by Mick Herron
‘Good point,’ he said. ‘Well made.’
‘Thought there might be a veiled criticism in there,’ Jackson Lamb said.
‘Wouldn’t have occurred to me.’
‘No. Well. Occurred to you to do this dirty work over Sid’s side of the office.’
River said, ‘It’s difficult to keep a bagful of rubbish all in one place. Experts call it garbage-creep.’
‘You’re not a big fan of Sid’s, are you?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Well, Sid’s not your biggest admirer either,’ said Lamb. ‘But then, competition for that role’s not fierce. Found anything interesting?’
‘Define interesting.’
‘Let’s pretend for the moment I’m your boss.’
‘It’s about as interesting as a bagful of household rubbish gets. Sir.’
‘Elaborate, why don’t you?’
‘He empties his ashtray into a sheet of newspaper. Wraps it up like a present.’
‘Sounds like a loony.’
‘Stops his bin from smelling.’
‘Bins are supposed to smell. That’s how you know they’re bins.’
‘What was the point of this?’
‘Thought you wanted to get out the office. Didn’t I hear you say you wanted to get out the office? Like, three times a day every day for months?’
‘Sure. On Her Majesty’s, etc etc. So now I’m going through bins like a dumpster diver. What am I even looking for?’
‘Who says you’re looking for anything?’
River thought about it. ‘You mean, we just want him to know he’s being looked at?’
‘What do you mean we, paleface? You don’t want anything. You only want what I tell you to want. No old notebooks? Torn-up letters?’
‘Part of a notebook. Spiral-bound. But no pages. Just the cardboard backing.’
‘Evidence of drug use?’
‘Empty box of paracetamol.’
‘Condoms?’
‘I imagine he flushes them,’ River said. ‘Should the occasion arise.’
‘They come in little foil packets.’
‘So I recall. No. None of those.’
‘Empty booze bottles?’
‘In his recycling bin, I expect.’
‘Beer cans?’
‘Ditto.’
‘God,’ said Jackson Lamb. ‘Is it me, or did all the fun go out of everything round about 1979?’
River wasn’t going to pretend he cared about that. ‘I thought our job involved preserving democracy,’ he said. ‘How does harassing a journalist help?’
‘Are you serious? It ought to be one of our key performance indicators.’
Lamb pronounced this phrase as if it had been on a form he’d lately binned.
‘This particular example, then.’
‘Try not to think of him as a journalist. And more as a potential danger to the integrity of the body politic.’
‘Is that what he is?’
‘I don’t know. Anything in his rubbish suggest he might be?’
‘Well, he smokes. But that’s not actually been upgraded to security threat.’
‘Yet,’ said Lamb, who’d been known to light up in his office. He thought for a moment. Then said, ‘Okay. Write it up.’
‘Write it up,’ River repeated. Not quite making it a question.
‘You have a problem, Cartwright?’
‘I feel like I’m working for a tabloid.’
‘You should be so lucky. Know what those bastards earn?’
‘Do you want me to put him under surveillance?’
Lamb laughed.
River waited. It took a while. Lamb’s laugh wasn’t a genuine surrender to amusement; more of a temporary derangement. Not a laugh you’d want to hear from anyone holding a stick.
When he stopped, it was as abrupt as if he’d never started. ‘If that’s what I wanted, you think I’d pick you?’
‘I could do it.’
‘Really?’
‘I could do it,’ he repeated.
‘Let me rephrase,’ said Jackson Lamb. ‘Supposing I wanted it done without dozens of innocent bystanders getting killed. Think you could manage that?’
River didn’t reply.
‘Cartwright?’
Screw you, he wanted to say. He settled for ‘I could do it,’ again; though repetition made it sound an admission of defeat. He could do it. Could he really? ‘No one would get hurt,’ he said.
‘Nice to have your input,’ Lamb told him. ‘But that’s not what happened last time.’
Min Harper was next to arrive, with Louisa Guy on his heels. They chatted in the kitchen, both trying too hard. They’d shared a moment a week ago, in the pub across the road, which was a hellhole: an unwindowed nightmare, strictly for the lager and tequila crowd. But they’d gone anyway, both suffering the need for a drink within sixty seconds of leaving Slough House, a margin too thin to allow for reaching anywhere nicer.
Their conversation had been focused at first (Jackson Lamb is a bastard), then becoming speculative (what makes Jackson Lamb such a bastard?) before drifting into the sentimental (wouldn’t it be sweet if Jackson Lamb fell under a threshing machine?). Crossing back to the tube afterwards, there’d been an awkward parting—what had that been about? Just a drink after work, except no one in Slough House went for a drink after work—but they’d muddled through by pretending they’d not actually been together, and found their separate platforms without words. But since then they’d not positively avoided each other, which was unusual. In Slough House, there was almost never more than one person in the kitchen at a time.
Mugs were rinsed. The kettle switched on.
‘Is it me, or is there a strange smell somewhere?’
Upstairs, a door slammed. Downstairs, one opened.
‘If I said it was you, how upset would you be?’
And they exchanged glances and smiles both turned off at exactly the same moment.
It took no effort for River to remember the most significant conversation he’d had with Jackson Lamb. It had happened eight months ago, and had started with River asking when he was going to get something proper to do.
‘When the dust settles.’
‘Which will be when?’
Lamb had sighed, grieving his role as answerer of stupid questions. ‘The only reason there’s dust is your connections, Cartwright. If not for grandad, we wouldn’t be discussing dust. We’d be talking glaciers. We’d be talking about when glaciers melt. Except we wouldn’t be talking at all, because you’d be a distant memory. Someone to reminisce about occasionally, to take Moody’s mind off his fuck-ups, or Standish’s off the bottle.’
River had measured the distance between Lamb’s chair and the window. That blind wasn’t going to offer resistance. If River got the leverage right, Lamb would be a pizza-shaped stain on the pavement instead of drawing another breath; saying:
‘But no, you’ve got a grandfather. Congratufucking-lations. You’ve still got a job. But the downside is, it’s not one you’re going to enjoy. Now or ever.’ He beat out a tattoo on his desk with two fingers. ‘Orders from above, Cartwright. Sorry, they’re not my rules.’
The yellow-toothed smile accompanying this held nothing of sorrow at all.
River said, ‘This is bullshit.’
‘No, I’ll tell you what’s bullshit. One hundred and twenty people dead or maimed. Thirty million pounds’ worth of actual damage. Two point five billion quid in tourist revenue down the drain. And all of it your fault. Now that—that’s bullshit.’
River Cartwright said, ‘It didn’t happen.’
‘You think? There’s CC footage of the kid pulling the cord. They’re still playing it over at Regent’s Park. You know, to remind themselves how messy things get if they don’t do their jobs properly.’
‘It was a training exercise.’
‘Which you turned into a circus. You crashed King’s Cross.’
‘Twenty minutes. It was up and running aga
in in twenty minutes.’
‘You crashed King’s Cross, Cartwright. In rush hour. You turned your upgrade assessment into a circus.’
River had the distinct impression Lamb found this amusing.
‘No one was killed,’ he said.
‘One stroke. One broken leg. Three—’
‘He’d have stroked anyway. He was an old man.’
‘He was sixty-two.’
‘I’m glad we agree.’
‘The mayor wanted your head on a plate.’
‘The mayor was delighted. He gets to talk about oversight committees and the need for airtight security processes. Makes him look like a serious politician.’
‘And that’s a good idea?’
‘Can’t hurt. Given he’s an idiot.’
Lamb said, ‘Let’s try for a little focus. You think it’s a good idea you turned the Service into a political football by being, what would you call it? Colour-deaf?’
Blue shirt, white tee.
White shirt, blue tee …
River said, ‘I heard what I heard.’
‘I don’t give a ferret’s arse what you heard. You screwed up. So now you’re here instead of Regent’s Park, and what might have been a glittering career is—guess what? A miserable clerk’s job, specifically tailored to make you save everyone a lot of grief and jack it in. And you only got that much courtesy of grandpa.’ Another flash of yellow teeth. ‘You know why they call this Slough House?’ Lamb went on.
‘Yes.’
‘Because it might as well be in—’
‘In Slough. Yes. And I know what they call us, too.’
‘They call us slow horses,’ Lamb said, exactly as if River had kept his mouth shut. ‘Slough House. Slow horse. Clever?’
‘I suppose it depends on your definition of—’
‘You asked when you were going to get something proper to do.’
River shut up.
‘Well, that would be when everyone’s forgotten you crashed King’s Cross.’
River didn’t reply.
‘It would be when everyone’s forgotten you’ve joined the slow horses.’
River didn’t reply.
‘Which is going to be a very fucking long time from now,’ Lamb said, as if this might somehow have gone misunderstood.
River turned to leave. But there was something he had to know first. ‘Three what?’ he asked.
‘Three what what?’
‘There were three somethings, you said. At King’s Cross. You didn’t say what they were.’
‘Panic attacks,’ said Lamb. ‘There were three panic attacks.’
River nodded.
‘Not including yours,’ Lamb said.
And that had been the most significant conversation River had had with Jackson Lamb.
Until today.
Jed Moody would turn up eventually. A couple of hours after everyone else, but nobody made an issue out of this because nobody cared, and anyway, nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of Moody, and most sides of Moody were the wrong one. A good day for Moody was when some character took up residence at the bus stop over the road, or sat too long in one of the garden patches in the Barbican complex opposite. When this happened, out Moody would go, even though it was never serious—was always kids from the stage school down the road, or someone homeless, looking for a sit-down. But whoever it was, out Moody would slope, chewing gum, and sit next to them: never engaging in conversation—he just sat chewing gum. Which was all it took. And when he came back in he was a little lighter of step for five minutes: not enough to make him good company, but enough that you could pass him on the stairs without worrying he’d hook a foot round your ankle.
He made no secret: he hated being among the slow horses. Once he’d been one of the Dogs, but everyone knew Jed Moody’s screw-up: he’d let a desk-jockey clean his clock before making tracks with about a squillion quid. Not a great career move for a Dog—the Service’s internal security division—even without the subsequent messy ending. So now Moody turned up late and dared anyone to give him bullshit. Which nobody did. Because nobody cared.
But meanwhile Moody wasn’t here yet, and River Cartwright was still upstairs with Jackson Lamb.
Who leant back in his chair, folding his arms. There’d been nothing audible, but it became apparent he’d farted. He shook his head sadly, as if attributing this to River, and said, ‘You don’t even know who he is, do you?’
River, half his mind still at King’s Cross, said, ‘Hobden?’
‘You were probably still at school when he was successful.’
‘I dimly remember him. Didn’t he use to be a Communist?’
‘That generation were all Communists. Learn some history.’
‘You’re about the same age, aren’t you?’
Lamb ignored that. ‘The Cold War had its upside, you know. There’s something to be said for getting teenage disaffection out your system by carrying a card instead of a knife. Attending interminable meetings in the back rooms of pubs. Marching for causes nobody else would get out of bed for.’
‘Sorry I missed that. Is it available on DVD?’
Instead of replying, Lamb looked away, beyond River, indicating they weren’t alone. River turned. A woman stood in the doorway. She had red hair, and a light dusting of freckles across her face, and her black raincoat—still glistening from the morning rain—hung open, showing the collarless white shirt beneath. A locket on a silver chain hung at her breast. A faint smile hovered on her lips.
Under one arm she held a laptop, the size of an exercise book.
Lamb said, ‘Success?’
She nodded.
‘Nice one, Sid,’ he told her.
Chapter 2
Sidonie Baker put the laptop on Lamb’s desk. Without looking at River she said, ‘There’s been some kind of accident. Downstairs.’
‘Does it involve rubbish?’ Lamb asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then relax. It wasn’t an accident.’
River said, ‘Whose is that?’
‘Whose is what?’ Sid asked.
‘The laptop.’
Sid Baker might have walked out of a commercial. It didn’t matter for what product. She was all clean lines and fresh air; even her freckles seemed carefully graded. Underneath her scent, River detected the whiff of fresh laundry.
Lamb said, ‘It’s okay. You can rub it in.’
It was all the clue River needed. ‘That’s Hobden’s?’
She nodded.
‘You stole his laptop?’
She shook her head. ‘I stole his files.’
River turned to Lamb. ‘Would they be more or less important than his rubbish?’
Lamb ignored him. ‘Did he notice?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Sidonie said.
‘Sure?’
‘Pretty sure.’
Lamb raised his voice. ‘Catherine.’
She appeared in the doorway like a creepy butler.
‘Flash-box.’
She disappeared.
River said, ‘Let me guess. Feminine wiles?’
‘Are you calling me a honey trap?’
‘If the cliché fits.’
Catherine Standish returned with a flash-box she placed on Lamb’s desk next to his clock. She waited, but Lamb said nothing. ‘You’re welcome,’ she told him, and left.
Once she’d gone, Lamb said: ‘Tell him.’
‘His key-fob’s a memory stick,’ Sid said.
‘A flash drive,’ River said.
‘That’s right.’
‘And he keeps his back-up files on it?’
‘Seems a reasonable conclusion. Given that he carries it everywhere.’
‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? If it’s attached to your keys.’
‘There’s certainly something on it. A couple of mega-bytes’ worth.’
‘Maybe he’s writing a novel,’ River said.
‘Maybe he is. You didn’t find a draft in his rubbish, did you?’
He was going to lose this conversation if he wasn’t careful. ‘So you picked his pocket?’
‘He’s a man of habit. Same café, every morning. Same latte. And he piles his pocket contents on the table before he sits.’ Sidonie produced a barrette from her pocket. River thought that was what it was called. A barrette. ‘I swapped his stick for a dummy while his attention was elsewhere.’
Which meant she’d had a dummy with her, which meant she’d had Hobden under surveillance. How else would she have had an identical memory stick?
‘And then I copied its contents on to the laptop.’
She slotted the barrette behind her left ear, making a science-fiction shape of her hair. There was no way she could know what it looked like, River thought. Which made it all the stranger that the shape appeared intentional.
‘And then I swapped it back.’
‘While his attention was elsewhere.’
‘That’s right,’ Sid said, smiling brightly.
Lamb was bored now. He picked up the flash-box. The size of an A4 box-file, it was self-locking, and any attempt to open it without its series key would produce a smallish bonfire. He reached for the laptop. ‘Was he still there when you left?’
‘No. I waited him out.’
‘Good.’ Lamb fitted the computer into the box. ‘Stick?’
‘There’s nothing on it.’
‘Did I ask?’
Sidonie produced the stick, a twin to the one on Hobden’s key-ring. Lamb dropped it into the flash-box, then snapped the lid shut.
‘Abracadabra,’ he said.
Neither quite knew what to say to that.
‘And now I have a call to make,’ he said. ‘If the pair of you wouldn’t mind, you know.’ He waggled a hand in the direction of the door. ‘Fucking off.’
From the landing, River could see Catherine at her desk in the adjoining office; absorbed in paperwork with the absolute concentration of someone who knows they’re being observed.
Sid said something over her shoulder, but he didn’t catch what.
In his office, Lamb made his phone call. ‘You owe me. Yes, it’s done. All his files, or everything on his stick, anyway. No, the rubbish was clean. As it were. Yeah, okay. This morning. I’ll send Baker.’ He yawned, scratched at the back of his neck, then examined his fingernails. ‘Oh, and another thing? Next time you want errands running, use your own boys. Not like Regent’s Park is running out of bodies.’