by Mick Herron
‘So?’
‘So maybe that’s why they left. They hear that the other group has succeeded, so there’s no need for them to do anything. They only need to hit one pol, and that’s job done.’
‘So you do believe me,’ Shirley said.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘I think I do,’ said Shirley.
‘Oh, please. Do tell.’
‘I think shit’s hitting the fan,’ said Shirley. Then she brightened. ‘Yellow car.’
It was more gold than yellow, but Louisa let it ride.
Some years back, it seemed, a ship-in-the-night minister had determined that what the Service really needed was a lot more record-keeping. Despite an in-house suspicion that this was precisely what a covert organisation could get by happily without, transparency and openness had been in vogue in Westminster at the time, largely because of the widespread hope that if there were concrete examples of these virtues available for the pointing at, it might foster a belief that they were operating across the board, and nullify the need for further enquiry. Thus was born the Service Archive, a ‘tool for correlating current events with historical precedents’, which would be of incalculable strategic use assuming it was ever actually operational. Currently, though, its status was not dissimilar to that of countless other Civil Service projects, in that its existence had been ordained, the process for bringing it into being had been set in motion, and it would thus continue gestating until it was officially put a stop to, despite having long been forgotten about by everyone concerned in its conception. In this particular instance, its obscurity was exacerbated by the Service having accepted its brief in the same spirit in which it was delivered, and assigned the task of ‘archive maintenance and augmentation’ to Slough House. In other words, to Roderick Ho.
This, it should be said, was Flyte’s interpretation of events, not Roddy’s verbatim account.
‘And you gave access to your ongoing work product to this … Kim?’
‘My girlfriend,’ Ho supplied.
‘You gave your girlfriend state secrets?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I did what now?’
The man who appeared at the top of the stairs was black, thickset and snappily dressed by Slough House standards, though there were, Catherine Standish admitted, days when any male arriving with his flies done up could claim that. It was a moment before she recognised him, because his hair was shorter than on their previous encounter, but this was Welles, one of the Dogs. He had a strange first name. Devon, that was it.
Lamb said, ‘Chimneys all been swept, thanks. Maybe next year.’
‘You’re Lamb,’ said Devon Welles. ‘I’ve heard about you.’
Lamb scowled at Catherine. ‘You been on Facebook again?’
Welles came in, gave the room a quick once-over, then returned his gaze to Lamb. ‘I gather there’s been a little trouble.’
‘Your lady-boss dropped the ball,’ said Lamb. ‘I assume you’re looking for it.’
‘Mostly just making sure you’ve not kicked it through a window,’ Welles said. ‘You’d be Catherine Standish,’ he told Catherine. It wasn’t a question.
‘There are more chairs next door,’ she said. ‘And there’s always tea.’
She made it sound a philosophical apophthegm, though whether of consolation or dread, it was hard to tell.
Welles said, ‘I’ve only seen the stairs and this office. But I’m not inclined to drink anything brewed on the premises, thanks all the same.’
Lamb raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m militantly anti-racist, as you know,’ he reminded Catherine. ‘But sometimes uppity’s the only word that fits.’
‘Is he like this all the time?’
‘I expect so,’ said Catherine. ‘I don’t work weekends.’
Welles found a chair that was hidden under what might have been an old coat, might have been the shed skin of a previous inhabitant. Pulling it nearer the desk, he accepted Catherine’s wordless gift of a tissue and wiped it down before sitting. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Slough House. I have to say, it lives up to its billing.’
‘If you’re hoping to be voted least popular visitor,’ Lamb said, ‘I should warn you the competition’s stiff. But keep talking.’
Welles looked at Lamb’s feet, still propped on the desk, but masked any emotion they prompted, and addressed his next words to their owner. ‘Ms Flyte explained what happened here. In detail.’
‘And yet you’ve come alone, unaccompanied by the pack. So you’re, what? Her special friend?’ Lamb waggled his eyebrows. ‘Anything you’d like to share?’
Ignoring this, the newcomer said, ‘You’re supposed to be in lockdown.’
‘There was some talk of that.’
‘And you had a gun. Where is it now?’
‘I think it’s in the lost property box,’ said Lamb. ‘Which I appear to have mislaid. What are the odds, eh?’
Without taking his eyes off Lamb, Welles said, ‘Ms Standish?’
‘It’ll be in his desk drawer.’
‘How unpleasant do you want this to be, Mr Lamb?’
‘The last person who asked me that charged eighty quid.’
‘Are we going to have a problem?’
‘You tell me.’ Lamb produced a cigarette, which was somehow already lit. ‘Your boss left some while ago, and you’re here alone. If you’re going to pretend this visit’s logged at the Park, I’m going to laugh so hard it’ll wet all our pants.’ He inhaled. ‘No, you’re here covering your boss’s back. So, you know, brownie points for you. No offence.’ He exhaled. ‘But I can’t see how I’m involved.’
‘You pulled a gun on the head of the internal security division, and you don’t think you’ve got a problem,’ Welles said slowly.
‘Well, if I did, it’s been overshadowed by events,’ said Lamb. ‘Because a couple of hours ago, I let the head of the internal security division know about a real and credible threat to a member of Her Majesty’s Parliament, who’s currently decorating an alleyway somewhere in Slough. I rather think that comes under the heading total fuck-up, don’t you?’
There was a noise from downstairs.
‘Speaking of which,’ he added.
River and Coe entered a moment or two later.
‘Ah, the conquering heroes,’ said Lamb. ‘Well, that was a good job well done. Which part of “prevent an assassination” gave you trouble?’
‘There were two of us,’ River told him. ‘And we weren’t armed.’
‘Versus?’
River and Coe exchanged a glance.
‘No conferring,’ said Lamb.
Coe said, ‘We only saw one.’
Catherine narrowed her eyes.
Lamb said, ‘Okay, so you were outnumbered.’ He looked at Welles. ‘I always round them down and the opposition up. Gives a more accurate reading of the likely outcome. Oh, I didn’t introduce you.’ He turned back to his slow horses, jerking his thumb in Welles’s direction. ‘This is someone or other from the Park. And these dicks belong here. I can’t remember their names.’
‘River Cartwright,’ said Welles. ‘And Jason Kevin Coe.’
‘I prefer J. K.’
‘I totally understand.’ He turned back to Lamb. ‘Dennis Gimball’s been killed?’
‘Hard to know whether to laugh or laugh, isn’t it?’
‘Where’s, ah …’ River began.
‘We felt we’d detained her long enough,’ Catherine said.
‘So we uncuffed her,’ Lamb added, then said to Welles, ‘Damn it, you’re good. See what you made me give away?’
Welles asked Catherine, ‘When are the other two due back?’
‘They have further to come,’ she told him. ‘But Louisa’s a fast driver.’
‘Whatever unravelled earlier,’ Welles said, ‘we need to put it back together again. That way, maybe we can all get through the day in one piece.’
Lamb rolled his eyes in shock. ‘Are you suggesting some sort of
cover up? That we pretend we didn’t know what we knew?’
‘I’m suggesting that it’s not in the best interests of the Service for there to be public doubt about its ability to protect its citizens. Not with this … series of events under way.’
‘Well, the Service’s most vocal critic won’t be expressing his disappointment, will he? On account of being dead. Of course, that in itself might cast doubt on the Service’s ability to blah blah blah.’ He looked at River. ‘I’m used to hamster-boy’s sullen silences. But you’re suspiciously quiet.’
River shrugged. ‘A man died.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you to burst into song. But you were there, weren’t you? Contributions welcome. Who was this “one” you saw?’
J. K. Coe said, ‘Black guy. Face tattoo.’
‘And he killed Gimball?’
‘Looked that way.’
‘I hope you’re not making assumptions based on his colour.’ Lamb turned to Welles and shook his head sadly. ‘I can only apologise.’
Welles said, ‘You saw him with Gimball?’
‘He followed him down an alleyway,’ River said. ‘And Gimball didn’t come out.’
‘So where’s the suspect? In your boot?’
‘We thought it best to leave the scene. Gimball’s known to be a thorn in Five’s side. Us being around might have … muddied the waters.’
‘So instead you let him get away.’
‘A face tattoo?’ said Catherine.
‘You’re about two conversations behind,’ said Lamb, and for Welles’s benefit mimed someone tilting a glass.
‘Something?’ Welles asked.
Catherine said, ‘I did some research earlier. On both potential targets.’
‘The other being Zafar Jaffrey,’ said Lamb.
‘Who has an aide, or a PA or whatever. He appears in several photos.’
‘And has a face tattoo,’ said Welles. ‘Okay, that’s interesting.’
Lamb said, ‘You were a cop too, weren’t you?’
‘You have a problem with that?’
‘No, I quite like cops. You know where you stand with them.’ He gestured to Catherine. ‘Got a fiver? We could buy him off.’
‘This infinite patience of mine,’ Welles said. ‘It’s only an act. You do realise that?’
‘I’m gonna hypothesise,’ said Lamb. ‘So pay attention at the back. You served with Flyte, didn’t you? Or at any rate, came into the Service on her coat-tails. She’s Whelan’s blue-eyed girl, or was until this afternoon. Because let’s face it, if she’d done her job right, my little bunch of never-weres would have spent the day sitting on their hands, and Five would have had Dennis Gimball wrapped in cotton wool. As it is, an MP’s been whacked and the Park has egg all over its Oxbridge chops, so Emma Flyte’s brilliant career looks set to hit the buffers any moment. Which means you’ll be out too. That’s why you want to hush up what happened here this afternoon. You’re covering your arse.’
Welles looked at the others, one by one, then returned his gaze to Lamb. ‘And you’re now going to give me a lecture on ethical behaviour?’
‘Nah,’ said Lamb, tapping ash into his own lap. ‘Ethical behaviour’s like a vajazzle on a nun. Pretty to picture, but who really benefits?’
‘Mr Lamb’s colourful imagery aside,’ said Catherine, ‘cover-ups are never a good idea. Look at Watergate.’
‘People always say that,’ Lamb told her, ‘but they never ask what was really being covered up at Watergate. That shit got out, you’d see fireworks.’
‘It’s safest to assume he’s kidding,’ Catherine told Welles, ‘and move straight on.’
‘That was my plan.’ Welles turned to Lamb. ‘From what Flyte told me, you had a whole lot of speculation this afternoon, and not an ounce of evidence. If she failed to report back on that, it’s hardly an error of protocol. She might as well report on gossip in the supermarket.’
‘Sadly,’ Lamb said, ‘it’s possible Flyte didn’t paint you in on the whole picture. By which I mean how we knew what we know. Are you still in the room?’
This last to J. K. Coe, who nodded.
‘Just checking. Tell the nice man about the pretty piece of paper.’
But before Coe could speak, Welles said, ‘I know about the document. Like I told you, Flyte gave me all the details.’
Lamb narrowed his eyes. ‘She really does trust you, doesn’t she?’
‘Get over it. If that paper even exists, it doesn’t prove anything. I could write down a list of targets—’
There was more noise, more commotion. Louisa and Shirley returning; the latter entering the room first.
‘Did you eat all the Haribo?’
Lamb threw something at her, which she caught gratefully, but turned out to be the wrappings from a takeaway. He then nodded at Louisa. ‘Congratulations. Your guy’s still alive.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Of course, there’s the teeniest possibility he had Gimball whacked,’ Lamb went on. ‘Which complicates matters, as you might imagine.’
‘Shirley and I still win,’ she said. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Devon Welles. And you’re Louisa Guy.’
Louisa straightened her hair. ‘Yeah.
River looked at her, then at Welles, and rolled his eyes.
‘Which makes you Shirley Dander,’ Welles continued. ‘So the gang’s all here.’
‘Apart from Roddy,’ Catherine said.
‘Round about now we usually have a singsong,’ Lamb said. ‘But in the circumstances, let’s press on, shall we? You could write down a list of targets. The village. The watering hole. And so on.’
‘And claim it came from Service files, yeah. So what? It’s fake news.’
‘Unless they’ve got something else up their sleeves,’ River said.
Louisa said, ‘What do you mean, he might have had Gimball whacked?’
‘Well,’ said Lamb, ‘that depends on how much we trust the Chuckle brothers here. Coe’s little eyes are all sparkly, you notice, and that’s never a good sign. So either he and Cartwright slipped in a knee trembler somewhere between here and Slough, or something else lit his candle. But’ – and here he turned to Welles once more – ‘I digress. I’m almost certain you weren’t finished.’
Welles said, ‘So all we need do is agree that you all spent the afternoon safely in lockdown. And everything’s tidy.’
‘Yeah, not really,’ said Lamb. ‘Because you wouldn’t need to be here for that to happen, would you? Flyte could have said all that herself. But she’s somewhere else, which I’m guessing means she’s tracking down that piece of paper it would be so easy to fake.’
‘The Watering Hole paper,’ Coe said.
‘Thank you, boy wonder. And if she’s doing that, it’s probably because she’s wondering exactly the same thing I am.’
‘How come they knew about it,’ said Louisa.
‘We know how they knew about it,’ said River. ‘They honey-trapped Ho. Remember?’
‘Funnily enough, yeah,’ said Louisa. ‘But not really what I was getting at.’
‘But thanks for the mansplanation, Cartwright,’ Lamb said. He looked at Louisa. ‘Mansplaining is when a man tells a woman something she already knows in a patronising, condescending manner,’ he said, slowly and clearly.
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you need me to repeat that?’
‘No, I’m good.’
‘Excellent.’ He turned to Welles. ‘We can pretend all we like that we know nothing about what’s happening, but once the Dogs have finished with Ho, that’s not gonna wash. Meanwhile, the big question is, how come these clowns knew the Watering Hole paper existed in the first place?’
‘Oh, right, yeah,’ River muttered.
‘So we can stick our heads up our arses and pretend it’s not happening, like you suggest,’ Lamb continued, ‘or we can walk back the cat and see who we’re really up against. Ideally before they move on to the next stage in their schedule.’
Welles looked round the room. Everyone was staring at him, except Coe and Shirley Dander, the former of whom was focused on his shoes and the latter peering hard into the gloomier corners of the room, possibly trying to locate the missing Haribo.
He sighed and said, ‘So just what is the next stage?’
Everyone turned to J. K. Coe.
Who said, without looking up, ‘Seize control of the media.’
Shirley made a scoffing noise. ‘Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.’
‘They’re right on schedule so far,’ Louisa said.
‘So what, they’re gonna hijack the BBC?’
‘Well, it worked for Graham Norton.’
‘If you’ve finished amusing yourselves,’ Welles said, ‘do you have an actual suggestion to make?’
Lamb shifted his weight from one buttock to another, and everyone in the room bar Welles flinched. But when he spoke it was without intestinal accompaniment. ‘Yeah, I suggest you put your thinking cap on. You need to come up with a story.’
‘For what?’
‘For getting me into the Park,’ Lamb said. ‘For some reason, they don’t much like me over there.’
10
DARKNESS HAD FALLEN OVER Regent’s Park when news of Dennis Gimball’s death broke: the darkness would roll away in time, but news once broken remains forever unfixed. Claude Whelan was heading out the door: a fresh shirt, dinner with Claire; neither seemed a lot to ask. But all he had time for was a brief dalliance on the steps; a few deep breaths holding the summery tang of leaves from the park opposite. Heading back in, summoned by his beeper, he encountered, inevitably, Diana Taverner, also on her way to the hub. Despite the hour and the punishing past few days she looked alert and fresh. There were rumours she had a room on one of the upper floors where she enjoyed blood transfusions, or perhaps sacrificed virgins, always supposing any made it past security. Her chestnut brown hair, naturally curly, was worn short of late. Whelan wondered whether the colour used help. Lady Di would see grey hairs as a sign of impending weakness.
‘It’s Gimball,’ were her opening words.
Whelan groaned. ‘Don’t tell me – he’s making his speech.’
