by Mick Herron
He thought: I was a neighbour, I’d break the runt’s neck. Toss a wheelie bin through his window to grab his attention, and then take him by the neck and squeeze until his eyes pop like grapes.
Dan Hobbs wasn’t having the best night of his life.
He leant on the bell.
After his encounter with Jackson Lamb at the hospital, he’d come to on the floor; no obvious bruising, but he felt like he’d been trampled underfoot. The storeroom door hung open. River Cartwright was gone. Hobbs had got to his feet and made his way upstairs, where the first person he’d encountered was the newly arrived Nick Duffy.
And Hobbs learned the hard way that shit travels downwards.
‘He was just this fat guy. How was I to know—’
‘Remember Sam Chapman? Bad Sam?’
Hobbs did.
‘Bad Sam once said he wasn’t frightened of anyone except overweight guys with bad breath and ill-fitting shirts. You know why?’
Hobbs didn’t.
‘Because once in a nun’s nightmare, one of them would turn out to be Jackson Lamb. And by the time you’d realized that, you’d lost your lunch, your boots and most of your teeth. Now fuck off back to the Park.’
A couple of hours’ fuming, and he had new instructions; another slow horse to collect.
‘Name’s Roderick Ho.’ Duffy read out the address. ‘Slough House geek. Think you can handle him on your own?’
Hobbs took a breath. The Service was hierarchical, to put it mildly, but you didn’t get to be one of the Dogs by meekly observing the protocols. ‘In my fucking sleep,’ he told his boss. ‘You said yourself, even Sam Chapman couldn’t take Lamb, and I didn’t know it was him. So give me a break, all right?’
A twelve-second silence followed. Then Duffy said, ‘You’re as much use as an elastic anchor, you know that? But my four-year-old niece could take down Ho, so I’m going to trust you.’
Carefully keeping relief from his voice, Hobbs asked, ‘How hard do I bring him in?’
‘C&C.’
Dogs’ slang for collect-and-comfort. Which meant without worrying onlookers.
‘And Dan? Screw this up, and I’ll sack your whole family.’
He wouldn’t. This wouldn’t wipe the slate, but would show he was still in the game. And intended to remain there.
And the next time he encountered Jackson Lamb—But he shook that thought free too. Nothing screwed you up faster than keeping score.
And now he was at Ho’s place. He’d have gone in through the back, but the music changed the rules. Ho was awake. Possibly had company. Geeks had social lives. Who knew?
Company or not, nobody was opening the door. He leant on the bell again, and stayed there.
Having been caught once this evening, he’d done his research, or had the Queens of the Database do it for him. Roderick Ho’s records had been on his BlackBerry long before he’d got here, and it was clear from the physicals that if Ho hadn’t been geek-supreme, he’d have been invalided out to spare everyone’s embarrassment. He looked the type to wear a smog-mask on the tube. And if it turned out the records lied, and Ho was Bruce Lee’s forgotten cousin, that was fine too. Hobbs knew some moves himself.
Did the music stutter? Something had happened. Without taking his hand from the bell, Hobbs peered through the marbled window. A fuzzy shape was coming to the door.
Roderick Ho hadn’t been to bed. Roderick Ho didn’t sleep much anyway, but tonight he had business. Tonight, he was paying off a debt.
On his way home he’d picked up two economy-sized bags of tortilla chips, and had dropped both when a twat in a Lexus honked him on a zebra … His glasses had slipped off when he’d bent to retrieve them, and the twat in the Lexus honked again, and it was obvious he’d been enjoying this, was simply livening up those dead moments when he’d been forced to wait at a crossing for a pedestrian, for fuck’s sake. Because the road belonged to car-users. Belonged to SI 123, as his plate had it. Ho retrieved his glasses, gathered up his bags of chips. He’d barely cleared the Lexus’s wheelbase when it roared past, and he knew he wasn’t even a memory by this point. At best, he was a punchline. Should have seen the chinky jump.
That had been then. This was now:
SI 123 was Simon Dean of Colliers Wood, and Ho wasn’t up at four because it had taken him that long to discover this, he was up at four because he was taking Simon Dean’s life apart piece by piece. Simon Dean was a tele-salesman for a life-assurance company, or that’s what he probably still thought he was, though one of his last acts before leaving work, according to the rigorously backed-up e-mail system his company maintained, had been to send a resignation note to his boss, accompanied by a detailed account of Simon’s intentions regarding the boss’s teenage daughter. Since then, Simon had maxed out his credit cards, cancelled his standing orders, transferred his mortgage to a new lender at a distressingly poor rate, changed his phone number, and sent everyone in his address book a wedding-sized bouquet of flowers accompanied by a coming-out note. He’d donated his savings to the Green Party and embraced Scientology; had sold his Lexus on eBay; and within forty-eight hours would become aware of his status as a registered sex offender, as would everyone else in his postcode. All in all, Simon Dean was not in for the happiest time of his life; but, looking on the bright side, Roderick Ho felt chirpier than he’d done in ages. And his tortilla chips, it turned out, hadn’t been much damaged by their fall.
It wasn’t surprising that he’d lost track of the time; allowing his CD changer to keep on pumping music. What was surprising was that his online reverie shimmered at all, and that he noticed something vying for his attention. There was someone at the door. They’d possibly been there for a while.
Jesus, thought Ho. Wasn’t a man allowed any peace? He hated it when others failed to show consideration. Shutting the music off, he went down to find out who was disturbing him.
Louisa Guy had a headache coming on, maybe caused by her proximity to the dead. Two deaths tonight. Both colleagues, even if Alan Black had lost that role long before he’d lost his head. She’d smelt the blood before stepping into the kitchen; had known she was about to see something disgusting. But she’d assumed it would be the hostage, Hassan. And instead there he was, there was his head, Alan Black. A man she’d not given a thought to since she’d last laid eyes on him. Hadn’t given him a thought before then, to be frank.
Seeing him, the air had gone out of her. Everything became slow. But she’d kept her grip—kept her head—hadn’t thrown up like Cartwright. She almost wished she had. She wondered what it said about her, that she could see something like that and not throw up … Cartwright’s unexpected vulnerability made her readjust her opinion of him. Fact was, she’d avoided most of her colleagues, except, lately, Min Harper. Fact was, the same held true for all of them. They’d been thrown together by fate and poor judgement, and had never operated as a team before. It was somewhat ironic that they were just starting to do so now the team was significantly smaller.
And now she was in the dark again, this time in Ho’s back garden. She wondered how come Ho had a garden when everyone she knew lived in shoeboxes. But there was no point wondering why bastards prosper. Min at her side, she advanced towards Ho’s back door, forcing herself not to grind her teeth as she did so. There were lights on, and she could hear music. Funny how Ho could be careful in some ways and damn stupid in others. The lengths he’d gone to to keep his head below the parapet, and here he was winding the neighbours up with unnecessary noise after dark.
She and Min looked at each other, and shrugged at the same time.
Louisa reached out and banged on Ho’s door.
‘What?’
Surly guy, scrawnily built, early twenties, wearing a Che tee-shirt and a pair of Hawaiian shorts.
Any of the above was enough to earn him Dan Hobbs’s lasting enmity, but worst of all was the fact that he wasn’t Roderick Ho.
‘I’m looking for Ho,’ Hobbs said.
‘Yo
u’re looking for what?’
‘Roderick Ho.’
‘Your ho’s not here, man. It’s like four in the morning. You out your fucking mind, ringing people’s bells?’
The door swung shut, or would have done, if Hobbs’s foot hadn’t been in the way. Hobbs was mentally verifying information, and affirming what he knew: that he hadn’t screwed up; that this was the address Duffy had given him, confirmed by the Queens of the Database. The surly guy opened the door wide again, his expression suggesting that he was about to remonstrate. It was a cheque he never got to cash. Hobbs punched him once, a short jab in the throat. With a civilian you could phone first, tell them you were about to hit them, and it wouldn’t help them any. Hobbs closed the door, stepped over the man, and went looking for Ho.
What felt like a long time ago, back when he was first feeling his way round the Service systems, Roderick Ho had gone into his personnel records and changed his address. If he’d been asked why, he wouldn’t have understood the question. He did it for the same reason he never gave his real name when taking out a loyalty card: because you never gave a stranger the inside track. Look at Simon Dean. Bloody vanity plate. He might as well be handing out cards with the word Tosser printed above his bank details. To be fair, any number plate would have worked as well, but why make life easy for the other side? And as far as Roderick Ho was concerned, everybody was the other side until proved otherwise.
So how come Min Harper and Louisa Guy were in his back yard?
‘… What?’
‘Do you always play your music this time of night?’
‘Neighbours are students. Who cares?’ Ho scratched his head. He wore the same clothes he’d worn when he’d left Slough House ten hours previously, though his sweater was now dusted with tortilla crumbs. As for these two, he couldn’t remember what they’d been wearing then, but they didn’t look like they’d slept since. Ho didn’t do well with people, on account of not liking them, but even he could tell this pair were different tonight. For a start, they were a pair. He’d have asked what was up, but he had a more important question first.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Why? Were you hiding?’
He said it again. ‘How?’
‘Lamb told us.’
‘Fucking Lamb,’ said Ho.
‘I don’t like him.’
‘I’m not sure he likes you. But he sent us to get you.’
‘So here we are.’
Ho shook his head. He was wondering how Lamb had known he’d altered his records, let alone knew where he lived. And with that thought came another, even more disturbing. What Lamb knew about the digital world could be wrapped inside a pixel. There was no way he’d unpeeled Ho’s secrets the honourable way: using a computer. Which suggested the horrible possibility that there were other ways of dismantling a life, and that maybe being a digital warrior didn’t bestow invulnerability.
But Ho didn’t want to live in a world where that was possible. Didn’t want to believe it could happen. So he shook his head again, to dislodge the notion and send it fluttering into the night air, which was rapidly becoming the early morning air.
Then said, ‘I’ll get my laptop.’
Duffy said, ‘What?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘So where is he?’
Hobbs said, ‘I don’t know.’
There was a moment’s silence, during which Dan Hobbs could hear the remains of his career blowing like a tumble-weed down the corridors of Regent’s Park.
Then Duffy hung up on him.
Chapter 14
He had never visited her flat, nor wasted time wondering what it might be like, so was neither surprised nor reassured by its appearance: an art deco block in St John’s Wood, its edges rounded off, its windows metal-framed. Orwell had lived nearby, and had probably stolen local details when constructing his fascist future, but this particular block seemed ordinary enough in the early morning, with its shared entrance and its buzzer system that blinked continuously. Only the sign promising CCTV coverage hinted at Big Brother’s world, but signs were cheaper than the actual thing. The UK might be the most surveilled society in the world, but that was on the public purse, and building management companies generally preferred the cheaper option of hanging a fake camera. It took Jackson Lamb a minute to get through the lock, which was of more recent vintage than the building, but not by a huge amount. His feet would have clicked on the tiled surface of the lobby if he’d let them. Only one of the doors he passed on the ground floor showed a light underneath.
Lamb took the stairs: quieter, more reliable, than a lift. Such caution was second nature. It was like pulling on an old coat. Moscow rules, he’d decided when meeting Diana Taverner by the canal. She was nominally on his side—nominally his boss—but she’d been playing a dirty game, so Moscow rules it was. And now her game was all over the place, scattered like a Scrabble board, so it was London rules instead.
If Moscow rules meant watch your back, London rules meant cover your arse. Moscow rules had been written on the streets, but London rules were devised in the corridors of Westminster, and the short version read: someone always pays. Make sure it isn’t you. Nobody knew that better than Jackson Lamb. And nobody played it better than Di Taverner.
On Catherine Standish’s floor he paused. There was no sound save a steady electric hum from the lighting. Catherine’s was a corner apartment; her door the first he reached. When he pressed his eye to the peephole, no light showed. He took out the metal pick again. He wasn’t surprised to find she’d double-locked the door; nor that it was also on its chain. He was about to deal with this third obstacle when, from behind the now inch-open door, she spoke.
‘Whoever you are, back off. I’m armed.’
He was certain he’d made no noise, but still: Catherine Standish was wound pretty tight. She probably woke when pigeons passed overhead.
‘You’re not armed,’ he told her.
There was silence for a moment. Then: ‘Lamb?’
‘Let me in.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Now.’
She had never liked him, and he couldn’t blame her, but she at least knew when to jump. Sliding the chain back, she let him in, then shut the door, snapping the hall light on in the same movement. She was holding a bottle. Only mineral water, but she could feasibly have done damage with it if he’d been an actual intruder.
Judging by her expression, perhaps he was. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Get dressed.’
‘I live here. You can’t—’
‘Just get dressed.’
She looked old in this unexpected light; her greying hair loose over her shoulders. Her nightdress might have come from an illustration in a book of fairy tales. It fell to her ankles, and was buttoned down the front.
Something in his voice changed the context for her. It was still her home, but she was still Service, he was still her boss. If he was here in the middle of the night, things were happening that shouldn’t be. She said, ‘Wait in there,’ pointing Lamb at an open doorway, and disappeared into her bedroom.
Before discovering it was Lamb chiselling through her front door, Catherine Standish’s thoughts had been the obvious ones: that she was being burgled, or targeted for rape. Grabbing the bottle on her bedside table had been an automatic response. And God help her, when she’d seen who it was, she’d wondered if he’d come to proposition her. She’d assumed he was drunk; had wondered if he were mad. Now, hurriedly dressing, she wondered why she hadn’t gone for her telephone instead of the bottle; why her first response to this latest scary moment had not been solely fear. The adrenalin that had pumped through her had felt more like a release of tension than panic. As if she’d been waiting for years, and the all-but-silent scrabbling at her lock was simply the second shoe dropping.
The first had been finding Charles Partner’s body.
She pulled on the dress she’d laid out for the morning. Tied her hair back, and ch
ecked her reflection. My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic. It was rare that she could look at herself without those words uncurling in her mind. My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic. For a long while she’d thought herself a coward. It had taken some time to understand that becoming dry involved bravery, not the least part of which was making that assertion in public. Reaching for a weapon rather than a phone was that same bravery making itself felt. It had taken great effort to rebuild her life, after so many props had been taken away, and if most days it didn’t feel like much of a life, it was the only one she had, and she wouldn’t surrender it without a fight. The fact that the only weapon in reach had been a bottle could be labelled one of life’s little ironies.
My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic. There was this to say for the AA mantra: you were in no immediate danger of forgetting who or what you were.
Ready to face her monstrous boss, she joined him in the other room. ‘What’s going on?’
He’d been standing by her bookshelf, gathering data. ‘Later. Come on.’ He was already heading for the door, not looking back. Expecting her to be on his heels.
Maybe clocking him with the bottle would have been the way to go. ‘It’s the middle of the night,’ she said. ‘I’m going nowhere until you tell me what’s happening.’
‘You got dressed, didn’t you?’
‘I what?’
‘You got dressed. So you’re ready to leave.’ He had that look she was used to, of expecting her to do stuff simply because he said so. ‘Can we move?’
‘I got dressed because I’ve no intention of standing in my dressing gown while you invade my space. If you want me to go anywhere, start talking.’
‘Jesus, you think I was hoping to catch you in your underwear?’ He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. ‘Shit has hit fan. Big time. Leave now with me, or soon with less friendly people.’
‘You’re not lighting that in here.’
‘No, I’m lighting it as soon as I get outside, in less than one minute. Stay or come. Your choice.’
