by Mick Herron
“Where are we going?”
“Embankment.” Her car was boxed in, but with a little nudge to the vehicle in front, she got loose.
Best to think about stuff like that, and about how it was still raining, and the best route to the Embankment, rather than anything more serious.
Like: who just got hurt, or worse.
Given Lamb’s failure to make any loo-based jokes, it was probably worse.
River said, “Westacres. Oh, you crazy fucker. Westacres is what happened. That’s what started this off.”
“Son—”
River punched him. It felt so good, for so many reasons, that he did it again: on the nose, then on the right cheek. Frank fell back against the railings and rainwater poured onto him. He shook his head, spraying water, then touched his nose, which was bleeding. He found a handkerchief, dabbed at the blood, and said, “Seriously, two free shots, and that’s the best you can do? Maybe Slough House is what you deserve.”
He put the handkerchief back in his pocket.
Three cars went past in succession, heading west, towards where the earlier action had been.
Frank said, “It wasn’t meant to happen. It was an exercise, an exercise in what’s possible. What can happen when the state doesn’t protect its people, when—”
“You fucking madman, you sent one of your boys—”
“No. Not sent. Not to do what he did. He was—he went over the edge. Maybe I should have seen it coming. Maybe nobody could have. I don’t know. But it happened, and it’s a damn tragedy, but you know what? Some good might yet come of it. And wouldn’t you want to be part of that?”
River couldn’t reply. Didn’t have the language.
Frank’s nose was still bleeding, and he pinched it with his fingers. Then shook his head. “We’re running out of time, son. I need to know what you plan to do.”
“You seriously think I might join you?”
“I hoped so. Or maybe I knew you wouldn’t. Maybe I just wanted to see you, talk to you. We could have been something, you know that? It gives me a kick, you going into the Service. A chip off the old block, and you didn’t even know it.”
“My grandfather raised me,” River said. “Everything I am’s because of him. You’re just a fucking lunatic. If you are my father, that’s an accident of birth. But you were the accident, not me.” He did something he didn’t remember ever doing before, and spat at Frank’s feet. “And you’re right, you’re running out of time. You’ve seen me, talked to me. Now I’m taking you in.”
“Oh hell,” said Frank. “I really didn’t want to hear that. Because I don’t want to hurt you, son, but I really don’t need the security services on my heels just yet.”
“Too bad,” said River.
“And I’m guessing you don’t have a phone with you, or you’d have used it by now. So tell you what. Give me ten minutes, okay? All I’ll need. Ten minutes. Then raise all the alarms you want.” He reached out suddenly, grabbed River by the elbow, and pulled him into an embrace. Into his ear he said, “Your place is with me, son. Not with that pack of losers. Think about it. We’ll talk again.”
River tried to pull away, but the older man’s grip was iron. “I’m not giving you ten minutes,” he said. “I’m not giving you one.”
“That’s my boy. But you don’t have a choice.” He kissed River hard, on the lips; a brief and violent contact.
And then lifted him off the ground and threw him over the low wall into the Thames.
The gun in Shirley’s hand grew heavier.
It was odd, but all she wanted to do was sleep. Earlier that day, she’d been pissed off at missing the action—even seeing Louisa’s chain-gang bruises hadn’t mollified her: she’d have liked to have been there in that Southwark garage, see if she’d have fared better. But now Patrice was tied to a radiator, wearing half a pint of blood on his jaw, and Marcus—Marcus was still downstairs. And she felt so damn tired, so very very tired. She wanted to put the gun down, crawl under the nearest duvet and sleep for a week. Wouldn’t need medication. Just let her head hit a pillow, and please don’t let her dream.
Especially not about Marcus, and the mess on the wall behind his head.
JK Coe was looking at her with his usual absence of expression.
“What?” she snarled.
Funny how she could still do that, go from nought to sixty on the pissed-off-ometer in the time it took Coe to blink.
And then it returned, crashed in like a wave: a weary tsunami threatening to lift her up and toss her away like a broken puppet.
Lamb was talking to Louisa again. “No, I don’t know what he looks like. He’s an American, that any help? And maybe he’s got Cartwright with him.”
There was that tinny sussuration you get when the other part of the conversation’s happening somewhere else.
“Why? What possible use is talking to her gunna be?”
There was another squawk of static from his mobile, following which he handed it to Catherine.
“For some reason she wants to talk to you.”
Catherine took the phone and left the room. Shirley could hear her talking to Louisa, quietly, as she made her way up the stairs. And then a door closed, and her soothing murmur was cut off.
Lamb looked around at what was left of the company: Shirley Dander, Coe and Roderick Ho. “So she’s telling Guy we’ve lost two. You think that’s a good idea? Think that’ll put her at her operational best?”
Nobody had an answer. Nobody knew anything.
For once, Lamb didn’t press the point. Instead, he made a cigarette appear out of nowhere, and lit it. He looked grey. He always looked grey, more or less, but was now a shade greyer. He dragged in smoke, blew a cloud at the ceiling, and said to Shirley, “Made your mind up yet?”
Shirley stared.
He said, “Not to put too fine a point on it, but your partner’s head looks like someone took a shovel to a watermelon. If you’re happy to let the wheels of justice take their course, that’s up to you. But if you want to discuss matters with the Terminator here, you go ahead. I’m going for a smoke.” He flapped the hand holding his cigarette. “You’re not allowed to do that indoors any more.”
Ho watched as Lamb left the room, then looked at Shirley nervously.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“Then fuck off.”
So he did; following Lamb part way down the stairs, then peeling off into his own office, closing the door behind him.
JK Coe stayed where he was.
Shirley said, “You too.”
“Me too what?”
“Fuck off.”
He shook his head.
“I’m not going to ask twice.”
“You didn’t ask once yet. You just told me to fuck off.”
“So why haven’t you?”
“Because it’s my office. Where’m I supposed to fuck off to?”
“That’s more words than I’ve heard you say before,” she said. “Put together.”
“Yeah, well. Big day.”
Patrice coughed; a thick, phlegmy noise.
It startled Shirley. She’d more or less forgotten he was there; as if he’d ceased to have human significance, and been reduced to one factor in an equation, the others being Shirley herself, the gun in her hand, and the half-second it would take to act.
The gun, which still felt so very very heavy.
JK Coe said to her, “You don’t want to do this, do you?”
But she really did.
“Fuck it!” said Louisa. “Fuck it fuck it fuck it!”
“What?” Emma said. “What happened? That was Lamb?”
Louisa shook her head. The lights of London blurred. She was driving through heavy rain, and had just been told Marcus was dead, Bad Sam Chapman too . . .
Marcus, dead.
Marcus had saved her life once, on London’s tallest rooftop. He’d shot a man who’d been about to kill her, and Louisa’s only regret was that she hadn’t been able to kill the bastard herself. And this afternoon too, bursting through those wooden gates in a commandeered taxi: if he hadn’t done that—shit, she’d be dead all over again. Dead twice over if not for Marcus.
She’d never met his family, never been to his home—Christ, they were a dysfunctional bunch, the slow horses; in each other’s pockets half their lives, but never taking the time to share the other moments.
And now they’d be diminished, smaller, less of a unit. Marcus, apart from anything else, had probably been the only thing keeping Shirley Dander from going postal on a daily basis.
“You okay?” Emma asked.
Louisa nodded, and blinked her vision clear.
“This is Patrice we’re hunting?”
“One of his team.”
“Good enough.” Emma unbuttoned her coat, and checked her weapon.
“I thought you’d lost that.”
“I took Devon’s. He’s not going to need it in A&E.” She thought about that. “He’s probably not going to need it in A&E. How much further?”
“Blackfriars Bridge,” Louisa said. “Next one.”
Emma squinted through the windshield. “There’s some kind of commotion up ahead. That’ll be our stop, right?”
There were roadworks, metal fencing dividing the road in two. On the river side, there was no road surface, and plastic bollards blocked the way. Temporary traffic lights herded traffic into single file, shepherding them left. Louisa pulled right instead, ploughed through a row of bollards, and hit the brakes so hard the back of the vehicle was briefly airborne.
“Jesus!” Emma shouted.
A cluster of people at the end of the dazzle ship’s jetty were examining the water below in a manner suggesting emergency. Despite being winded, Emma was out of the car first. Something about her—the bruise on her face?—must have conveyed authority, because the crowd parted for her, offering overlapping commentary:
“We can’t see him!”
“He’s gone under!”
“There were two of them—”
“The other one legged it.”
“What happened?” she said, and was echoed immediately by Louisa:
“Who’s in the water?”
A man in a blue coat said, “There were two of them out here, acting odd. An older bloke and a young man, fairish hair—”
“Who’s in the water?” Louisa repeated.
“The old one tipped the young guy over the side. I saw him from the bar window.”
The water below was black and rained-on and furious.
“Oh, fucking hell,” said Louisa.
An orange lifebelt bobbed lonely on the surface. There was no sign of anyone reaching for it.
Louisa pulled her coat off.
“What?” said Emma.
“Go after him—the old guy. Find him. Stop him. Now.” Then she said “Fucking hell” again, and peeled her shoes off.
Emma said, “Which direction did he go?”
The man in the blue coat pointed, and Emma ran.
Louisa climbed onto the wall and scanned the water. There was no sign of River. The rain was pummelling down, and she was already as wet as she’d ever been—she waited one second for someone to tell her not to be stupid, but the group had fallen unaccountably silent. There was a police car approaching, and police cars were famously loaded with heroes, and would soon deliver someone more professional, more trained, and more prepared to jump into the Thames. But the longer she hung here, the longer River spent underwater. Fucking hell, she thought again. But before the second syllable had formed, she was airborne, and then she wasn’t.
•••
When he’d hit the water, his lights had gone out. Not far to fall, perhaps, but a little too far to be thrown: any surface was going to welcome him the way gravity welcomes the apple—it rattled him to the core; stole his breath, then swallowed his body, wrapping him in a bone-numbing cold that somehow held the promise of warmth later. And he didn’t know which way was up. He kicked, and seemed to move, but his lungs were bursting—he tried to turn, but everything felt heavy, his shoes, his coat, his limbs. Every action pushed him further into darkness. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open. Soon his lungs would give up, and he would be forced to inhale. After that, the darkness would be complete.
His hand brushed something, he didn’t know what. He reached for it, but it was gone. And then he felt his body slowing down. Why fight it? He was in the river. It had been bound to end this way. He was drifting face down, and there was a light somewhere but it couldn’t reach him. He’d gone too deep. Slowly, slowly, River gave up. He breathed deep, and filled himself with water. After that, there were only two possible directions he could go. It was with some relief that he noticed he seemed to be heading upwards.
Most times of day the Thameside Path was kerb-to-wall joggers, only slightly less cavalier than cyclists in regard to legitimate pavement-users, but Emma was on her own as she hared under Blackfriars Bridge, its ice-cream colouring lost to the night and the weather. Everything was shades of grey, barring the odd blur in her peripheral vision—she was regretting those tequilas, regretting the beer they sandwiched, but was propelled onwards by the thought of having someone in her sights; a way to reclaim the day. Success would mean the sack of woe she’d laid out to Louisa in the bar could be knotted and dumped in the river.
Thoughts of Diana Taverner being dumped in that same sack, maybe with a couple of angry weasels for company, were a comfort . . .
Her breath was heavy, blood hammering in her ears, but there was a figure ahead of her so she ratched it up a notch, her footsteps echoing against the underside of the bridge. He must have heard her, but didn’t turn; he stepped, instead, into a halo of streetlight which transformed the rain into a torrent of gemstones, then disappeared up the flight of steps leading roadward.
Emma slipped, crashed into the wall, just managed to keep her balance—Christ, she could have ended up in the water too. She shouted after the vanishing man, and didn’t realise until she’d heard herself that the word she shouted was Police. She was so winded it sounded more like a bark. Reaching the stairs she took them three at a time, her legs rubbery. Round the dog-leg corner, more steps, and she was on the bridge itself, where everything was louder, noisier—a bus passed; a big red box of curious shapes behind steamed-up windows, but the pavement was bare as a singleton’s cupboard: no vanishing man. She turned, checked the other direction: the same. He’d come up the stairs, but hadn’t reached the top.
Think.
A blue light was spinning on the other side of the road, a police car turning onto the bridge from the Embankment. A black van, too. The nasty squad. They’d be alert for mischief after Pentonville Road, and she had a gun in her pocket. Entirely legitimate, but accidents happened. She turned and went back down the steps. Level with the landing, upright in the Thames, sat a temporary structure bearing a winch or crane of some sort, alongside a workman’s hut and assorted junk impossible to make out in the dark. Whatever it was for, bridge maintenance or riverbed dredging, it was the only place the vanishing man could be. He must have jumped, and given how close behind him she was, must have done so without hesitation. Reached the landing, saw the platform, climbed onto the wall and jumped. Some nerve.
She peered across. There was one light, set into the deck, illuminating the bridge. Everything else was in shadow, and there was no movement that couldn’t be explained by the rain and the rocking of the river. Here, leaning out over the water, the rain sounded different. It hit the river with a constant hiss, as if large machinery were operating nearby.
The gap between the thigh-high wall enclosing the staircase and the edge of
the platform was a couple of yards at most.
Which wasn’t much. A distance she’d not think twice about jumping most days of the week; but most days of the week it wasn’t raining, she wasn’t pissed, there wasn’t a cold deep river down below. But he couldn’t have gone anywhere else. He had to be on that platform, behind that hut, crouched in the shadow of that crane or winch—stop overthinking it; make the bloody jump. She stepped up onto the wall, made the beginner’s error of looking down, and it might have all been over in that same second if some survival instinct hadn’t kicked in, the kind that decided she might as well jump as step back onto the nice safe stairs. Maybe not a survival instinct, then. Maybe her internal idiot. Either way, she jumped, and for half a moment was a statistic waiting to happen, and then landed on the platform, its wooden decking solid as a road, but twice as slippery. She went down on her hands and knees, and had to grab one of the crane’s metal joists to haul herself up. Some of the shapes took solid form: crates and buckets and a toolbox, some metal poles and an industrial-sized bobbin wrapped with cable. And then there was movement from behind the toilet-sized cabin; it might have been a shadow flung from the far bank of the river, except shadows didn’t assemble themselves into solid human shapes. The vanishing man stepped out of the dark and unvanished.
“You’re under arrest,” she told him.
He punched her in the face.
Or would have done; she leaned sideways and his fist missed her by a whisker, but she slipped and went down again anyway. Her coat, she thought—her coat was going to be such a mess. Partly because she’d just landed on her back in an oily puddle. But mostly because her hand had just found her Service weapon—Devon’s Service weapon—and as she pulled it from her shoulder holster it snagged on her coat’s lining, so the shot she fired tore a nasty hole parallel to its middle button. She didn’t hit him—hadn’t intended to—but she stopped him in his tracks.
“I should have fucking mentioned,” she said. “Stop or I shoot.”
And suddenly there were bees everywhere, a swarm of bright red bees dancing around her; around the vanishing man too, who looked down at her with quite a charming grin. He raised his hands above his head, though kept his eyes on Emma rather than raise them to the bridge where the nasty squad had gathered, their laser-sighted guns trained on the pair of them. A metallic voice was suggesting she drop her weapon now. She dropped her weapon. And still they danced, the flight of red bees, humming over her upper body as if awaiting the order to dive and sting. It could easily happen. She’d be the last to know. But even that couldn’t stop Emma doing what she did next, which was roll sideways and vomit two tequila shots, a beer and two black coffees.
