Slough House

by Mick Herron

  “Do you think you’re being funny, mate? Because I don’t have to just walk out, you know? I could knock your block off first.”

  “I’m sure you could. You do look, if I have the terminology right, ‘well hard.’ But do either of those things, and at the very least you’ll miss learning something you ought to know.”

  Judd sipped tea again, and waited.

  Flint had his hands on the arms of his chair, ready to get up. But he didn’t.

  Judd sipped more tea. Waited.

  At last Flint said, “Well?”

  “The secret service have people in your organisation.”

  “. . . We’re not an organisation, as such.”

  “Aren’t you really? As such? But you have people doing things, don’t you? You’re having leaflets printed. Who’s writing the copy? Who’s arranging the printing? Who’s sorting them into bundles—”

  “Okay.”

  “—and arranging their distribution? Who decides when and where you next do whatever it is you’re going to do? And who decides what that is?”

  “I said okay.”

  Judd smiled, benevolently. “Even if you don’t have a steering committee, you have decisions to make, and people helping make them. It’s possible that among that number are some who are there specifically for the purpose of reporting your intentions to what I suppose we’ll have to call the authorities. Or maybe they’re just hangers on, joining your gatherings. If so, you’ll soon work out who they are. They’ll be the ones encouraging the others to pick up a brick and throw it through a window. Or suggesting that instead of moving on nicely when Mr. Policeman instructs, you have a go at him instead. Agents provocateurs, they’re called. Like the posh knickers, and with the same outcome in mind.” He smiled. “Someone’s going to get fucked.”

  “And you’re saying that’s me.”

  “And by association, everyone who supports your movement.” Judd put his cup down. “More? Sure? You don’t mind if I do?” He poured. “I may already have managed to curtail these covert activities. If not, I shall do so in short order. Meanwhile, let me return to my opening argument. Political respectability. It’s not about being elected, it’s about having a voice.”

  “Oh, I have a voice. And it’s being heard loud and clear.”

  “Is it? Because as far as mainstream media goes, you’re a joke. The rabble at the gates. All that muckraking going on, digging up your CV. Non-payment of child support, some minor cases of affray. Mortgage fraud too, wasn’t it?”

  “That was a clerical error!”

  “Oh, I’m sure. But the point is, that’s what the headlines are saying every time your picture appears. But they’re not painting you a yob just because you’re a yob. They’re doing it because they’re frightened. What you need to do is make capital out of that fear.”

  Flint was rubbing his stomach abstractedly. It looked very much like that was the sort of thing he did when concentrating, so was presumably already on Judd’s mental list of stuff that would need sorting out. He said, “What are you suggesting?”

  “That I help,” Judd told him. “I can put you next to the right people, who’ll give you a fair hearing, and the opportunity to have your voice heard unaccompanied by editorial condemnation.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll make sure you’re seen in the right places, and with the right company. At the moment you’re on the news pages, and a punchline on panel shows. But once you start appearing in the diary columns, well. Then you’re being taken seriously.” He put his cup down. “Channel Go will do for starters. It has aspirations, and it’s looking for someone to pin its colours to. If it decides to back you, that means you’ll have got clout tomorrow you didn’t have today. And if that happens often enough, you become an unstoppable force.”

  “You make it sound easy,” said Flint. “But what’s in it for you?”

  “Power.”

  “That’s very . . . frank.”

  “I often am. Oh, I lie my teeth off like everyone else when it’s in my best interests. But here and now, there’s no point lying. Your movement may be going places, and I’ve never wanted to be on the wrong side of history. That being the losing side, of course.”

  “And what if I decide I don’t want your help?”

  “Then I’ll put the same effort into destroying you. But don’t let that upset you. It’s nothing personal.”

  Flint was nodding, agreeing with some conclusion he’d just reached. “I always thought you were just another posh dick. Like him in Number 10. But you’re a hard bastard, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Judd. “Also, my life’s not a super-injunction. And the number of children I have is a matter of public record.”

  “Out of interest—”

  “I said public record. I didn’t say I’d committed it to memory. I’ll call this evening. Have an answer ready.”

  And just like that he switched his attention off, as if Desmond Flint had already left the room.

  “I should warn you,” said Shirley Dander. “Last couple of times I teamed up with someone, they’re both dead.”

  “. . . Did you kill them?”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head virtuously. “I mean, I might kill Ho given the chance. But it hasn’t come up.”

  They’d bought enchiladas at Whitecross market and carried them up to the Barbican terraces; were eating perched on the concrete border of a dystopian-looking flowerbed. It struck Lech that this was the first time he’d shared a meal in months. Even half an hour ago, the notion would have sounded absurd. Shirley wasn’t a friend. She was just a nearby occurrence, like a disturbing weather pattern.

  He took a mouthful and scanned both directions. There was nobody watching that he could see. That, though, would be the point of the exercise.

  Shirley said, “Don’t do that.”

  “. . . What?”

  “Let anyone know we know.”

  He ran that through translation software. “You spotted someone?”

  Shirley shrugged. “There was a guy at the market might have been following. But once you know someone’s doing it, you see the bastards everywhere. Like mice.”

  Lech thought of the mousetrap he’d once put in his bin, a little surprise for Roddy Ho, who’d been going through his rubbish. Good times.

  He said, “They must be tripping over each other, if we’ve all got a shadow. And won’t they be wondering how come we all work in the same building?”

  “So we’re a building full of patsies. Besides, maybe they’re doing us one at a time. Who knows? The fact they’re doing it at all is what pisses me off.”

  “Enough to ‘team up’ with the in-house pariah?”

  Shirley scrunched her face into make-believe misery. “Boo hoo. I got caught watching kiddy porn. Poor me.”

  “Fuck you, Dander. I didn’t do that, never have, never would.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Never.”

  “Yeah. That’s what Catherine said.”

  He almost choked. “. . . She said what?”

  “That what happened with the kiddy porn was a plant. That you’d been framed. She didn’t say why. Classified.” She made quote marks with her fingers to illustrate the word, and sprayed sauce onto Lech’s trouser leg. “Oh, sorry.”

  He looked at the red splashes on his chinos, then at Shirley, cramming what was left of her lunch into her mouth. She rolled her eyes at him. I said sorry.

  “You all know I was framed. Lamb too. And you all still treat me like shit.”

  Shirley spoke through food. “So you got a tough break. Doesn’t mean we have to like you. You’re kind of a prick most of the time.”

  “For fuck’s sake! I’ve had my whole life destroyed!”

  “None of us are in our happy place.” She swallowed, then offered him her napkin. “You
could pour some water on that. Then dab at it.”

  “It’ll make it worse.”

  “But at least you’ll be doing something.” He made no move to take the napkin, so she wiped her mouth with it instead. “Look. Shit happened. Join the club. Meanwhile, more shit is being dropped from a height by Regent’s Park’s pigeon squadron. You gunna lie back with your mouth open, or grab a bow and arrow?”

  Lech resisted the temptation to rub at the stain on his trousers and rubbed his cheek instead. The scarring felt strange terrain still; as if he were wearing a mask, and kept forgetting about it. Or had woken to find himself taking part in a masquerade, or an armed robbery. “You’re kind of a prick yourself,” he told her.

  “Yeah, well,” said Shirley. “You get used to it. Do you do coke ever?”

  “. . . No. Well, sometimes. But no.”

  “I wasn’t offering. Just, there’s a guy on one of the stalls down there, one of the Thai places? He’s your man, you get the urge.”

  He had the weird feeling this was Shirley’s idea of a friendship offering. The pipe of peace. Three guesses what would end up in any pipe Shirley got hold of.

  “Okay,” he said at last. The terrace was empty now, apart from themselves. Shreds of blue sky were showing through rips in the cloud canopy. “What are you planning?”

  Shirley said, “Let’s take one of the bastards down.”

  River was in his office, having spent the day staring at his screen, or else through the window, which had planted a square of sunlight onto the vacant desk he shared the room with. It had once been where Sid Baker sat, and that remained its chief significance even during JK Coe’s tenure, which hadn’t been fair on Coe, but Slough House wasn’t big on fairness. And now Sid was back. All this time, she’d been in the world, hidden away; partly erased but still breathing, waiting for the moment to appear to him, in his grandfather’s study.

  For months he’d been wondering what secrets might be preserved in that room, encrypted among a wealth of facts and fictions. Bringing them into the light would be a task for an archivist—a Molly Doran. He remembered sitting in the kitchen once, watching his grandmother prepare a Christmas goose: this had involved removing its organs, which Rose had set about with the same unhurried calm she had approached most things, explaining as she did so the word haruspicate. To divine the future from the entrails of birds or beasts. He’d planned the opposite: to unshelve those books, crack their spines, break their wings, and examine their innards for clues to the past. His grandfather’s past, he’d assumed. Instead, what he’d found in that room was something broken off from his own life. Now read on.

  Roderick Ho had been summoned to Lamb’s presence after the meeting this morning, but was back in his own office now. You didn’t have to be a spy in Slough House: the creaky staircases and unoiled doors offered clues as to who was where. When River went downstairs, he found that Ho had set his monitors up so they were angled towards him like a tanning device. PC pallor. From behind them, he squinted suspiciously at River.

  “What’s happening?” River asked.

  “. . . Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  Ho shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Lamb got you on some special mission?”

  Ho’s eyes narrowed, which River took as a yes. But then, Ho always thought whatever he was doing was a special mission, even downloading menus from local takeaways.

  “Well, I’ve got one. When you’re free.”

  “I don’t work for you.”

  “None of us work for each other. We work with each other. As in, cooperate.” Ho looked like he was struggling with the concept, so River offered a clue. “Like the Avengers?”

  Ho rolled his eyes.

  “No, really. I can just see you as Mrs. Peel.”

  “You called?”

  This was Louisa, who’d followed River downstairs.

  Ho said, “I’m busy. Leave me alone.”

  Louisa came and stood behind him, studied his screens. Ho made a half-hearted attempt to shield them with his arms, like a schoolboy in an exam, but not being an octopus, he was a few limbs short of a barricade.

  She said, “Uber records? Whose log are you hacking?”

  “I’m not hacking it. I’m just looking.”

  “Suppose I gave you a street name and a date,” River said. “Told you that some people had been going door to door, saying they were missionaries.”

  “What you on about?”

  “I bet you couldn’t tell me if they really were or not.”

  Louisa said, “Don’t try to play him. He’s too smart.” She pointed to one of the screens. “D Taverner? You’re running a number on Lady Di?”

  Anything to do with Lady Di grabbed River’s attention. “This is for Lamb, right? What’s he up to?”

  “That’s strictly need to know.”

  “I bet you’ve always wanted to say that.”

  Louisa was still reading the screen, though had to lean in close: a list of dates, a list of drivers, a list of journeys. “The beginning of January.”

  “That’s the week we were wiped,” said River.

  Ho did something, and the screens went blank.

  “Ah, come on! I was reading that!”

  “Get out of my room,” said Ho.

  “What’s all the noise about?”

  And now Catherine had joined them.

  “Miss! Miss!” said Louisa. “Ho’s using his computer to spy on people, miss!”

  “I’m sure that’s very funny,” said Catherine. “But it’s also noisier than Lamb likes it when he’s awake. Which he will be if this goes on much longer.”

  Ho said, “Cartwright wants me to check up on some missionaries.”

  Catherine raised an eyebrow in River’s direction.

  “Brief moment of spiritual crisis,” said River. “I thought Roddy might be able to help. I’d forgotten he was a dick.”

  “Delete your account,” Ho told him.

  “You know Lamb’s expecting the next batch of safe-house possibles by five?” Catherine said.

  The list River was compiling, of properties which might potentially be utilised as hideaways by non-friendlies. It was intended to cover the entire country, a codicil River always spelled out word by word when reminding himself what his job consisted of.

  The. Entire. Country.

  “And he’ll have it,” he said. “Just taking a little downtime with my colleagues. Always a morale booster.”

  “Careful,” said Catherine. “If Lamb takes it into his head to appoint a morale officer, it’ll make all our lives miserable.”

  She left.

  Louisa studied Ho’s blank screens. “Probably just as well,” she said. “Not sure how you’d go about finding a pair of anonymous door-knockers.”

  Ho rolled his eyes.

  “I thought you said not to play him,” said River.

  “You were playing him,” said Louisa. “I’m just signalling his limitations.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Ho. His fingers danced, and the screens came back to life. “Street name?”

  River recited the post code and date Sid had given him.

  “Watch the magic happen.”

  River and Louisa shared a glance.

  “I’d as soon go boil the kettle,” Louisa said.

  In the kitchen, River moodily opened cupboard doors and closed them again. An ancient bag of sugar, turned to stone; damp coffee filters. He collected the broken-off handle of a ceramic mug from an otherwise empty shelf and twirled it in his fingers. “Do you ever wonder what you’d have ended up doing?” he said. “I mean, if you’d just said fuck it when they offered you Slough House?”

  “Oh, please.” Louisa was rinsing her cafetière. “You do realise it’s not about you?” she said. “Sid being alive, I mean
?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means she’s not just a chapter in your life story. It would be an idea not to forget that.”

  “You’re supposed to be an intelligence officer. Not an agony column.”

  “No one said I can’t be both.” An idea struck her. River saw this happen: she paused, the wet cafetière in her hands. “Sid thinks she’s being targeted.”

  “I know. I told you that.”

  “Yeah, but so are we. Right? And she was a slow horse, or used to be. Did you know that Kay died?”

  “Kay? Kay White?”

  “Remember her?”

  “She’s the one never shut up,” said River. “How did she die? She can’t have been that old.”

  “Fell off a ladder, Catherine said. Something like that, anyway. Some kind of accident. Easy to fake.”

  River looked at the broken handle in his palm, then tossed it into the sink. It made a scattering noise. “So what, you think they’re not just stalking us, these Park trainees? You think they’re knocking us off? That doesn’t sound likely. And besides, Kay’s not been one of us for years.”

  His voice trailed away.

  “Nor has Sid,” Louisa supplied.

  They shared a look.

  “What do you think?”

  River said, “It’s out there. Way out there.”

  “Yeah, but. A lot of the things that happen round here are.”

  “The Park, though. Taverner? She’d not authorise anything like that.”

  One of Lamb’s saws came to mind, though. All kinds of outlandish shit goes on.

  “We should take this upstairs.”

  “No,” said River. “I promised her I wouldn’t.”

  “Promised who?” Roderick Ho had appeared in the doorway.

  “Nobody,” said River. “What’d you find?”

  Ho ignored him, and spoke to Louisa. “Told you I could do it.”

  “Actually,” said Louisa, “you didn’t. Not in words.”