“Nor in that capacity either.”
“Yet here you are,” Westmarch said, “responding to a call I made to her, one in which I never mentioned you.”
“Nor should that surprise you, given you know so much about her.”
“Hardly,” said Westmarch. “As it happens, though, I’ve something I think she should be apprised of. Had I heard it on the frothy seas of gossip we’ve both sailed, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“No?”
“Someone substantial alluded to it privately. Obliquely, but unmistakably.”
“But you shan’t say who,” Netherton said, “or at least not initially?”
The waiter returned just then with Netherton’s espresso, looking at once shambolic and preternaturally alert. When he had gone, Westmarch continued. “Lev’s brother, Anton, who seems so much more traditionally klepty. Know him?”
“To say hello,” said Netherton.
“They aren’t close, he and Lev,” Westmarch said. “Lev prefers to be seen to regard the klept as something of an embarrassment. There’s previously been no question as to which brother would inherit their father’s business mantle. Not Lev. Am I correct?”
Netherton knew this to not always have been the case, though he assumed it to be now. “Lev doesn’t discuss family with me,” Netherton lied, “but yes. As the oldest, Anton’s in line to inherit the klepty bits, with Radomir next in line.” Radomir, between Lev and Anton in age, quite thuggish in his own right, fancied himself an art historian.
“Allowing Lev,” Westmarch said, “to continue to play the dilettante, while his more traditional, less ironically inclined older brothers oversee the various activities that the family business comprises.”
“I suppose so.”
“Lev’s father,” Westmarch said, lowering his voice, “no longer feels that Anton would be the best choice to run the family businesses.”
“Why?” asked Netherton, surprised. There had, he knew, been question, prior to Anton’s own clinic stay in Putney, as to whether their father might disown him. On having taken what the clinic’s technicians strongly advised against calling the cure, Anton had been welcomed back into his previous position. This had led to Lev’s having been familiar with the clinic, which he’d eventually recommended, in no uncertain terms, to Netherton himself. Without which, Netherton now supposed, he wouldn’t be sitting here, and wouldn’t have a wife or son.
“That’s my informant’s story to tell,” Westmarch said. “Not mine.”
“They’re an informant now, are they?” Netherton tried a sip of espresso, finding it excellent. “And who might they be?” Not really expecting an answer.
“Lev’s estranged wife,” Westmarch said, watching him.
Netherton, midway through a second sip, was surprised. “More than estranged, I’ve assumed.”
“Papers haven’t gone through,” said Westmarch.
“And why would you suppose that Lowbeer would find this of interest?”
“Because Anton, since the split, has become involved with Lev’s wife.”
“Does Lev know this?”
“Apparently not.”
“Do their children?” Not a question he would have asked, prior to Thomas.
“No.”
“Was it a factor in her wanting Lev to leave?”
“No,” said Westmarch. “That was triggered by her discovery of Lev’s affair. Recently, however, she’s learned that the girl Lev was involved with was put up to it by Anton.”
Netherton considered this. “It’s certainly nasty, whether true or not, but I don’t see why this should be of any particular interest to Inspector Lowbeer.”
“Dominika, I can tell you, knows all this because Anton’s been using drugs. Chinese ones, apparently, designed to be quite impossible to detect. They do, however, disinhibit him, which he enjoys, and which leads him to tell her things he otherwise wouldn’t. His father, meanwhile, has come to suspect him of drug use, and needless to say is reconsidering his fitness as business heir.”
Lowbeer’s sigil, the coronet, appeared in Netherton’s field of vision. He tapped his left front tooth with his tongue.
“Ask him,” Lowbeer said, “how Dominika knows this about the father.”
“But how does Dominika know this?” he asked. “Is she in the father’s confidence?”
“No,” said Westmarch. “It’s all from Anton, in his cups so to speak.”
“But how does he know?” Netherton asked.
“Because,” Westmarch said, “he’s being advised by someone who’s penetrated the father’s most secure communications. And that person, according to Dominika, is someone with an agenda involving the dissolution of Lowbeer’s position.”
At this last, the golden coronet pulsed again. “Tell him I’ll speak with him now,” Lowbeer said. “Best if you aren’t present.”
“She going to speak with you now,” Netherton said. “I’ll be going, in order that your conversation be private.” He stood.
Westmarch looked up at him. “What?” His eyes widened. “The coronet? That’s her?”
“Yes. Best take it.” Netherton turned and made for the door.
“Hello?” he heard Westmarch say, behind him. “Yes, yes it is. Bevan. A pleasure. Thank you—”
89
Kinda Sorta
The last familiar landmark Verity had seen, blocks and turns behind her now, had been a sliver of SoMa’s iconic Coca-Cola sign, its top partially cut off by the helmet. Back in Dogpatch now, on what she assumed was Third Street, Grim Tim, not bothering with a turn signal, swung them abruptly left, into a wide alley between low, industrial-looking buildings.
Then they were stationary, vibration ended, her ears ringing in the engine’s absence. Immediately behind her, past her doubly folded Muji bag and Dixon’s 3D-printed plastic addition to the Harley’s luggage rack, she sensed movement.
“Can you get off okay?” Conner asked, in the Tulpagenics phone’s earpiece. She looked down, startled to discover the drone beside her, its legs now as short as she remembered them from Fabricant Fang, its torso tilted back as if looking up at her.
She removed the gloves Grim Tim had given her, raised the visor, unfastened and removed the helmet, and pulled her mask down. “I’ll know when I try.”
He lowered the centerstand, which reminded her that she needed to dismount first, so he could get the bike up on it. She discovered just how stiff she was, then, and in how many places.
As he rolled the bike up, onto the stand, she took a step back. Her knees nearly buckled.
“Careful,” said Conner, behind her, as she realized she was being supported, very solidly, by a manipulator at either elbow. Coated with something soft and looking nothing at all like hands.
Cautiously, she tried a step forward, her knees functioning normally.
Grim Tim had dismounted in the meantime, still helmeted and visored.
“You good?” Conner asked her.
“Stiff,” she said.
The manipulators released her. “I’ll get your bag.” The drone turned to the rear of the bike, its two protruding suitcase casters surprising her, where its butt would have been if it had one. Now it used a different set of manipulators to adroitly unstrap the bag from Dixon’s backrest.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We’re here,” he said, unfolding the bag atop the bike’s gas tank. She gave it a glance for squashed bugs, not seeing any. Then noticed much bug-wreckage on the forearms of the borrowed down jacket. She unzipped and removed it, gingerly.
Grim Tim turned, passing the drone’s charger to Conner, then taking the helmet and jacket from Verity. After stowing them in the saddlebag, he removed the glove from his right hand, and reached to take hers and grip it firmly.