by Mick Herron
“I’ll have to check my terms and conditions,” Flyte said, without the faintest suggestion of a smile. “But just out of curiosity, why are we here? And not in your office?”
“Not everything we do should be behind closed doors,” Diana said. “All part of the new openness.”
“And nothing to do with keeping this particular order secret?”
“If you have something to say, Emma, why not say it? We’ll both feel much better, I’m sure.”
“The Dogs aren’t a private army,” Flyte said. “Forgetting that brought Mr. Whelan’s predecessor grief.”
“Dame Ingrid retired with honours.”
“Only because the Tower’s just for tourists these days.”
“Yes, well. I’m not saying there weren’t those who felt she deserved a bullet in the head more than a whip-round when she left, but you can’t read too much into that. She didn’t have my gift for getting on with people.” This didn’t produce a smile either. Diana sighed. “All right, if it makes you feel more comfortable.” She produced the warrant she’d had Claude Whelan sign; the third sheet of a supposed triplicate. “Good enough?”
Emma Flyte read it before responding. “More than,” she said, and made to tuck it into her jacket pocket, but Diana extended a hand.
“This stays under wraps. You report only to me, and I report to Claude in confidence. That’s the chain of command. Are we clear?”
“We are.”
“I do hope we’re going to get along, Emma. You came to us with impeccable credentials.”
Flyte relinquished her grip on the warrant, and Diana made it disappear.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll get onto it now,” Flyte said.
Diana Taverner watched her walk away, noticing the number of men, women too, who glanced her way as she passed. Not the greatest asset for a member of the Service, but it cut both ways. Who was going to believe that’s what she was?
The seagulls’ cries were ever more distant. You moved the rubbish somewhere else, and the racket followed it. It all seemed so simple, put like that. Complications only set in once you moved away from the metaphorical.
Free from observation she awarded herself a cigarette, willing her mind into a blank: no plots, no plans, no corkscrew machinations. Around her, the world carried on: business as usual on a January morning, and London recovering from the seismic shock of violence. In front of her, only the river; grey, and endlessly travelling elsewhere.
When the kettle boiled its switch flipped up to turn itself off. When she was a child, electric kettles hadn’t been invented, or not in her house – kettles back then had sat on the stovetop, and when they boiled they whistled, so you’d come and turn the gas off. Nothing about the process had been automatic. Catherine was thinking these thoughts largely to stop herself thinking any others: it was dangerous having thoughts with Jackson Lamb standing behind you. He might not be able to read the contents of your head, but he could make you think he could. Sometimes, that was enough.
“If you want to grieve, go right ahead,” he told her. “I’m here for you.”
“I can’t begin to describe how that makes me feel.”
“You’re welcome.”
She threw a teabag into a mug, and poured boiling water on top of it.
“Not having one yourself?”
“I’ve things to do, Jackson. When you’ve drunk that, you might want to leave.”
She left it on the counter and leaned against the wall, arms folded. Lamb studied the mug as if he’d never encountered one in quite this state before, and sniffed suspiciously. “Got a spoon?”
Catherine slammed a drawer open and shut again, and all but threw one at him.
He said, “It was his grandfather shot him.”
“I’m sure it was an accident.”
“You should be a lawyer. I’m halfway convinced already.” He mushed the teabag against the side of the mug with the spoon, then fished it out and dumped it on the counter. “Milk in the fridge?”
“You don’t take milk.”
“Maybe I’ve changed.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” She tore a sheet of kitchen roll from a holder on the wall, and used it to scoop up the teabag. “His grandfather wouldn’t have shot him on purpose.”
“Twice?”
“Whatever.”
“You just lost the jury, Standish. Once could be an accident, I’ll grant you. The second shot, right in the face? That takes carelessness to a whole new level.”
“He’s an old man.” She dumped her little parcel in the bin. “Confused, frightened. He probably thought River was an intruder.”
“That why he lured him up to the bathroom?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Just walking you through the stages. You seem to have put denial behind you quite swiftly.”
“Well, you have a way of hustling people straight on to anger. Are you going to drink that?”
“It’s still hot. Don’t want to scald myself. Any biscuits?”
“No.”
He said, “It’s almost like you don’t want me here. But what kind of boss would I be if I abandoned you when you’ve just had a shock? Anything might happen.”
“You’re no kind of boss. I quit, remember? Or tried to. I’ve sent the same letter to HR three times.”
“I know. They keep forwarding it to me. Something about ratifying the paperwork?”
“For God’s sake, Lamb, what’s your problem? You spent years goading me, and I finally did what you wanted. Just sign the damn papers and let me get on with my life.”
“Just making sure you know your own mind. Think how I’d feel if you wound up full of regret and had a relapse. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience, you getting all weepy and hitting the bottle.” He sipped his tea delicately. “They say drunks are just looking for an excuse. I’m not blaming you. It’s a disease.”
“Jackson—”
“Did you hear that?”
“What? No. Nothing.”
“Funny. Could’ve sworn I heard something.”
“There are people downstairs. It’s a flat, remember? Jackson, you shouldn’t be here, you should be at Slough House. You don’t leave your crew on their own when one of them just died. Didn’t you tell me that once?”
“It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing I’d say.” He put the mug back on the counter, unfinished. “That is quite possibly the worst cup of tea I’ve had anywhere. And I’m including France in that.”
“I’ll be sure to pass your complaint to the management. Are you ready to go now?”
“Oh, I think my work here is done.” He looked round the kitchen for the first time, and in anyone else, that might have been the prelude to a compliment: it was a small, compact space radiating efficiency and homely comfort, everything where it ought to be. Even the calendar looked thoughtful: an Alma Tadema beauty, leaning on a block of marble. The little white squares underneath it, one for each day of the month, were all blank. “And I can see you’re busy.”
In the hallway, she opened her front door for him.
“No messages for the others?” Lamb said, pulling his gloves on. “Words of condolence?”
“Tell them I’ll be in touch.”
“Grand. And what about the Old Bastard?”
“. . . What about him?”
“You planning on keeping him in your bedroom forever, or do you want me to arrange for someone to come fetch him?”
After a moment or two Catherine closed the door, and Lamb peeled his gloves off again.
In Slough House all were still gathered in River Cartwright’s office, which was presumably now JK Coe’s office, though he’d made no attempt to stamp his authority upon it. Instead he was slumped in his habitual position, his hood obscuring his face. For once, t
hough—perhaps as a mark of respect—his hands were at rest. His fingers twitched at intervals, but no improvised silences were being wrung from the woodwork.
Moira, somewhat hesitantly, had laid out what was known, which wasn’t much. And then they had grown quiet, while on the street outside traffic swished past on a wet road, and the day, which should have been growing lighter, seemed to have stalled at a glum grey question mark.
“I feel bad now,” Shirley said at last.
“It’s barely ten,” Marcus pointed out. “You always feel bad before ten.”
“About what I said the other day, I mean. About him being replaced.”
“Yeah, well,” he said philosophically. “Fuck it.”
“Was he married?” Moira asked.
Ho snorted.
“He had family,” said Louisa. “His grandfather. He was going to see him last night. How can anyone get killed going to see their grandfather?”
“You can die swallowing a peanut,” Ho said.
Louisa stared at him.
“Not an allergy, I mean. Just, when it goes down wrong.”
Marcus said, “Might be best if you don’t speak again today.”
“Where’s Lamb, anyway?” Louisa asked.
“Not here.”
“Well he fucking ought to be. One of his joes just got killed.”
“Are we sure he’s dead?”
“Lamb identified the body,” Ho said.
“That doesn’t fill me with confidence. Does it fill you with confidence?”
After a pause, Shirley said, “Well, I wouldn’t want him identifying mine.”
“Louisa,” Marcus began.
“No. This is not fucking happening. Not again.”
“Again?” Moira asked.
“This is not the time,” Marcus said.
“We are not sitting here remembering another dead colleague while that little bastard loots his computer.”
“Move away from the computer,” Marcus told Ho.
“It’s not actually Cartwright’s—”
“Like, now.”
Ho rolled his eyes—this was exactly the kind of thing he was always telling Kim, his girlfriend, about—but moved away from River’s PC.
JK Coe said, “What did Lamb write?”
The room fell silent.
“He speaks?” Shirley said. “Nobody told me he speaks.”
“What do you mean?” Louisa said. “Write what?”
“I think he means Lamb’s text,” said Marcus. “You mean Lamb’s text?”
Coe nodded.
“He means Lamb’s text,” Marcus confirmed.
“He sent it to me,” said Ho. “What makes it your business?”
“I swear to God,” said Marcus, “this is like being trapped in a special school. Ho? Read him the fucking text.”
Ho sighed theatrically and produced his Smartphone. He’d just finished tapping the code in when Shirley snatched it from his hands.
“Hey, you can’t—”
“Just did.”
Ho reached for her, but had a wise moment and refrained. She might be shorter than him but they both knew—everybody knew—she could rip him up like confetti if she wanted, and scatter him like rice.
She found his messages, and read the one from Lamb. “Will be late in. Up all night identifying Cartwright’s body.”
“Will be late?” Moira repeated. “Well. That’s a little . . . ”
“You haven’t met him yet, have you?”
Louisa said, “‘Cartwright’s’? He said ‘Cartwright’s’?”
“Louisa—”
“He doesn’t say the body’s River’s.”
“Who else could he mean?”
“River’s grandfather. Maybe he means the O.B.’s body.”
“Why would Lamb be identifying the O.B.’s—”
“Because this is not fucking happening!”
“Louisa,” Marcus said gently. “If he didn’t mean River, then where is River? He’d be here by now if . . . ”
“He was alive,” Moira blurted.
“Yeah, thanks,” Shirley muttered.
But JK Coe said, “I think he probably is.”
Leafless trees on the skyline resembled plumes of smoke, and the sky itself was a grey dome, holding the world in place. Every so often dark flecks scarred its surface, which he thought were probably geese: maybe swans, but probably geese. It was doubtful that it mattered, but he’d slipped his moorings now, and even the most Lilliputian detail might help anchor him to solid ground.
River Cartwright, unobserved—he hoped—took the passport from his jacket pocket, and examined it again by the light from the train window.
“I knew he wasn’t you,” his grandfather had said.
This would have seemed a small triumph, most days: that the O.B. knew who was and who wasn’t his grandson. But the photo in the passport would have fooled a casual acquaintance, and given pause to some who knew him well. It wasn’t just the physical similarity; it was the light in the eye, the tilt of the jaw. You look at a camera like you don’t trust it, a girlfriend had told him once. As if you’re not saying ‘Cheese’ but ‘Fancy your chances?’ This character had that same attitude.
Of course, the light in his eye was well and truly out now.
Adam Lockhead.
A name that meant nothing to River.
Who had gone through Adam Lockhead’s pockets, there in the bathroom. The passport; a wallet holding a hundred or so euros; the return half of a Eurostar ticket. Some loose change, a pocket-sized packet of tissues, a chocolate bar wrapper and a crumpled café receipt. Nothing to indicate what he’d been after; nothing to explain why he had planned to kill David Cartwright, if that’s what he’d intended.
To think otherwise was to allow the possibility that an innocent visitor had turned up to be shot in the head for his pains.
I’m worried someone’ll come to the door and he’ll shoot them.
In the city, when you heard something that sounded like a gunshot, you waited to hear it a second time, and when you didn’t, you put it down to a backfiring car. River wasn’t sure the same held true of the country. At any moment the quiet of the evening might be sawn in two by approaching sirens, and once that happened, they’d be sucked into the maw of Regent’s Park: a security blanket dropped over them like a cover on a parrot’s cage. No more talking, or not to each other.
“You’re sure you’ve not seen him before?” he asked.
“I knew he wasn’t you,” his grandfather repeated.
On the kitchen table lay the panic button the O.B. had been issued with, back when he could be trusted with such things. Lately, he’d activated it at least once that River was aware of; “False alarm, false alarm,” he’d asserted, though River suspected he’d simply forgotten what it was for. Pressing it was a way of finding out. And since pressing it in these circumstances was pretty much exactly what it was designed for, River, crouching over the body of Adam Lockhead, had wondered whether it wasn’t better to go with the flow . . . The Dogs would soon arrive. This kind of mess was what they were for: they cleaned, they disinfected, they made the bad stuff go away. But other words from earlier in the evening were haunting him: the possibility, the breath of an ancient rumour, that Regent’s Park might have a habit of lowering a curtain over its former glories.
“Yeah, I wasn’t actually suggesting they’d have him murdered,” Louisa had said. “Though I can see you’ve put some thought into that.”
He put some more into it now.
A stranger, upstairs in his grandfather’s house.
A stranger who looked enough like River to at least get through the door.
A stranger apparently running a bath.
A quick tug on an old man’s heels . . .
“We have to go.”
“River?”
“Grandfather, it’s not safe here.”
“Stoats?” his grandfather said, perking up.
“That’s right. Stoats.”
“I’ll need my wellingtons.”
He would, too, because they’d be leaving on foot. There was a car in the garage, a museum-quality Morris Minor, but River couldn’t remember when it had last been on the road, and besides, it was best not to make your escape in the first vehicle they’d look for. This was one of the stupid roundabout thoughts he allowed to occupy his mind, throwing dust in the way of what needed to be done, while his grandfather clumped downstairs and rooted about for his boots . . . Don’t think about it. Just do it.
He fired his grandfather’s gun into what was left of Adam Lockhead’s face.
Then he left his ID and phone in Lockhead’s pocket, taking the passport, the wallet, the tickets, the litter.
Sitting on the train now, his heartbeat echoing the clatter of its wheels, he knew that that had been the moment when it happened—not sneaking away from the house; not leaving his grandfather in the empty bus shelter while he scouted the road for a stealable car; not the journey into London along dark roads, with every approaching headlight a threat, and one stomach-flipping episode when a police car had screamed up behind him, lights ablaze, only to go pelting past; not abandoning the car behind a West End supermarket and hopping on a night bus; not turning up at Catherine’s door, because it was the only safe place he could think of—all of these had been stages on the journey, but putting the bullet into Adam Lockhead’s corpse was when he had crossed the threshold. The point at which he’d stepped outside.
Spook Street was the phrase his grandfather used. When you lived on Spook Street you wrapped up tight: watched every word, guarded every secret. But there were other territories. Beyond Spook Street it was all joe country—even here, with the friendly French landscape pelting past at a hundred miles an hour, he was in joe country, and there was no telling what came next.
He had only the vaguest idea of where he was going; simply that he was walking back the cat, retracing a dead man’s journey. But he knew this much: he wasn’t sitting in Slough House, his energies being sucked away with every tick of the clock. He was alive, and alert to the game . . . The leafless trees on the skyline were plumes of smoke, and the sky itself a grey dome, holding the world in place. This was what joe country looked like. He tucked the passport out of sight and closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep.