by Mick Herron
After he hung up, he leant back and closed his eyes. It looked for all the world like he was taking a nap.
* * *
Downstairs, River and Sid surveyed the scattered rubbish. River had the uncomfortable feeling that this joke wasn’t funny any more, and even if it had been, he was as much its butt as Sid. It wasn’t like the smell had kept to her side of the room. But any possible apology died in the face of what had just happened. For a couple of minutes last night, standing under an overhang in the pouring rain, he’d convinced himself he was doing something important; that he was on the first rung of a ladder back into the light. Even if that feeling had survived the downpour, and the rummaging through the rubbish this morning, it wouldn’t have survived this. He didn’t want to look at Sid. Didn’t want to know the shape of the smile on her lips when she spoke. But did want to know what she’d been up to.
‘How long have you been playing Hobden?’ he said.
‘I haven’t been playing him.’
‘You’ve been doing breakfast.’
‘Just often enough to clock his habits.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Are you going to clear this mess up?’
River said, ‘When’d you ever hear of a joe being sent out solo? Domestic, I mean. Middle of London.’
This amused her. ‘So now I’m a joe?’
‘And how come Lamb’s running an op off his own bat?’
‘You’d have to ask him. I’m going for coffee.’
‘You’ve already had coffee.’
‘Okay then. I’m going somewhere else until you’ve got rid of all this crap.’
‘I haven’t written it up yet.’
‘Then I’ll be gone a while. The gloves suit you, by the way.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
Unhooking her bag from her chair, she left.
River kicked a tin can which might have been put there for that purpose. It bounced off the wall, leaving a bright red contact wound, and dropped to the floor.
Peeling off his rubber gloves, he added them to the sack. When he opened the window a cold blast of London air filtered through, adding traffic fumes to the mix. Then a familiar thumping on the ceiling set the lampshade wobbling.
He picked up the phone, tapped out Lamb’s extension. A moment later, he heard it ring upstairs. It felt like he had an offstage role in someone else’s drama.
‘Where’s Sid?’ Lamb asked.
‘Gone for coffee.’
‘When will she be back?’
There was an office code, of course. You didn’t dob a colleague in.
He said, ‘Quite a while were her exact words. I think.’
Lamb paused. Then said, ‘Get up here.’
River was listening to the dial tone before he could ask why. He took a breath, counted to five, then headed back upstairs.
Lamb said, ‘All cleaned up?’
‘More or less.’
‘Good. Here.’ He tapped the flash-box in front of him with a fat finger. ‘Deliver this.’
‘Deliver it?’
‘Is there an echo in here?’
‘Deliver it where?’
‘Is there an echo in here?’ Lamb repeated, then laughed: he’d made a joke. ‘Where do you think? Regent’s Park.’
Regent’s Park was the light at the top of the ladder. It was where River would be now, if he hadn’t crashed King’s Cross.
He said, ‘So this Hobden thing, it’s Regent’s Park?’
‘Of course it bloody is. We don’t run ops from Slough House. Thought you’d worked out that much.’
‘So how come Sid got the real job? And I’m left collecting the rubbish?’
‘Tell you what,’ said Lamb. ‘You have a good long think about that, and see if you can come up with the answer all by yourself.’
‘And why would the Park want us anyway? They’ve no shortage of talent, surely.’
‘I hope that’s not a sexist remark, Cartwright.’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’
Lamb looked at him blankly, and River had the sense he was thinking deep thoughts, or else wanted River to think he was thinking deep thoughts. But when he answered, it was only to shrug.
‘And why do they want me to deliver it?’
‘They don’t,’ Lamb said. ‘They want Sid. But Sid’s not here. So I’m sending you.’
River picked up the flash-box, and its contents slid from one end to the other. ‘Who do I deliver it to?’
Lamb said, ‘Name’s Webb. Isn’t he an old mate of yours?’
And River’s stomach slid sideways too.
Flash-box under one arm, he cut through the estate to the row of shops beyond: supermarket, newsagent’s, stationer’s, barber’s, Italian restaurant. Fifteen minutes later, he was at Moorgate. From there he caught a tube part way, then walked across the park. The rain had stopped at last, but large puddles swamped the footpaths. The sky was still grey, and the air smelled of grass. Joggers loped past, trackies plastered to their legs.
He didn’t like it that Lamb had sent him on this errand. Liked even less knowing that Lamb knew that, and knew he knew it too.
In the weeks after King’s Cross, River grew accustomed to a scraped-out feeling, as if that desperate dash along the platform—his last-second, doomed attempt to put things right—had left permanent scars. Somewhere in his stomach it was always four in the morning, he’d drunk too much, and his lover had left. There’d been an inquiry—you didn’t crash King’s Cross without people noticing—the upshot of which was, River had made sixteen basic errors inside eight minutes. It was bullshit. It was Health and Safety. It was like when a fire breaks out in the office, and afterwards everyone’s ordered to unplug the kettle when it’s not in use, even though it wasn’t the kettle started the fire in the first place. You couldn’t count a plugged-in kettle as an error. Everyone did it. Almost no one ever died.
We’ve run the numbers, he’d been told.
Running the numbers happened a lot at Regent’s Park. Pixellating, too; River had heard that lately—we’ve pixellated this, meaning we’ve run it through some software. We’ve got screenshots. It sounded too techie to catch on as a Service word. He couldn’t see the O.B. being impressed.
All of this was background static; his mind throwing up a curtain, because he didn’t want to hear the numbers.
But the numbers, it turned out, were inescapable. He heard them whispered in corridors his last morning. One hundred and twenty people killed or maimed; £30m worth of damage. A further £2.5 billion in lost tourist revenue.
It didn’t matter that none of these numbers were real, that they had simply been conjured up by those who took special pleasure in concocting worst-case scenarios. What mattered was that they’d been committed to paper and passed round committees. That they’d ended up on Taverner’s desk. Which was not a desk you wanted your mistakes to end up on if you had hopes of them being forgotten.
But no, you’ve got a grandfather, Lamb had told him. Congratufuckinglations. You’ve still got a job.
Much as River hated to admit it, that had been true. If not for the O.B., even Slough House would have been out of reach.
But the downside is, it’s not one you’re going to enjoy. Now or ever.
A career of shuffling paper. Of transcribing snatched mobile phone conversations. Of combing through page after page on long-ago operations, looking for parallels with the here and now …
Half of the future is buried in the past. That was the prevailing Service culture. Hence the obsessive sifting of twice-ploughed ground, attempting to understand history before it came round again. The modern realities of men, women, children, wandering into city centres with explosives strapped to their chests had shattered lives but not moulds. Or that was the operating wisdom, to the dismay of many.
Taverner, for instance. He’d heard Taverner was desperate to alter the rules of the game; not so much change
the pieces on the board as throw the board away and design a new one. But Taverner was Second Desk, not First, and even if she’d been in charge, there were Boards to answer to these days. No Service Head had been given free rein since Charles Partner: the first to die in office and the last to run the show. But then, Partner had been a Cold War warrior from his fur-lined collar to his fingerless gloves, and the Cold War had been simpler. Back then, it had been easier to pretend it was a matter of us and them.
All before River’s time, of course. Such fragments, he’d gleaned from the O.B. His grandfather was the soul of discretion, or so he liked to think; imagining that a lifetime’s sealed lips had left him close with a secret. This belief persevered despite the evident truth that he liked nothing better than Service gossip. Maybe this was what age did, thought River. Confirmed you in your image of yourself even while it unpicked the reality, leaving you the tattered remnant of the person you’d once been.
His hand hurt. He hoped it didn’t look too obvious. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He was minutes from Regent’s Park, and it wouldn’t look good if he was late.
In the lobby, a middle-aged woman with the face of a traffic warden made him wait ten minutes before issuing his visitor’s pass. The laptop, snug in its padded envelope, was passed through an X-ray machine, which left River wondering if its contents had been wiped. If he’d been Sid, would he have been kept waiting? Or had James Webb left instructions that River be kept hanging about until the obvious was hammered home: that a visitor’s pass was the best he’d ever get?
Where Spider was concerned, River easily got paranoid.
That ordeal over, he was allowed through the large wooden doors, where there was another desk, this one manned by a balding red-cheeked type who’d pass for an Oxford porter but was doubtless an ex-cop. He motioned River to a bench. Sore hand in pocket, River sat. He put the envelope next to him. There was a clock on the facing wall. It was depressing to watch the second-hand crawl round, but difficult not to.
Behind the desk, a staircase curved upwards. It wasn’t quite large enough to choreograph a dance sequence on, but it wasn’t far off. For one inexplicable moment, River had a vision of Sid coming down those stairs, heels clacking off the marble so loudly, everyone in earshot would stop and look.
When he blinked, the image vanished. The footsteps echoed for a moment, but they were made by other people.
He’d thought, first time he’d come into this building, that it resembled a gentlemen’s club. Now it occurred to him that the truth might be the other way round: that gentlemen’s clubs were like the Service, the way the Service used to be. Back when what it did was known as the Great Game.
At length another ex-cop showed up.
‘That’s for Webb?’
One proprietorial hand on the envelope, River nodded.
‘I’ll make sure he gets it.’
‘I’m supposed to give it to him myself.’
There was never going to be any doubt about this. He had a visitor’s pass and everything.
To give him credit, his new friend didn’t fight it. ‘This way, then.’
River said, ‘That’s okay. I know my way round,’ but only to get a rise.
He didn’t get one.
River was led, not up the stairs, but through a set of doors to the left of the desk, and into a corridor he’d not been in before. The padded envelope felt like a present he was bringing Spider, though that was an unlikely scenario.
White tee under a blue shirt. That’s what you said.
No, I said blue tee under—
Fuck you, Spider.
‘What was that?’
‘I didn’t say anything,’ River assured him.
At the end of the corridor, a set of fire doors opened on to a stairwell. Through a window, River saw a car turning down the ramp into the underground car park. He followed his guide up a flight of stairs, then another. On each landing a camera blinked, but he resisted the temptation to wave.
They went through another set of fire doors.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’
His guide offered him a sardonic look. Halfway along the corridor, he stopped and rapped twice on a door.
And River, all of a sudden, wished he’d left the parcel at reception. He’d not seen James Webb in eight months. For the year preceding that, they’d been all but inseparable. What made it a good idea to see him now?
White tee under a blue shirt. That’s what you said.
Apart from anything else, the urge to deck the bastard might prove overwhelming.
From inside the room a voice called a welcome.
‘In you go, sir.’
In he went.
It wasn’t as large as the office River shared with Sid, but it was a whole lot nicer. The wall to the right was book-shelved floor to ceiling, lined with colour-coded folders, while in front of him was a big wooden desk, which might have been carved from the hull of a ship. A pair of friendly-looking visitors’ chairs were placed in front of this, while behind it loomed a tall window that gave a view of the park, which was mostly muted browns right now, but would be glorious in spring and summer. Also behind it, in front of the view, sat James Webb; inevitably Spider.
… First time in eight months, though for the year preceding that they’d been all but inseparable. Friends wasn’t the word—it was both too big and too small. A friend was someone you’d go for a drink with; hang out with; share laughs. He’d done those things with Spider, but not because Spider was his first choice for doing them with; more because he’d spent days with Spider doing assault courses on Dartmoor, which had felt like it was going to be the most difficult part of training, until the days spent learning torture resistance techniques somewhere on the Welsh borders. Resistance techniques were taught slowly. Things had to be broken down before being built up again. Breaking down happened best in darkness. When you’d been through that, you wanted to be near others who’d been through it too. Not because you needed to talk about it, but because you needed your need not to talk about it to be shared by those you were with.
Friendship, anyway, was best conducted on level ground. Without the competitive undercurrent generated by the knowledge that they were in line for the same promotion.
White tee under a blue shirt. That’s what you said.
Fuck you, Spider.
So here he was, eight months later: no bigger, no wider, no different.
‘River!’ he said, getting to his feet, thrusting out a hand.
They were of an age, River Cartwright and James Webb, and similar sizes: both slim, with good bones. But Webb was dark to River’s sandy lightness, and Webb favoured smart suits and polished shoes, and looked like he’d stepped off a billboard. River suspected that for Spider, the worst parts of those assault courses had been staying muddy for days on end. Today he wore a charcoal two-piece with a faint chalk stripe and a grey shirt with a button-down collar, the obligatory splash of colour hanging round his neck. There was an expensive haircut not long in his past, and River wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’d stopped for a shave on his way in—paid someone else to do it, with a warm towel and flattering banter.
Someone who’d pretend to be a friend for as long as the moment lasted.
River ignored the outstretched hand. ‘Someone threw up on your tie,’ he said.
‘It’s a Karl Unger. Peasant.’
‘How have things been, Spider?’
‘Not bad. Not bad.’
River waited.
‘Takes getting used to, but—’
‘I was only being polite.’
Spider eased back into his chair. ‘Are you going to make this difficult?’
‘It’s already difficult. Nothing I do’ll make a difference.’ He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on the bookshelf. ‘You keep a lot of hard copy. Why’s that?’
‘Don’t play games.’
‘No, seriously. What comes in hard copy?’ River looked from the shelves to the slee
k, paperback-thin computer on the desk, then back. Then said: ‘Oh, no. Jesus. Don’t tell me.’
‘It’s above your pay grade, River.’
‘Are they job applications? They are, aren’t they? You’re doing applications.’
‘I’m not just doing applications. Have you any idea how much paperwork an organization the size of—’
‘Jesus, Spider. You’re HR. Congratulations.’
Spider Webb licked his lips. ‘I’ve had two meetings with the Minister this month already. How’s your career looking?’
‘Well, I don’t have an arse two inches in front of my nose, so my view beats yours.’
‘The laptop, River.’
River sat in one of the visitors’ chairs, and passed Webb the padded envelope. Webb produced a rubber stamp, and carefully affixed its mark.
‘Do you do it every morning?’
‘What?’
‘Change the date on your stamp.’
Webb said, ‘When I remember.’
‘The responsibilities of rank, eh?’
‘How’s the delightful Sidonie?’
River recognized an attempt to regain the high ground. ‘Not sure. She went swanning off this morning almost before she’d arrived. Didn’t show much dedication.’
‘She’s a bright officer.’
‘I can’t believe you just said that.’
‘She is.’
‘Maybe so. But Christ, Spider—bright officer? You’re not back at Eton, you know.’
Webb opened his mouth—to point out, River knew, that he hadn’t been at Eton—but came to his senses in time. ‘Did you have breakfast? We have a canteen.’
‘I remember the canteen, Spider. I even remember where it is.’
‘I don’t get called that any more.’
‘Not in your hearing, possibly. But face it—everybody calls you that.’
‘This is schoolboy stuff, River.’
‘Nyah nah-nah nyaah nyaah.’
Webb opened his mouth and closed it again. The padded envelope lay in front of him. He drummed his fingers upon it briefly.