Hook says nothing and has to resist the urgent temptation to bang his forehead against the wall. Some sunshine boy has spat blood-flecked phlegm that stars out in all directions, a supernova of snot.
“Anyway Chris, you go to work, put your feet up. I’ll just have to find Susan myself. Must fly.”
Mullen hangs up before Hook can answer. The tube’s out so he has to get a series of buses through a cityscape on the verge of nervous breakdown.
The Contra’s disappeared from the front desk and the new security guard, a sleepy middle-aged African, waves him inside without asking for ID. He’s just going to the lift when the sandwich woman exits, trolley empty.