London Rules

by Mick Herron

  ‘Well, that’s theology’s big issue wrapped up. Thanks for that.’ She looked around the assembled crew. ‘Everybody’s exhausted. There’s nothing we can do. Why don’t you all go home?’

  ‘We should get out there,’ Shirley said. ‘To the Abbey.’

  ‘And do what?’ asked Lamb. ‘Chuck staplers at the bad guys?’

  ‘A stapler can do a lot of damage,’ she muttered.

  River said, ‘Flyte’s reported to the Park, the Park’ll have brought the Met up to speed. There’ll be police, there’ll be army, and Five’ll have eyes on the ground. I think they’ll struggle by without us.’

  ‘I imagine it had already occurred to them today’s service was at risk,’ Catherine said. ‘It’s not like they’d let the princes attend without serious security in place.’

  ‘A suspicion corroborated becomes a working theory,’ Coe said.

  ‘Thank you, Confucius,’ said Lamb. He turned to River. ‘Once bitten, twice chewed, huh?’

  ‘I don’t even know what that means,’ River said.

  ‘That last night’s little adventure’s left you gun-shy. What’s the matter, don’t want to be nearby in case more … accidents happen?’

  ‘I just want some sleep,’ he said.

  ‘We all do,’ said Catherine. ‘We should all go home,’ she repeated. ‘Whatever happens today, it’s not our watch.’

  As if she hadn’t spoken, Lamb said, ‘I don’t know what happened in Slough, but the pair of you clearly pissed upstream. What are the odds we’re all going to be drinking from that soon?’

  Louisa stretched theatrically. ‘Well, Catherine’s got a point. If we’re gonna be drinking piss tomorrow, we might as well bag some sleep.’

  ‘I’m not sure that was precisely what I said.’

  Coe was looking out of the window.

  Lamb said, ‘So, I mention Slough, and everybody wants to go home. A suspicious mind might find that curious.’

  ‘They went to Slough,’ Louisa pointed out. ‘I drove to Birmingham. And back. And haven’t slept.’

  ‘So you don’t plan to make a nuisance of yourself round the Abbey, then.’

  ‘State I’m in? I’d be about as effective as Donald Trump junior.’

  ‘There’s a Donald Trump junior? Christ. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.’

  A phone buzzed, but nobody reached for a pocket.

  ‘Will someone shut that bloody thing up?’ Lamb said.

  ‘It’s yours,’ Catherine pointed out.

  ‘In that case, will everyone fuck off elsewhere?’

  They trooped from the office and reconvened in Shirley’s room.

  ‘Now would be a good time,’ Catherine said. ‘Just go. All of you.’

  ‘He knows, doesn’t he?’ River said.

  ‘You’re probably better off if he does,’ she told him. ‘If what happened gets out, then Slough House is in trouble. Which means he’ll be on your side, for as long as it takes to sort things out.’

  Unless Lamb had the power to restore life, River didn’t think things would get sorted out too quickly.

  Shirley had disappeared. Coe was inserting his earbuds again, though whether he was listening to a news channel or his interminable jazz soundtrack was anyone’s guess.

  River said, ‘Okay, I’m done,’ and left the building.

  On Aldersgate Street he’d waited for Louisa to catch up. ‘You heading home?’

  ‘That seems to be our instruction.’

  ‘So are you?’

  ‘Hell no.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Didn’t think so. What was with the, “I think they’ll struggle by without us” bit?’

  ‘Last thing I want right now,’ River told her, ‘is pairing up with Coe again. Or Shirley.’

  ‘You think they’ll head that way too?’

  ‘I’m not making any predictions about Coe. Except that whatever he does, I hope he does it far away. But Shirley, yeah.’

  ‘You’re probably right. We tubing it?’

  He’d left Ho’s car keys on his desk; besides, central London’s traffic would be jammed to a standstill. ‘Yep.’

  They’d separated on arrival, patrolling streets that were slowly, then quickly, transformed by the public. It was a pointless exercise, but it was hardwired into them all the same. It was the job they’d trained for, before they’d soiled their copybooks. It was that tiny spark of hope, not quite dead, that, carefully nurtured, might light their way back to their careers. Two hours in they’d rendezvoused for a Coke, then headed back into the throng. Now, ninety minutes later, the memorial service was gearing up to start, one o’clock ready to strike its ragged antiphony. River saw Louisa up ahead, by a streetlight; holding two cups of coffee one-handed while she checked her phone.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked, relieving her of a cup.

  ‘Nada. You?’

  ‘Same.’

  Cars went past, a little way distant. The only traffic carried VIPs to the Abbey. That would be the princes arriving, he thought, or the PM. It was starting.

  ‘Seen Shirley?’

  ‘Nope. Coe neither.’

  ‘I expect they’ve gone to bed.’

  Louisa spat coffee.

  ‘Christ, no. I meant—’

  ‘I know what you meant. I just—’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I mean, can you imagine?’ She slipped her phone back into her pocket. ‘You think it’s gonna work out?’

  ‘The service?’

  ‘Everything.’ She glanced around, to check nobody was listening, but dropped her voice anyway. ‘Coe. The Gimball thing. Shit, River, it’s fucking huge.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen,’ he said, keeping his own voice level. They began to walk, past a row of parked cars.

  ‘Have you thought about taking it upstairs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t know what good it’ll do. I was there, same as Coe. We both know what that’ll mean, if it comes to handing down verdicts. There are reasons why the Park might want to cover it up, but probably plenty more why they won’t. Not least being, we’re not their favourite people.’ His coffee was too hot. A hot drink on a hot day. Better than nothing, though. ‘You want to know something funny?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I was planning on quitting. Before it all kicked off. I’d decided I’d had enough, and was gonna jack it in. Start a new life.’ He laughed: not a real laugh. ‘Good times.’

  Louisa put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re all over the place right now, though. With your grandfather and all.’

  ‘Yeah. Still.’

  ‘So I wouldn’t make any big decisions. Not until … yellow car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Not until it all shakes down a bit. We catch these guys, we get to be heroes. That’ll alter the picture. Besides, you know. Lamb. He has a way of sorting things out.’

  River said, ‘There are limits. Anyway, catching these guys, that’s not gonna happen, is it? Realistically. Even if they do turn up here. In which case, frankly, we’re more likely to get shot than be heroes.’

  Louisa dropped her cup into a bin. ‘Now, that’s just defeatist.’ She fished her phone out again. ‘I still think it’s strange we’ve not seen Shirley.’

  ‘It’s a big crowd. She’s a small person.’

  ‘But with ways of making her presence felt. I’m gonna call her.’

  ‘You’ll probably wake her up.’

  Louisa said, ‘Yeah, that’ll be fun too,’ and made the call.

  Fixed to the wall were two TVs, currently mute, each showing footage from Westminster Abbey. The PM was just disappearing inside, shadows swallowing him as surely as history would, any moment now. Then again, people had been saying that for a while. The other screen showed crowds lining the roads. It might have been a celebration, but there were few flags flying. Close-ups showed serious expressions, occasional tears.

&
nbsp; Emma Flyte said, ‘Have you ever seen so many blues on the street?’

  ‘Royal wedding?’

  ‘Even then. And khaki, too. There must be two full regiments out there. You could basically stage a war in central London.’

  Welles said, ‘You’re worried something’s going to happen? Or that it’s not?’

  They were in the Dogs’ quarters – ‘the kennel’, naturally – having been told by Taverner to remain there for the foreseeable, which as far as Flyte was concerned, might turn out not that long. Yesterday she’d sat in Slough House, handcuffed to a chair, and listened to those idiots discussing which of Gimball or Jaffrey might end up dead. If she’d brought that straight to the Park, maybe Gimball would have made it through the night. As it was, her career probably wouldn’t survive him by much.

  But here she was, and she’d dragged Devon along behind her. She’d yet to hear him complain about it.

  She said, ‘The Abbotsfield crew, they’re what, five strong? And probably one down now, given someone went through a window.’

  ‘Two words,’ said Welles. ‘Suicide squad.’

  ‘Okay. But even then, how close to the Abbey could they get? There’s no traffic within quarter of a mile. And on foot, they won’t get that close. Not with every pair of eyes on the lookout for dodgy actors.’

  ‘They don’t need to get close,’ Welles said. ‘These aren’t combat rules, remember? To be a target, you just have to turn up. This crew, if they mow down a crowd at a zebra crossing, they’ll call it a result. Any crowd, any street. They just have to open fire.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But that’s not exactly seizing the media, is it?’

  ‘No shortage of news crews out there.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Nobody likes it.’ Welles hoisted himself out of his chair. There was a table in the corner on which an ancient coffee machine muttered to itself. ‘You want some?’

  ‘I’m caffeinated beyond belief,’ Flyte told him. ‘Any more, you’ll have to peel me from the ceiling.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ He filled a cardboard cup from the jug. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here,’ he reminded her. ‘I’m off duty.’

  ‘Yeah, boohoo.’

  ‘I feel a discrimination lawsuit coming on.’

  ‘You make such a thing out of being black,’ she said. ‘Try being blonde. Then you’d know what harassment feels like.’

  He laughed.

  On one of the screens the picture changed, and Flyte tensed. A disturbance, people pressing forward so a barrier fell.

  ‘Dev?’

  He’d already abandoned his coffee, the cup dropping to the tabletop, rolling onto the floor.

  And then there were policemen on the screen; helping people to their feet, moving the barrier so nobody else tripped.

  Welles exhaled heavily.

  Flyte said, half to herself, ‘So many people there. It’s like a coronation.’

  ‘“We are not afraid,”’ Welles quoted. ‘They want to be there, show the bastards they’re not winning. That they’ll never win.’

  ‘But some of us will lose, all the same.’ The screen showed someone who’d borne the brunt of the collapse; a young woman, her face contorted in pain. Broken leg? Broken something. Two officers were crouching beside her, one laying a hand on her forehead.

  Welles said, ‘Would you prefer it if the streets were deserted? If they had a memorial service and nobody came?’

  She said, ‘They’ve picked soft targets until now. They’re in for a shock.’

  ‘Not sure there’ll be many of us feeling sorry for them.’

  ‘No. But it makes me wonder why they got so ambitious. They’re not going to get anywhere near the Abbey.’

  ‘A snake eating its tail. This wouldn’t be happening if they hadn’t shot up Abbotsfield. They’ve ordered their own victim turnout. What’s the matter?’

  Emma had gone white.

  Lamb was not far from Regent’s Park, waiting at a junction where a tree overhung the pavement. There were no crowds; outside of the Abbey’s environs, London was muted, as if the arching blue sky were an upturned bowl, clamping down on everything. He had contrived to be late, but not late enough, and it was a full minute before Molly Doran approached, her cherry-red wheelchair buzzing, as if pursued by mosquitoes. He lit a cigarette, then ran a finger round his collar. It came away damp.

  ‘What speed can you manage on that thing?’ he asked, when she’d come within range.

  ‘Faster than you’d think.’

  Lamb grunted. ‘Might get one myself. Walking’s hell in this weather. Makes my feet swell up.’

  ‘Is there not a small part of you that gets tired of this?’

  He leered. ‘I have no small parts. Remember?’

  ‘Must be fun working under you, Jackson.’ She steered her chair into the shade. ‘Tell me about Catherine Standish.’

  For a moment, the near impossible happened, and Jackson Lamb looked thrown. But he was looming above Molly Doran’s eye level, and it was possible she didn’t notice. ‘She’s a drunk. She makes my tea. Does the typing. So what?’

  ‘Nobody types any more.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t micromanage. Typing or whatever. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Seems only fair I get some information in return.’

  ‘In return for what? You’ve told me nothing yet.’

  ‘You seriously think I’d show you mine without seeing yours first? Come on, Jackson. Even when I did have legs, I didn’t spread them that easily. She was Charles Partner’s girl Friday, wasn’t she?’

  ‘You never met her?’

  ‘She was on the exec level. I didn’t get upstairs that often.’

  ‘You could have left that to me,’ he said. ‘There’s a punchline in there somewhere.’

  ‘She crops up now and again, in the records. In Partner’s files. Just another of those stories I’ll never hear the end of now.’

  ‘She’s a slow horse,’ said Lamb. ‘Like all the others.’

  ‘Except she was the first of them, wasn’t she? She was the one you took with you, from the Park. Why’d you choose her? That’s my price.’

  He said, ‘I needed someone to make my tea. And do the typing.’

  ‘Fuck off, Jackson.’

  He removed the cigarette from his mouth and examined the glowing tip. Veins of bright orange under a film of ash. He blew on it, and the ash disappeared. Within moments, it was back.

  ‘She’s a joe,’ he said at last.

  Molly Doran laughed: half sneer, half cackle. Out here, she looked like she didn’t belong to the daylight world. ‘She rode a desk her entire career. When she wasn’t riding half the available males in her postcode. Reading between the lines, you understand.’

  ‘Partner used her as a cut-out.’

  And now she inhaled deeply, satisfaction painted across her face like an extra layer of make-up. ‘So the rumours about Partner are true.’

  ‘Yeah, I wouldn’t broadcast that. It remains pretty sensitive.’

  ‘So his suicide—’

  ‘Enough,’ he said, with absolute finality.

  She paused, and said, ‘But he used her. And that makes her a joe in your eyes.’

  ‘In Slough House, my eyes are the only ones that count. Have you finished playing now?’

  ‘I’m going to miss all this.’

  ‘If I pretend to give a fuck, will you get a move on?’

  ‘Jackson, Jackson, Jackson.’ She shook her head, as if releasing a few bad thoughts. Then said, ‘The document your boy Ho stole.’

  ‘You found the original?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And there’s a paper trail?’

  ‘Oh, you’d better believe it,’ said Molly Doran.

  Flyte said, ‘We’ve got it wrong. Everybody’s got it wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s the memorial service all right. That’s where they’ll attack. But not at We
stminster. They’re back at Abbotsfield.’

  ‘You think—’

  But Flyte was already on the move; out of the door, heading up to the hub.

  An said, ‘It is time you gave the order.’

  They’d hoisted Danny’s body on top of Joon’s, so the two lay like logs; the lower sheened in cling film, the upper growing waxier by the minute. Danny’s last thoughts had been spray-painted across the van’s side panel, but were drying now, and remained forever private.

  Shin tried to speak, couldn’t, and reached for his bottle of water. After a draught, he tried again. ‘We go now,’ he said.

  ‘Louder.’

  ‘We go now.’

  Up front, Chris started the van. It pulled away from the edge of the unkempt road, leaving the weeds and long grass it had been parked upon to commence the struggle of becoming upright once more.

  Down the hill, Abbotsfield awaited their second coming.

  Shirley answered on the third ring. ‘Yeah. What?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Why, where are you?’

  ‘I’m at the Abbey, Shirl. With River. Are you not here too? We haven’t seen you.’

  ‘Well, yeah, that’s because I’m not there,’ she said. ‘Simples.’

  Louisa stifled an exasperated sigh. ‘So where are you, then?’

  ‘I’m at Abbotsfield,’ said Shirley.

  16

  ONCE LAMB HAD LEFT Slough House, Shirley had crept up to his office. Crept might be the wrong word, just as hiding might not be what she’d been doing immediately before he left. But it was true she didn’t want to be caught searching his desk, which was why she nearly hit the ceiling when J. K. Coe addressed her from the doorway:

  ‘Looking for Lamb’s gun?’

  ‘It’s Marcus’s gun,’ she managed at last.

  Coe shrugged.

  She’d heard the back door open and close several times, and had thought everyone had gone. If asked to place a bet, she’d have put money on Coe leaving first.

  ‘Not your business, anyway.’

  ‘No.’

  The bottom drawer on the left-hand side was locked. Shirley fumbled in her pocket; found Marcus’s universals.

  Coe said, ‘You’ll probably tell me anyway. If I stand here long enough.’

  ‘They shot at me,’ said Shirley. ‘Outside Ho’s house. If they shoot at me again, I want to shoot back.’