by Mick Herron
‘Christ, no,’ said River. ‘He attacked Gimball.’
Catherine said, ‘I feel faint. You know? I actually, seriously feel faint.’
‘I told you they were in the van,’ said Shirley.
‘What?’
‘The actual bad guys,’ said Shirley. ‘Whatever happened in Slough, that was just a cosmic fuck-up. The actual bad guys were in Brum. And I chased them away.’
‘Yes, great, thanks for that,’ said Louisa. ‘Meanwhile, what do we do about having accidentally assassinated someone who might have been our next PM? And when I say “we”, incidentally, I mean Coe. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Nor me,’ said Shirley.
‘That’s right,’ said Catherine. ‘You were busy assaulting somebody else somewhere else.’
‘Gimball’s dead because the guy with the tattoo attacked him,’ River said. ‘And we’ve already established he’s Zafar Jaffrey’s man. That’s what’s going on here. In addition to, you know. The country being under attack and all.’
‘So the fact that it was you and our resident psycho here—’
‘Louisa …’
‘—who whacked him, that’s just a detail, is it?’
Something hit her in the chest, and she caught it reflexively.
A phone.
Coe said, ‘You want to call the police?’
Louisa looked at the phone, then at Coe.
Who repeated himself: ‘That’s what you want to do? Go right ahead. You weren’t there. Uninvolved, like you said. You’ve all made that very clear.’
After a moment, Catherine said, ‘Protocol would say we report to the Park, not the police.’
‘And it’s pretty clear that’s not happening, isn’t it? Unless you think that’s what Lamb’s doing.’
‘Lamb doesn’t know about this yet.’
‘Yeah, ’cause he’s notoriously slow on the uptake, isn’t he?’
Catherine seemed about to reply, but changed her mind.
Louisa said, ‘If we don’t report this, we could all end up in deep shit.’
‘It was an op,’ said Coe. ‘Authorised by our team leader. We report back to him and him alone. Anything else and we’re in breach of the Secrets Act. Which is equally deep shit.’
Shirley said, addressing the others, ‘He got away with it last time.’
They stared.
‘Just saying.’
‘Let’s wait until Lamb gets back before deciding our next move, shall we?’ said Catherine at last. ‘And it might be an idea to keep an eye on the news.’
‘Might also be an idea to pretend this conversation never took place,’ said Louisa, and tossed Coe’s phone back at him.
Welles checked in via the car park, showing his pass to the guard on duty but signing Lamb in using the standard visitor soubriquet ‘Lindsay Lohan’, a hangover from a few years back, when Lohan was turning up everywhere unannounced. The guard didn’t bat an eye. Jackson Lamb’s own name might cause ripples even among the young and unblooded, but his public appearances were as rare – and as welcome – as a fin on a bank holiday beach, so his physical presence rang no bells. The guard probably had him down as a local joe, working undercover in a food bank queue.
This side of the Park was for trade and passing talent: little chance of bumping into your Diana Taverners, your Claude Whelans. Waiting for the lift to take them down into the bowels, Welles said to Lamb, ‘Remind me why I’m doing this.’
‘If we want to know what this killing crew plan next, we need to know who’s pulling their strings. They knew exactly what they were after when they trapped Ho in their honeypot. Which means they had inside knowledge, if not an actual insider.’
‘You think there’s a mole?’
‘It’s happened before. But no, honest answer, I think somebody fucked up. That’s usually what turns out to have happened.’
‘We should kick it upstairs,’ Welles said. ‘We should definitely kick it upstairs.’
‘Yeah, but before committing Hare Krishna, let’s see if we’ve got wiggle room when it comes to assigning blame.’
‘Hara-kiri.’
‘You’re welcome.’
When the lift doors opened, they were on Molly Doran’s floor.
She was already rolling out to meet them because, as she later explained to Lamb, she had a sixth sense for impending unpleasantness. ‘When you’re in the area, it’s like everything grows darker.’ He would simply blink at this assertion, as if the obvious had been stated once too often for his liking. Meanwhile, in the here and now, Molly was a short woman, and would be shorter were she standing, as both her legs were missing below the knee. This lack contributed to the impression of spherity she radiated, as did – somehow – her overabundance of make-up, a quantity which would have drawn comment had anyone else indulged in it, but with Molly Doran seemed to be a challenge. Her cheeks were white; her lips scarlet. Her wheelchair cherry-red, with thick velvet armrests.
When she saw Lamb and Welles her expression didn’t change, but the light in her eyes shifted a pantone, from dark red to darker. There’d always been stories about Molly Doran – how she guarded her fiefdom like a lioness its kill – and she had always encouraged them, because there’s nothing Spook Street enjoys more than a legend, unless it’s a myth. The distance between the two was paper thin; the exact space between one’s last breath and the next thing. Welles had met her in passing only; had once asked – quite late at night – if she needed help getting into a lift. The look he received in response was one they could have usefully taught down the road, where new recruits were drilled in unarmed combat.
‘Jackson Lamb,’ she said. ‘I hardly need to ask, do I? You’re after something.’
‘Would I be here otherwise?’
‘Pay the troll.’
He bent and kissed one over-powdered cheek. For Welles, it felt like a moment that should have been preserved somehow, though not on a camera, not on a phone. It needed Goya, with a lump of charcoal.
Molly said to Welles, ‘He doesn’t do social calls. Only time he shifts his fat arse off a chair is when something promises to relieve his boredom.’
‘I’d visit more often,’ Lamb said, ‘but you cripples make us normal people uncomfortable.’
‘Jesus, man,’ said Welles.
But Molly Doran laughed. ‘He likes to give the impression he’s sparing us the bullshit,’ she told Welles. ‘Truth is, he’s just peddling a different line of bullshit altogether. How’ve you been, Jackson?’
‘My knees have been giving me gyp,’ he said. ‘But I don’t expect sympathy.’
‘See?’ she said to Welles. Then: ‘I don’t allow Dogs on my floor.’
‘I’m not sure you have a choice in the matter,’ he replied.
‘That’s because you’ve never tested the proposition,’ she said, and smiled sweetly.
A flake of powder floated free, as if it hadn’t been expecting that particular muscle to throb.
Welles opened his mouth to reply, but Lamb leaned towards him. ‘Probably best do what she says. She’s run over bigger boys than you in that thing.’
‘And it takes forever to scrape the treads clean.’
‘You’re pushing your luck,’ Welles told Lamb, unpeeling the other man’s fingers from his elbow.
‘You’re a dear boy, I’m sure,’ Molly Doran said. ‘But on this floor, I make the rules. And while not much brings me pleasure these days, fighting my corner does get the juices flowing.’
‘And trust me,’ said Lamb. ‘You don’t want to see her juices flowing.’
Welles looked from one to the other. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes,’ he said. ‘But ten minutes only. Once that’s done, I’m coming in there.’ He nodded towards Molly’s doorway.
Molly considered for a moment, then beamed. ‘I quite like this one,’ she told Lamb. ‘He’s less damaged than your lot.’
‘Give it time.’
‘This once only, you may remain right here,’ Molly
said to Welles. ‘But no whistling. I can’t abide whistling.’
She spun on the spot, and headed into her room.
‘If we’re not finished, there’ll be a sock on the doorknob,’ leered Lamb. ‘One of mine, obviously,’ he added, following Molly into her lair.
Which was a long room lined with upright cabinets, set on tracks allowing them to be pushed together when not in use; like library stacks, and imbued with a similar sense that knowledge, information, words, never really died, but simply burrowed down out of the daylight and waited for curiosity to dig them up again. Here were Regent’s Park’s older secrets. Those that were freshly minted were stored in more instantly accessible form, of course, and many had consequently enjoyed fifteen minutes of fame on social media since.
Molly reversed into a cubbyhole just wide enough for her chair, and braked. Jackson Lamb eyed a nearby stool with distaste, but perched a buttock on it regardless. If this had happened in Slough House, the team would be praying, hard.
‘I hear David Cartwright’s entered the twilight,’ Molly said.
‘Best place for him.’
‘Young River must find that difficult.’
‘Young River finds dressing himself difficult,’ said Lamb. ‘I don’t want to speculate on his emotional trials.’
‘Oh, he’s bright enough. He just has the disadvantage of having you as his team leader. That would make anyone question their own competence.’
‘I don’t encourage them to think of me as team leader,’ Lamb said. ‘I prefer “pagan deity”.’ He looked at the wall above her head. ‘There was a picture there. Why’d you take it down?’
‘Because I fancied a change?’
‘You like change the way I like milk.’ He glanced round the room, searching out more clues, then turned his gaze back to her. ‘You’re moving?’
She said, ‘I’m being let go.’
Lamb nodded, and gestured towards her wheels. ‘Just so long as they don’t do it on a slope.’
‘I don’t expect sympathy, Jackson. But spare me attempts at humour. I’ve been here decades. They built this room around me. It’s what I know, it’s where I’m comfortable. But apparently I’m … surplus to requirements.’
He nodded again. The room was mostly dark, only this particular nook of it illuminated, and this satisfied whatever inside him thrived on gloom and unacknowledged corners. The rows of files were secret histories, and some would be his own; reports made by and of him; lists of the survivors, and an accounting of the dead. Molly Doran lived among past lives he’d discarded, and those of joes he’d known in Cold War days. She belonged here as much as any of those black-ribboned folders. She’d steered her wheelchair into this cubbyhole without hesitation, as easily and unthinkingly as anyone else might step through a doorway.
‘What will you do?’ he asked, and had any of the slow horses been present – except Catherine – they’d have wondered where the words were coming from, where the tone had arisen.
‘Well I don’t see myself settling into civilian life, do you? Even if I found another job, I’d be there to tick boxes. Age, disability, gender. Jump right in as soon as you think of something offensive.’
‘I don’t know why you’re always expecting me to be the comedian,’ he said. ‘You’d be quite the stand-up yourself, if not for the obvious.’
Whatever softness had blurred his edges was gone.
‘I’ve lived a useful life,’ she said. ‘I’ve made a difference. Now they want to replace me with an intern, Lord help us all. What will I do? What would you expect me to do, Jackson?’
He sniffed. ‘This one of Lady Di’s plans?’
‘She’s signed off on it.’
‘There you go, then,’ said Lamb. ‘Taverner’s the word of God round here. I mean, Whelan rattles the cup. But she’s the one grinding his organ.’ He fished a cigarette out of nowhere, and rolled his eyes before Molly could speak. ‘I’m not going to. It helps me think, that’s all. How do you intend to do it?’
‘“It”?’
He drew a finger across his throat. ‘Turn the lights out. Once you’ve been given the push. I assume that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘Oh. Pills, I expect. That’s the favoured option, isn’t it?’
He shrugged. ‘Seems to me it’s one area you have a wider choice than most. Nice coastal path. Big steep drop. You might set a new record for unassisted flight.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘Or at the very least, a personal best.’
‘You’re always a comfort, aren’t you? But then, you’re not here to listen to my woes.’
‘Christ, you got that right,’ he said. ‘Do I look like a fucking social worker?’
‘Our ten minutes is ticking away. And I don’t think our friend is likely to offer much leeway.’
‘Someone came for Roderick Ho the other night,’ Lamb said. He tucked his cigarette behind an ear. ‘He’s the one does my internet and stuff. And when I say “came for”, I mean, with guns.’
‘I presume they didn’t actually succeed.’
‘He was lucky enough to have the right pagan deity onside.’
‘Fortunate for him,’ said Molly. ‘But from what I’ve heard of your Mr Ho, you don’t require a shortlist of suspects as much as the electoral roll.’
‘There is that,’ said Lamb. ‘But as it happens, we know who it was. The same homicidal cretins who shot up that Derbyshire village.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Molly. ‘Stepped into something nasty, did he?’
‘And been treading it round on his shoe ever since. Course, he’s the last to notice.’
‘Where is he now?’
Lamb pointed floorwards.
‘But you don’t want to wait until they’ve finished wringing him out.’
‘He gave someone something. We know that much. The Watering Hole paper, Coe’s calling it.’
‘Mr Coe? I remember him. Pleasant young man.’
‘Yeah, he’s had a personality transplant since. Anyway, it’s a postwar planning document, some nonsense about destabilising a third world state, or developing nation, or whatever we call them now. Tinpot hellholes?’
‘I’m not sure that’s the PC term, but I think I know what you’re getting at. Where’s this paper come from?’
‘This is Ho we’re talking about. He snatched it out of the ether.’
‘Well, there you go. If it’s been digitised, it won’t be here. The point of putting records on the Beast is so they’re not taking up space elsewhere. The original will have long since been shredded.’
The Beast was Molly’s collective name for the assortment of databases the Service operated. She barely hid the hope that one day the whole vast edifice would crumble into spiralised landfill, leaving her realm the Service’s sole bank of reliable memory.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Lamb. ‘Except.’ He scratched an ear, found a cigarette there, stared at it for a moment, then put it back. ‘Except I think there’s more than one version. The original was ancient, like I said. But at some point or other it was picked up and dusted off, which is how it ended up on a database. Might not have been put into play, but it was certainly on an agenda at least once in recent decades.’
‘So you’re thinking the original might still exist, because the one your boy snatched from the Beast was an updated version.’ She grimaced, and her nose twitched. ‘Could be,’ she said at last. ‘Especially if whoever updated it didn’t want it known they’d copied someone else’s homework.’
‘Excellent,’ said Lamb. ‘Couldn’t find it for me, could you?’
‘Well, of course. I mean, I’ve nothing better to do.’
‘That crew who shot up Abbotsfield? They’re using this thing as a blueprint.’
‘Oh dear,’ Molly said.
‘So, you know. A bit of legwork’d be appreciated.’
She sucked in breath, but after a moment in which detonation seemed possible she exhaled again, blinked slowly, and shook her head. ‘You just can’t help y
ourself, can you, Jackson?’
‘Well, be fair,’ he said. ‘You’re a sitting target.’
Someone appeared in the doorway, and they both turned, expecting Welles.
But it was Emma Flyte.
‘You are seriously starting to piss me off,’ she told Lamb.
Nobody was going anywhere, but that didn’t mean they had to stay where they were. Louisa, Shirley and Catherine departed to their own offices while awaiting Lamb’s return, each contemplating the possible blowback that might be – would be – was definitely heading Slough House’s way. For Shirley this meant taking the twist of coke from her pocket, picturing the rush she’d get were she to take it, and trying to find a compelling reason for not doing so. The only one she could summon was that if she took it now she couldn’t take it later, when she might have greater need. As for Louisa, she’d gone online; at first dipping into various dodgy forums, looking for Abbotsfield chatter, but ultimately giving this up and shopping for boots instead. She found a promising pair, maybe a little pointy-toed – she’d heard it said boots can’t be too pointy, but never by anyone she completely trusted – but hovered over the Buy Now button so long it started to feel like she’d contracted retail paralysis, a condition she’d always thought gender-specific. Christ, it was only money. She clicked, and enjoyed a brief endorphin release. Upstairs, Catherine was tidying places that were already tidy. Her office was like a chamber of her own mind: everything was where it ought to be, but keeping it so required constant vigilance. Across the landing was Lamb’s room, its door lazily ajar; in Lamb’s desk drawer was a bottle of whisky, and with no conscious effort – as if it were marked with a pencil – Catherine could recall exactly the level at which its contents stood. It was as if she were perpetually geared up for departure, and always knew where her nearest exit was. In case of emergency, grab glass. Or no, forget the glass; go straight for the bottle.
Still in their own room, River and Coe were picking at the evening’s scab.
‘I thought you dumped your phone out the car window.’
Coe said, ‘You only have one phone? Seriously?’
‘You keep the spare for dramatic gestures, right?’
River was remembering Coe tossing the phone at Louisa: You want to call the police? Go right ahead. Remembering the gesture, perhaps, because it was preferable to dwelling on the consequences had Louisa done precisely that.
