Looking down from the bay window, he recognised the car at the kerbside and the greying cap of tightly curled hair at the door. Faraday. How did he find me? he thought. How did he know where to come looking? ‘You get this address from Cathy?’ ‘Your mum. Her number’s on file. I said I was a friend. She was nice enough to believe me.’ They were upstairs now, standing uncomfortably in the big sunny lounge. Faraday didn’t want coffee. Didn’t want anything. He knew about the moonlighting job and the cosy little channel Lamb had opened up for himself on the Gunwharf job. He knew where it led and who else it involved. And he knew, above all, that his first call should have gone to headquarters. A breach of regulations this wide was meat and drink to the Professional Standards Department, but formal notification would mean curtains for more than Pete Lamb. Cathy, too, would lose her job. Not only that, but if she’d been silly enough to run a name or a vehicle registration through PNC on Pete’s behalf, she could land herself a prison sentence.
