by Mick Herron
Judd laughed. “You’ve got that right.”
“Out of the reach of the ordina—”
“Oh, please.” With a hand on the other man’s shoulder, he encouraged him into an armchair. “Those who’ve settled for ordinary have only themselves to blame. And anything expensive can be bought and sold. Like the man said, we’ve established what you are, we’re simply haggling over the price. Which brings us rather neatly to tonight’s events.” Judd sat in the facing armchair, London to his left. “So. How was it for you?”
Flint looked around again before answering. If he didn’t feel at home yet, he was starting to relax. Presumably the brandy helped. He said, “It felt . . . different.”
“In what way?”
“Just different.”
“I see. Let me explain. You’ve been used to telling those people to do what they already want to do. And you’ve proved good at that, but it’s a bit like pitching in baseball. All you had to do was chuck the ball. Tonight you had to dissuade them from doing something they’d clearly have enjoyed. That’s more like bowling in cricket. It requires skill and ability. So yes, it felt different. Because you were wielding actual power, rather than simply pointing which way the wind was blowing.”
“So what you’re saying, they might have just ignored me.”
“That was always a possibility.”
“And what would have happened then?”
“To you? To me? Or to all the lovely plate glass on Oxford Street?”
Flint waited.
Judd sipped his brandy, nodded in approval, and said, “If they’d ignored you, I’d be enjoying a much livelier view right now, that’s for sure. As for the rest, I imagine you’d be in the back of a van, a lot of windows would be no more, and whatever credibility you’ve amassed in the eyes of the public would be similarly in pieces, and impossible to put back together again. That enough detail for you?”
“You bastard.”
Judd looked modest.
“They’d not have got out of hand if you’d not put someone up to it.”
“Oh, come on. Left to themselves, they’d have cooked and eaten each other. It’s one thing to play the sentimental card for an audience, Desmond, but don’t wave the dignity-of-the-working-man flag with me. There’s never been a working man who wouldn’t bury his shovel in his neighbour’s head for a free pint of beer and a fuck. So yes, I applied a little petrol to the flames, but that was a matter of scheduling rather than outright interference. And as of tonight your stock’s in the ascendant, so let’s not worry about what might have been. And listen, because this is important, you’re not holding your glass correctly. Cup it like this, in your hand. See? Warms the brandy. You want it blood temperature.”
Desmond Flint adjusted his hold on his brandy glass, and said, “How does that mean, my stock’s in the ascendance?”
“Ascendant. It means the newspapers will be queuing up. Question Time is already in the bag, I imagine. They’re awful star-fuckers at the Beeb, don’t you find? All of which puts us in the right place to take the next step. And look for the right ring to throw your hat into.”
“You’re talking about standing for election?”
“That I am.”
Flint was shaking his head. “I’m not one for elections. Nor are my supporters. The reason we’ve taken our argument onto the streets is because we’ve lost faith with politicians. Broken Britain starts at the top, any fool can see that. Parliament’s a busted flush.”
“Ah yes, your supporters. They’ve got you this far, which is nice of them, but you’ll soon find you won’t need their approval quite so much. Obviously you’ll want to stay true to your roots and all that, but the only way to climb the beanstalk’s by looking up. And that means appealing to those who until now have seen you as beneath their notice. And that kind of approval comes, in the first instance, at the ballot box.”
“But I’ve said—”
“And I’ve listened to your objection, given it due consideration, and filed it under I for ignore. How are you liking the brandy?”
“I’m—it’s fine. It’s fine.”
“Good answer. It is fine. It’s not magnificent.” Judd paused to confirm his judgement, rolling the liquor round his mouth before swallowing. “Not magnificent. Now, I said election, you immediately jumped to Parliament. I was actually thinking of the mayoralty.” He paused again. “That means mayor,” he continued.
“Of London?”
Judd emitted an involuntary snort of laughter. “Ha! Good one! . . . Oh, you were being serious. Well then, yes, London. London Mayor. A big, ah, ask, but we have two years to prepare, which is more than Shaw gave Higgins, so we shouldn’t be too downhearted.”
The blank look this provoked might have disheartened a less confident man, but Judd simply smiled and raised his glass. “Two years,” he said again, and held the pose until Flint joined in the toast.
Later, after Flint had left, Judd ordered a second brandy and applied himself to the view once more. He’d suggested that this would be livelier had Flint’s appeal to the mob gone unheeded, but in truth, a few statue-topplers apart, he doubted a British mob’s ability to vent its rage properly. There’d have been smashed glass and torched cars—a few broken heads, a few cracked ribs—but it would have soon dissipated in an orgy of petty theft. Looting was the British mob’s default mode, and what began in principled outrage would inevitably end with high street showrooms ransacked. Actually, Judd approved. Depend on the British character—be generous, and call it human nature—to back away from revolution in favour of a flatscreen TV or two: instead of aristocrats lined up against a wall, you had magistrates working overtime for a few weeks, some hand-wringing columns in the broadsheets, and then it was back to counting down the shopping days to Christmas. But still, times were changing. Not so long ago, the notion of a Desmond Flint even standing for London Mayor, let alone being in with a shout, would have brought the average Islington dinner party to climactic levels of self-congratulatory derision; but now, when the time came to announce his candidacy, you’d hear the foreboding the length and breadth of the liberal left. The status quo had been shattered, whether through greed, idealism, malice, or sheer stupid incompetence hardly mattered any more, and while the formerly complacent were still weeping over their losses, there were opportunities galore awaiting those prepared to rejig the shards.
“Here’s to rejigging,” he murmured to himself, raising his glass to his lips. It wasn’t magnificent, was merely fine, but it was early days yet.
Dogging. River didn’t know much about it, except that it happened: people watching strangers having sex in parked cars. There might be more to it, but you’d have to have taken part, or known people who had, to grasp the fine detail, and no one he knew had ever indulged. Or if they had, it had never come up.
“Which one’s the car?” Lech asked.
River pointed, and Lech pulled up a few yards parallel, causing those gathered in the parking area to stir, attention snagging on this new arrival the way movement attracts zombies. Most were huddled in the far corner, where a car rocked in response to internal activity. The group round the body car—Jane in the boot, Jim in the back seat—were two men and a woman, each in outdoor gear. Just popping out for a walk, dear, River imagined them saying. Just heading down to the bird-hide.
Unsurprisingly, there was little sign of internal activity in this vehicle, but the trio seemed entranced regardless.
Killing the engine, Lech said, “You’re a mess.”
“Style tips welcome. But maybe later?”
“Don’t be an arsehole. I meant, let me do the talking.”
He got out, and River followed.
It was dark, and the ground pitted and rough. One of the men had a torch, but held it down, so it acted as ambient glow, not floodlight. He had his back to Lech and River, but turned as they approached.
The other two, a man and a woman, were standing on the other side. They might have been a couple.
Lech said to the lone man, “Anything good?”
The three exchanged glances, then looked away. There was an etiquette, River supposed. Small talk not encouraged. He felt wary about getting close, his hair dirty, his face banged about—people who looked like they’d walked into trouble looked like they’d walk into more—but they didn’t much bother with him. It was Lech they focused on, all three backing away as Lech bent and peered through the car window. After a moment, River did the same.
Jim’s body was as he and Sid had left it: prone in the gap between front seats and back. A dark lump showing white at the hands and face; the latter stained perhaps, or just in shadow. River was trying to see this as a stranger might—a passing citizen, your friendly neighbourhood sex aficionado—but Jim seemed pretty dead however you looked at it.
The woman spoke, softly. “We were wondering. Just . . . Should we call someone?”
“Anonymously,” one of the men offered. “We could just . . . leave. And call it in.”
Lech stepped back. “He’s corpsing,” he said. “You’ve never seen it before?”
“. . . ‘Corpsing’?”
“Sometimes called deading. It’s what it sounds like.” He’d adopted the patient tone you’d need when talking to an infant. “You lie still as you can, hardly breathing. Sometimes you fake a wound.”
“I can see blood.”
“There you go.”
“But I mean, he actually looks dead.”
“Yeah, he’s a good one.” To River’s ear, Lech sounded expert. Let me do the talking. Fine by me.
“How long does he stay like that?”
“Long as it takes,” said Lech.
“I’m not sure,” the first man said again. “I still think we should make a call.”
“Yeah, that’ll go down well. Because either he’s dead, and you three have been staring at his body for however long it’s been. Or he isn’t, and all’ll happen is you’ve fucked up everyone’s evening.”
“There’s no call for language.”
There was shuffling, some shared wordless worry.
Peering through the window again, Lech said, “Look, if you’re too vanilla, that’s fine. But we’ve come a long way, so if you don’t mind.”
They fell quiet, and clustered round the car. River was counting his heartbeats: eight nine ten. Faster than they ought to be. He wondered if anyone could hear, then thought: yeah, well. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen, your heart beating faster? In the circumstances?
He heard a zipper being undone.
After another twenty seconds, one of the men said, “This is doing nothing for me.”
Lech, sounding gruff, said, “There’s activity in the corner over there. Maybe more your thing.”
Glances were shared.
The woman said, “I’m a bit of a traditionalist.”
Lech shrugged. “Takes all sorts.”
“So I’ll just . . .”
She backed away, then turned and walked towards the group in the far corner.
“Yeah, think I’ll join her,” the first man said.
The second man moved away moments later, but stopped and looked back. “He’s pretty convincing. I’ll give him that.”
Then River and Lech were alone.
Some of those congregated in the far corner watched as they left—River in the dead man’s car; Lech in the one they’d arrived in—but most had other things on their mind.
There were crimes, there were high crimes, there were treasonous acts, and there was the downright unforgivable.
“When I find out who stole my lighter,” Lamb said, “there will be consequences.”
The early light of Chelsea had crept along the lane, crawled up the safe house’s walls and drainpipes, and was now checking out its uncurtained rooms, filtering through the takeaway smells and overnight odours. The only company it found was in the front room: a muted gathering. Louisa occupied a corner where she sat cross-legged, a half-arsed yoga position, the notion of which—half-arsed yoga—was projecting crazy images onto her tired brain, while Catherine, next to her, might have been kneeling: her long dress made it hard to tell. Whatever, her expression was calm and unruffled. There are times when recovering addicts achieve levels of serenity denied the rest of us, thought Louisa. The bastards. As for Roderick Ho, he’d been dispatched to find another lighter, or matches, or anything capable of producing flame, which would save Lamb the trouble of having to travel all the way into the kitchen to light a cigarette from the hob, and the rest of them the pain of having to hear about it.
In the circumstances, she thought, Reece Nesmith III was handling himself pretty well. Especially given the greeting Lamb had offered, its tone suggesting that Reece were the principal cause of inconvenience rather than its current object.
“Well, if it isn’t the incredible shrunken man.”
Reece glared. Back in his own place he’d seemed vulnerable, viewing Louisa and Ho as if they were the vanguard of a hooligan brigade. Dropping Lamb’s name had changed his attitude: if he hadn’t been keen on renewing that acquaintance, he’d evidently wanted to hear what Lamb had to say. Enough, anyway, to boot up, adding an inch and a half, and wrap himself inside a donkey jacket. On the Tube, whose passengers now included Yellow Vests heading home from Oxford Circus, it was as if he’d acquired an extra layer, one which hostile looks and muttered cruelties bounced off, the same way friendly glances did. You’d need it, Louisa thought. You’d need that invisible shield.
“So I’m here,” he said to Lamb. “What do you want?”
“Nah, I’ll wait till everyone’s back. Save me the bother of explaining things to two sets of idiots.”
“So I just hang about until you’re ready to talk?”
Lamb beamed. “There. And they say midgets are slow on the uptake.” He regarded the unlit cigarette in his fist. “Where the hell has Double-Ho Nothing got to?”
“Please don’t let him hear you call him that,” Catherine said.
“You think I’ll hurt his feelings?”
“I think he’ll think you mean it.”
Reece said, “It’s like I’ve wandered into a circus.”
“Glad you feel at home,” Lamb said. “Who’s this?”
The others tensed, but it was a full six seconds before they heard a rapping on the door. Catherine made to get up but Louisa beat her to it. It was Lech Wicinski and Shirley Dander, the latter looking rough and sleep-tousled, as if she’d grabbed some kip in the car, and been sandbagged by a hangover on arrival. Lech, though: it was hard to tell about Lech. It occurred to Louisa that having grown himself a hedge, he was learning how to hide behind it.
“How’s River?” she asked as she followed them into the sitting room. And then, a beat behind, “And Sid?”
“Bit bedraggled. All right, though.” Louisa waited for more, but Lech shrugged. “He was fine. I barely met her. Shirley spent some time.”
Shirley said, “She didn’t remember much about it. Being shot in the head, I mean. But she’s got a groove there.” She indicated on her own head where it was. “Sort of cool, actually.”
“And they’re not hurt?”
“Well, they’d obviously been in a fight. But so were we earlier.” She nodded at Lech. “And we got no sympathy.”
“You beat up a stranger,” Louisa said. “It’s not really the same thing.”
“He wasn’t entirely a stranger. Lech had already met him.”
Lamb said, “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s wanton acts of violence. Why aren’t that pair with you?”
“They’re not ready to come back.”
“‘Not ready’? If I’d known I was arranging a minibreak, I’d have charged a commission. What did y
ou do with the empties?”
This was for Lech, who said, “Left them in their car, at Cartwright’s house. I assume it’s secure.”
“Why not call the Park?” said Shirley, still looking mutinous, and fidgeting with something. “Isn’t cleaning away bodies their job?”
Catherine said, “You’re aware we have a civilian in the room?”
“I wouldn’t worry,” said Lamb. “This is going way over his head.”
“. . . Does the term ‘punching down’ mean anything to you?”
“Be reasonable. If I punched up, I’d miss him by a mile.”
Reece said, “Can we move on to fat jokes now?”
Lamb looked hurt. “There’s no need to get personal.”
Lech said to Reece, “We haven’t been introduced. Lech Wicinski,” at the same time as Shirley asked him, “Are you a new recruit? Because you’d fit right in.”
“That’s not a real challenge,” Lamb said. “And if you’re finished with the small talk, could we get on point?” He paused. “Small talk? Anyone?”
Catherine shook her head wearily, and tried again. “Should we really be discussing this in front of Mr. Nesmith?”
“Well, he started off knowing more than the rest of us,” went on Lamb, “on account of his boyfriend being murdered by the Russians. Ah, the return of Macho Mouse.” This because Ho was at the door. Once he’d been let in, Lamb said, “I sent you to buy a lighter, not invent one.”
Ho blinked. “The shops weren’t open.”
“Why is it I only hear excuses? Give it here. You can keep the change.”
“. . . I used my own money?”
“Let’s have the receipt, then.”
Ho handed it over.
“Thanks.” Lamb lit the receipt with the lighter, the cigarette with the receipt, and dropped the flaming scrap of paper on the floor. “Where was I?”
“It might be good if we didn’t burn the house down,” Catherine suggested.
Reece trod on the scrap and killed the flame. “These dead people. The ones in the car. They’re not who killed Andrey back in Moscow?”
“Doubt it. It’s not like the GRU’s short of talent.” Lamb studied his cigarette for a moment. “But the man who gave the order’s the one who pointed a hit squad at Slough House, so we have a common foe. And you know what they say about common foes, Noddy?”