by Mick Herron
River gave it another full minute before letting go of her head.
There was no sudden reanimation; no last-minute movie shock.
He drew back from the edge, still on his knees, every muscle trembling. Sid, too, had shuffled away. With distance between them they were breathing in unison: hard ragged gulps of air. He was soaking wet, he noticed. Sweat and blood. Lake water. Something to think about if this ever happened again: bring a change of clothing. He wanted to be sick. Even as he had the thought, Sid threw up. He wiped his mouth, as if it were hers.
Somewhere behind them an owl hooted. And then, from the other side of the lake, another replied: Hu-whit. Hu-whuh. Life went on.
A crowd defaults to its dominant emotion. Recent years had seen children taking to the streets, angry at the damage their elders have done to their planet, but fired by hope nevertheless. For others, rage remained the easier option.
That evening, the Yellow Vests had gathered around Oxford Circus. Though traffic continued to flow, the protestors were confident of their right to occupy the pavements, and their presence had swollen to cover all four corners of the junction, blocking the entrances to the Tube. But rush hour was over, and there was no sign, tonight, of any counter-demonstration by those who were similarly angry but for diametrically opposed reasons, so the usual business carried on at the usual pace; chanting and jeering and outbursts of ragged song. Leaflets, as always, were thrust on anyone passing; these leaflets, as always, now littered the pavements. And all the while the usual targets attracted attention shading into abuse: the too well-dressed, the obviously indigent, the clearly foreign, cyclists, drivers who sounded their horns in derision, drivers who failed to sound their horns in support, women in groups, women in pairs, women on their own, and anyone whose skin tone deviated from the yellow-vested norm, which self-identified as white, though would have passed for pasty grey. It was a scene that might have been playing out in any British city, any European town, though if you looked upwards, over the heads of the furious, you could only have been in London, among London’s beautiful buildings, framed by London’s starless skies.
Not far off—up Regent Street, just this side of Portland Place—a black cab hovered, its passenger having requested it to wait while he made a phone call.
“I watched you on the news,” he was told.
“It’s important to remember the camera adds pounds.”
“I suppose you’re expecting my thanks.”
“Oh, I never expect thanks. I simply expect repayment, in due course.” Peter Judd shifted in his seat, so he could see himself in the driver’s mirror. Put his free hand to his jowls, and gripped. His face tightened in response, and he became several years younger. Hmm. “They were wondering if you’d be available for an interview.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“I said no.”
“You what?”
“You’re not ready, Desmond. You don’t mind Desmond? I’d use Flinty, but I’d sound like an idiot, or a sportsman. Which yes, I know, same thing.”
“. . . What do you mean, not ready? I’ve been giving interviews for months.”
“To spotty interns on freesheets, or virgins from websites. Channel Go is hardly Newsnight, but its presenters can at least conduct a grilling without falling off their desks. So if, for instance, you should reveal your understanding that Downton Abbey was written by Jane Austen, you’re unlikely to find them agreeing with you. As happened in that Q&A with, what was it? The Little Englander?”
“A New England.”
“Thank you.”
On Oxford Circus, with no apparent triggering event, a protestor whose red sweater was visible beneath his high-vis tabard hoisted a newspaper dump-bin, earlier stacked with Evening Standards, at the curved glass window of a clothing store.
It bounced off, to jeers, and some laughter.
Judd released his chin, and his face resumed its current age.
Flint said, “So you’re saying I need a crash course in general bloody knowledge before I’m allowed to lay out my vision for the future of this country?”
“It wouldn’t hurt. But no, what I’m saying is, we need to be sure that the agenda you’ll be called upon to address will be focused on those issues you’re happy discussing. Rather than on anything which might reveal any, ah, gaps in your hinterland.”
“Bloody cheek!” That this sounded to Judd’s ears a token protest was no surprise. Token protests were the bedrock of Flint’s campaigning history. “And I suppose you have an idea as to how to set that agenda?”
“I always have ideas, Desmond. It’s why I’m in such huge demand.”
“It sounds like you’re in traffic.”
“I am,” said Judd. “I’m in a cab watching your troops perform their evening manoeuvres. Extraordinary. Like watching the Home Guard morris dancing, with malicious intent.”
“Why do you never say anything I can understand first time?”
“Blame my schooling. But let’s try this—you might want to get down here.”
“I was there earlier. And it’s a peaceful protest. As usual.”
“Yes, well. It is at the moment,” said Peter Judd, as the red-sweatered mastermind on the corner collected the dump-bin and threw it at the window again. “It is at the moment.”
White walls meant a clean conscience, Catherine liked to imagine. Back in her worst days, in that Dorset retreat where the Service sent its damaged people, she’d had fevered nights; dreams of being trapped inside a glass house, whose shifting rooms offered no escape. And during the days spent coming to terms with her new reality—my name is Catherine, and I’m an alcoholic—she found herself longing for bare, unvarnished shelter; somewhere with no traces of her previous life, or anyone else’s. Somewhere she might be brand new. Vacant possession.
Well, here it was.
The mews cottage Lamb had led them to, on a cobbled lane near Cheyne Walk, had the white walls she’d dreamed of; white walls and little else. The kitchen was functional—a fridge hummed; an oven waited—but there was no furniture, no carpets, no art; only windows, each framing a view that perfectly matched the time of day. It was a blank canvas, with no regrets. A small house, but one that seemed pure and unsullied. Not yet stained.
“Well, fuck a number of ducks,” said Lamb. “Someone spent a lot of time on all fours for the keys to this pad.”
Louisa, Lech and Shirley checked it out: two rooms upstairs, plus bathroom; kitchen and sitting room down. Approaching two million quid, Louisa thought: like everyone who’d recently bought property she’d acquired an estate agent’s gene, impossible to switch off. Lech and Shirley, both London renters, viewed it as they would a palace or a cathedral; somewhere they might get to visit, but short of revolution, meteor strike or raging zombie virus, nowhere they’d ever live. Lamb, meanwhile, had perched in the sitting room’s window recess, where the incoming light etched a golden thread round his bulk. Henry VIII, Catherine found herself thinking. Minus the finery, obviously. But with the same propensity for getting his own way, and not much caring who faced the blade.
Roddy Ho had found an outlet in the corner, and was charging his laptop. This was possibly at odds with the going-dark scenario, but he’d roll his eyes at any suggestion that his online presence might be detected. That was the thing about Roddy, thought Catherine. He couldn’t open a door without hurting himself or offending a woman, but give him a keyboard and he could skip a fandango with his eyes shut.
The others reappeared. The house was clean, as advertised: no bugs, no tripwires.
“What about the neighbours?” asked Louisa.
“We’ll tell ’em we’re ratcatchers, and might be here a while,” Lamb said. He turned to the others. “So—Dildo Baggins and Captain Coke. Been sandbagging tourists, I gather.”
“It was an accident.”
“We thought he was
Park.”
“Well, according to Taverner he wasn’t, which means you two shat in your porridge. So you might as well start planning your leaving party. I can’t come, by the way. I’m drinking in my office that night.”
“We were going to return his stuff,” Shirley sulked.
“Is that the highest priority right now?” said Lech. “I mean okay, we screwed up. But people are dying.”
“River’s still not called in,” said Louisa. “Nor has Sid.”
“Cartwright’s gone dark,” said Lamb. “So either he’s remembered his training, or someone’s pulled his blinds down. We’ll find out which when he turns up or his corpse starts to smell. Meanwhile, I’ve got my own problems. Anyone got a light?”
Catherine said, “Just for once, could we try not polluting the air?”
He stared at her as if she’d just invoked an impossible creature, like a unicorn, or a secret vegan. “And how would that help?”
“We’d all breathe more easily.”
“Help me, I meant.”
“You don’t seem surprised Sid’s alive,” Louisa said.
Lamb had conjured a cigarette from nowhere, but tucked it behind his ear. “I’m more surprised some of you are. She was the only one of you smart enough to look both ways crossing the road.”
“Thanks.”
“Mention it. Of course, she’s also stupid enough to turn to Cartwright for assistance. Bit like seeking Prince Andrew’s advice on choosing friends.”
“Editorialising aside,” Catherine said, “do you have a next move planned? Because if all we’re going to do is lie low, we might as well sort out sleeping arrangements.”
“Happy to share with anyone,” said Lamb, raising a buttock and farting long and loud.
Ho said, “Three rooms, six of us. We should probably pair off.”
“In your dreams,” Louisa told him.
Lech said, “There’s a team of GRU killers out there knocking off slow horses past and present. Maybe that’s what we should be focusing on.”
“Hashtag-face has a point,” Lamb conceded. “Anyone care to contribute? And remember, there’s no such thing as a bad idea.” He retrieved the cigarette from his ear. “Just the time-wasting fuckwit who offers one.”
Shirley said, “How many of them are there?”
“How many clowns fit in a car?”
“GRU crews operate in pairs, don’t they?” Catherine said. “And these attacks have been spaced out. First Kay. Then Struan, a couple of weeks later.”
“If there was more than one pair, they could have done them at the same time,” said Louisa. “And given us less warning.”
“I didn’t know these people,” said Lech.
“Yeah,” said Louisa. “But let’s pretend we care.”
“No, I’m making a point. They were before my time. And there’s no record of me being in Slough House anyway. Because Taverner had us wiped at the same time I joined.”
“Before my time too,” said Shirley.
“So you want to know who’s gone dark?” Lech said. “Me and Shirley. Because if they’re using out-of-date records, they’ve no idea we exist.”
“And that’s what comes of supportive leadership,” said Lamb. “Anyone would think you were strategic thinkers, instead of a bunch of useless no-hopers.” He levered himself off his perch. “Our Moscow murderers are operating from Molly’s file, which doesn’t include Butch and Sunglasses here. So yeah, we have the advantage that they care even less about you than the rest of us do. Of course, that only stays an advantage until you both go to prison for mugging a tourist.”
“Seriously, he was not a tourist!”
“He was hanging around in a public toilet,” Shirley said. “Probably cottaging.”
“Which would make it a hate crime,” Lamb said sorrowfully. “And time’s up on that sort of thing.”
“So how do you propose playing this advantage?” Catherine asked. “And please don’t say you’re sending Lech and Shirley out against a pair of trained hitmen.”
“Be a good way of using them up, wouldn’t it?” said Lamb. “But no, that wasn’t my first thought. My first thought was—”
“River and Sid,” said Louisa.
“My first thought was, there must be a takeaway round here somewhere. But I suppose, once they’ve snuck out and got me some food, they can go round up the missing.”
Louisa said, “You can borrow my car. So long as Shirley doesn’t drive it.”
“What’s wrong with my driving?”
“Your lack of basic motoring skills.”
“I’ll need drink, too,” Lamb said. “And a lighter.”
Louisa scribbled the O.B.’s address down, and explained to Lech where her car was, while Shirley fidgeted. Roddy had returned to his laptop. Catherine watched all this with the sudden sense that it was beyond familiar. Even Lech, the relative newcomer, slotted in: his obvious damage plain to see; the other stuff bubbling inside him, looking for an outlet. She remembered JK Coe, and the direction his long-buried trauma had sent him, and thought It doesn’t help—putting them all together in one place, fastening them up in Slough House, didn’t help. It just provided them with the opportunity to nurture old bad habits, or foster new ones. But it was a little late to make that observation. Lech was taking the keys from Louisa, Shirley all but tugging at his coat hem. “Don’t mug any strangers,” Lamb advised as they left, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Sneaked, by the way,” Standish said.
“. . . What now?”
“It’s sneaked. Snuck’s not proper English.”
“Do I look like I give a feaked?” said Lamb.
They settled down to wait.
Don’t leave your kill in the open. He couldn’t remember whether that was Bond, Bourne or The Lion King, but it seemed a rule, so they’d half-carried, half-dragged Jane’s body back to her car. The track seemed twice as long as it had been, and the night twice as noisy, and when a vehicle slowed on the road beyond the trees both their hearts moved up a gear, pounding in unison. Halfway there Sid fell: she was fine, she was okay. She clearly wasn’t. So River hoisted the body onto his back, and staggered the rest of the way solo. Getting a corpse into a boot looked easy in a movie, but Jane’s sodden clothing got twisted on the locking mechanism. She’d gone waxy to the touch, and looked foreign in a way she hadn’t while alive, as if the role she’d been playing had drifted away in the water. This was the kind of thought it would be best not to share. He got the clothing untangled at last, and the body slumped like a bag of vegetables. Death was a savage bastard, robbing both giver and given of grace.
Jim—that was what Sid called him—was just a shell. The dagger embedded in his jaw took a while to lever free.
“We should put him in the boot too.”
Except Jane was occupying most of it, and the effort required to fold her more compactly was beyond them. So he just freed Jim from his seatbelt, and let the body collapse to the floor.
“It’s a bit obvious.”
Sid’s voice was a faraway niggle.
“Can’t be helped. And nobody will see it while the car’s moving. I’ll take this one, you take mine. You okay to drive?”
But she wasn’t.
“We need to get back to the house. I’ll call Lamb, he’ll talk to the Park. They’ll deal with it. But we can’t leave them here. Anyone might come.”
And probably would, given time, but it made no difference. Sid’s hands were trembling madly. They couldn’t have handled cutlery, let alone a steering wheel.
“Okay,” River said. Plan B: he’d let the Park know where the bodies were. But even before he could look for his phone he remembered Catherine’s text, the one events had erased from his mind.
Blake’s grave. Now.
“Shit.”
Sid said, “Oh. Is something the matter?”
“Very funny . . . We’ve gone dark.”
“We?”
“Slough House. Probably something to do with this pair.”
Another car was approaching, its headlights grazing the trees. Sid flinched but the car didn’t slow. The darkness it left behind it seemed heavier for its passage.
“Okay,” said River again. “We leave them here. Get home. I’ll contact Lamb from there.”
Once they weren’t standing next to a vehicle whose passengers were dead.
It was far from ideal, but the whole evening had been like that. When he got behind the wheel he realised his own hands were trembling too, the hands he’d used to hold a woman’s head underwater. Until she died. He started to say something, but stopped. Wasn’t sure what it would have been.
“River?”
“That knife belonged to Beria,” he said.
“. . . Knife?”
“The one you took from the study.”
“Oh.”
“My grandfather paid a lot of money for it.”
“. . . Who’s Beria?”
“Doesn’t matter. Tell you later.”
His headlights picked out the killers’ car when he turned them on. But you’d have to be standing close, peering through the window, to make out the body within; you’d have to open the boot to find the second. He started up and left the scene, heading for the O.B.’s.
In a different car with the same destination, Shirley had opened the glove compartment. “Hey, Sunglasses! Lamb called us Butch and Sunglasses.”