner . Butterscotch and mint.”
    â€œSeriously?”
    She stared at him, unblinking.
    Marcus went to fetch more ice cream.
    â€œCartwright.”
    Taverner, as promised, was on the staircase, a feature which fell on the kerb-flash side of the line, being wide enough to dance down, and boasting, on this particular landing, a narrow window which must have been eight foot tall. Dusty sunlight slanted through it, catching Lady Diana’s hair and roasting a chestnut tinge onto its curls, momentarily distracting River. His mind had blanked. What was he supposed to call her? “Ma’am,” his mouth supplied. A glimpse of her wristwatch, as she glanced at it, reminded him: thirty-six minutes.
    She said, “You’re not supposed to be here, you do remember that?”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œAnd you look a mess.”
    â€œIt’s hot out,” he said. “Ma’am.”
    It was cooler in here, though; air-con and marbled floors.
    â€œ. . . Well?”
    They had history, River and Diana Taverner. Not the kind of history people usually meant when they said history, but not far off: treachery, double-dealing and stabbing in the back—more like a marriage than a love affair. And most of it at a remove, so their actual face-to-face encounters hadn’t been frequent. Here and now, on this landing, his shirt clinging to his back, River was remembering how distracting her presence could be. It wasn’t just her physical attractions; it was the way she visibly weighed up every situation she was in, calibrating the moment to maximise her own advantage.
    He said, “It’s about James. James Webb.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œI’ve been . . . visiting him.”
    Spider had been Taverner’s protégé once, though he’d split what he’d have no doubt called his loyalties fairly evenly between her and Dame Ingrid. At the precise moment he’d been shot by a Russian hood it was hard to tell whose side he was on, though as he’d been mostly on his own back ever since, it probably didn’t matter in the long run.
    She said, “You were still friendly? I didn’t realise.”
    â€œWe trained together.”
    â€œNot what I asked.”
    River said, “We weren’t that friendly in the end, no, but we were close at one time. And he’s got nobody else. No family, I mean.”
    He had no idea whether Spider had family or not, but he was busking here. And banking on Taverner not knowing Spider’s family situation either.
    â€œI didn’t realise,” she said. “So . . . what’s his current condition? Any change?”
    â€œNot really.”
    Just for an instant, he saw something in her eyes that might have been unfeigned concern. And then he mentally kicked himself—why