by Mick Herron
“But it’s so old.” This from the MoD again. “It must have been highly unstable –”
And then lapsed into silence as it struck everyone present that worries about the explosive’s efficacy were misplaced, to say the least.
The meeting had carried on for a further two hours, and had dissolved into rhetoric long before it came to a close. It was as if all those present felt the need to go on the record, even a sealed record, as to their personal disgust at the Westacres event, as if worried that it would otherwise be assumed that they approved. Well, in the internet age, that was probably true. On the other hand, the lengthy discussion of property damage, insurance hikes and likely impact on tourist spending wouldn’t have endeared the assembled company to grieving parents, so it was, Whelan supposed, swings and roundabouts.
Meanwhile, he had work to do. By nightfall there’d be a dossier on Robert Winters this thick; they’d have every contact he’d ever made under a microscope, squirming like cancer cells. Walking back the cat, it was called: they’d walk this cat back to Robert Winters’s cradle, and scorch the earth it trod on. By nightfall—and his phone rang, interrupting his reverie.
Taverner, the screen read.
The car gave a tumbril-like shudder.
“Diana.”
“Claude,” she said. “Meeting go well?”
“Fine, yes, I—”
“Good. But we need to talk.”
And something in her tone made Whelan understand that by nightfall, he’d have more problems than he had now.
Louisa had made coffee an hour previously, and still it sat, a film developing on its surface. Soon she would pour it away, and maybe refill the cup, and either drink it or not. Life was full of choices.
I think he probably is, JK Coe had said; meaning River; meaning alive.
Predictably, Marcus had become cross.
“Just so we’re clear. If you’ve chosen now to speak just so you can mess with our heads, there’ll be repercussions. Emphasis on the percussion.”
And Shirley had added: “And take your bloody hood off. Or I’ll do it for you.”
A short acquaintance informed the intelligent that Shirley’s threats never stayed empty for long. Slowly, Coe had pulled his hood back, wincing at the light. His face was washed out, his stubble messy; his eyes pale and watery, as if he were staring from the bottom of a pool.
“Jesus. Do you eat? Or exercise? Or anything?”
“Can we stick to the point?” Louisa snapped. “What did you mean, you don’t think River’s dead?”
Coe started to speak, but his voice was too thick. He cleared his throat and began again. “Same as you. Lamb didn’t say he is.”
“I just read Lamb’s text, fool,” Shirley said. “Identified his body? Duh?”
“I’ve met Lamb.”
“So?”
“So he doesn’t mince words.”
Louisa said, “He’s right.”
“You want him to be right,” Marcus said. “There’s a difference.”
And maybe that’s all it was, she thought now: she wanted Coe to be right because otherwise River was dead, same as Min, and she wasn’t sure what she would do in that case—oddly, she found herself thinking of Catherine, wishing Catherine were here. There wouldn’t be anything Catherine could do either, but it would make a difference all the same. Right this moment, Louisa was the only woman in Slough House, if you didn’t count Shirley and Moira. Company would have been nice.
But Lamb hadn’t said River was dead. He’d said he’d identified his body.
And this was exactly the kind of thing Lamb would do, Louisa reflected, just to fuck with them. Let them all think River was dead. Exactly the stupid bastard kind of thing he’d do, though it did leave other questions open, like where River was now, and whose body Lamb had identified.
She stood abruptly, took her cold coffee to the kitchen, poured it down the sink, then went into River’s room. JK Coe was at his desk, apparently focused on his monitor, though she couldn’t see his eyes for his hood. He was stroking the desk in front of him. He didn’t look up at her entrance, or when she spoke.
“You were Psych Eval, weren’t you?”
He didn’t reply.
“Before whatever fuck-up brought you here.”
His fingers continued their caressing motion, and she realised he was plugged into an iPod. Perhaps he genuinely hadn’t noticed she was here, she thought, which possibly made what she did next unfair: scooping a stapler from River’s desk she lobbed it so it landed on Coe’s keyboard. The actual one, not the imaginary one he was playing. The effect startled her as much as the stapler did him: he shot to his feet with a shout of rage, and stuff went flying: his iPod, the chair he’d been sitting on, a mug, its contents.
“Fuck!”
“Jesus! I didn’t—”
“Fuck!”
His hood had fallen back, and he still looked washed-out, messy and pale, but dangerous too, like a cornered rat. Something glinted in his fist. It disappeared almost immediately into the pocket of his hoodie.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Louisa said.
He seemed about to say something, but changed his mind. Collecting his iPod instead, he righted his chair and slumped back down. The mug remained on the floor, its contents joining the several years’ worth of blood, sweat and tears soaked into the carpet. Mostly tears.
“I’m sorry.”
But what was that in your hand, she thought—was that a knife?
“What happened?”
This was Marcus, with—inevitably—Shirley in tow, chanting “Fight! Fight!” under her breath.
“I dropped something,” Louisa said.
“Yeah, right.”
Shirley said, “Did he talk again? Make him talk again.”
“Shut up, Shirl.” Marcus moved across the room, stooping to collect the fallen mug on his way. This he set in front of Coe before crouching until they were on the same level. “Are we going to have a problem with you?”
Louisa said, “It was my fault, Marcus.”
“I’m talking to Little Grey Riding Hood here,” Marcus said, without shifting his gaze. “I’m wondering if he’s planning on starting to act up. You know, loud squawks and flying cups. Shit like that.”
When Coe replied, it was in a near whisper. “You gunna tie me to a chair and shave my toes off with a carving knife?”
“. . . Don’t plan to.”
“Then I’m not scared of you.”
Marcus looked over his shoulder at the women. “I think I found his boundaries.”
“Leave him alone, Marcus,” Louisa said wearily.
“Yeah, leave him alone, Marcus,” said Lamb.
Christ on a bike, Louisa thought. How did he do that? All he needed was a puff of smoke—and then a more urgent line of enquiry took shape, and she said, “What happened to River? Is he dead?”
“Fine, thanks. Yourself?”
“Lamb—”
“I realise I may have extended my Christmas break a smidgin, but really, people, has any work gone on here at all?”
His Christmas break had started last September. Louisa could count on her fingers how many times she’d seen him since.
She said, “Answer the question. River . . . ”
“He’s not dead.”
Instead of the relief she might have expected, a wave of tiredness came crashing upon her, as if she’d developed an adrenalin leak.
“As far as I know.”
“Then why,” she began, and gave up. The why would emerge in its own good time, or not at all. Pointless to expect better from Jackson Lamb.
Who was surveying his slow horses now, the way a battery farmer might inspect his chickens.
“You.” He pointed at Shirley. “You look different. Why?”
; She patted the top of her head, where her buzz-cut was a softer, downy peach-fuzz. “I’m letting it grow out.”
“Huh.”
“It makes me look like a young Mia Farrow,” she said. “If she’d been dark instead of blonde.”
“Yeah,” said Lamb. “And if she’d eaten Frank Sinatra instead of marrying him.”
Ho, who’d trotted into the room on Lamb’s heels, said, “And I’ve grown a beard.”
“Really? Where?”
“On my . . . ” Ho’s voice trailed away.
“This is almost too easy,” Lamb said. Then tilted his head to one side. “You’re different too, though. Not just the chin pubes. How come you look all shiny?”
“He’s been showering,” Marcus said.
“Seriously?” Lamb looked at Ho, stunned. “You’ve found a girlfriend?”
“That’s not what he—”
“Jesus. And this is an actual relationship? Not an abduction? Well well well.” Lamb dropped the appalled expression, and beamed round at the company. “See what you can achieve with a little application?” He patted Ho on the shoulder. “It does me good to see you rise above your disability.”
“I don’t have a disability,” Ho said.
“That’s the spirit. You should bring her into the office, introduce her.”
“Really?”
“Christ no, not really. It’s not a fucking coffee bar. And speaking of the fairer sex, our new lady friend settling in? Where is she, anyway?”
Marcus said, “Did you just call her a lady?”
“Of course. Always be polite when referring to a woman of a certain age,” Lamb said. “In case the mad old cow turns vicious.”
Louisa said, “She’s upstairs, I think. In Catherine’s office.”
“Now, now. It’s not Standish’s office any more. Remember?”
“That why you’ve been sulking?”
He ignored that; focused instead on JK Coe, who had clasped his hands on his desktop, as if to make sure they wouldn’t betray him. Lamb studied him for a moment or two, then said, “Does he speak?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Do you speak?”
Coe shrugged.
“What was he, raised by hamsters?”
“He was talking earlier,” Shirley said. “You must’ve scared him.”
“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Louisa said.
Now Lamb turned to her. “What’s your problem? You look like Santa shat on your sofa.”
“You let us think River was dead.”
“No, River let you think River was dead. I just didn’t spoil the joke.”
“So what’s he playing at? Whose body was it? And where?”
“Who am I, Google? I don’t know whose body it was, and what Cartwright’s playing at, my guess is Secret Agents. Why change the habit of a lifetime? As for where, it was out in the sticks, at his grandpa’s. Why do old people live in the country, do you think? Do they start in the city and just get lost?”
“So somebody’s dead, but not River?”
“How many more times?” Lamb rolled his eyes at Ho. “Women, eh?”
“Yeah, I know what you—”
“Shut up,” Louisa told him.
“So where’s River now?” asked Marcus.
“France.”
“Why?”
“That’s where the killer came from.”
“We have a killer now?”
“The body in the bathroom,” Lamb said. “I’m assuming he wasn’t a plumber.”
“And he came to kill River?”
“Let’s think that through carefully,” said Lamb. “Using our brain.”
Louisa said, “He means, whose house was it?”
“But River’s often at his grandad’s,” Marcus objected. “If I was gunna hit River, I might follow him and do it there. Out of the city, empty roads, easy getaway.”
“I’m sure we’ve all spent hours planning the best way of killing River,” Lamb said. “But our assassin came all the way from France, which sounds more like a job than a hobby. So let’s assume he was after Grandpa. Business before pleasure and all that.”
“So who killed the killer?”
“One Cartwright or other. Does it matter?” Lamb slumped heavily into the nearest chair, which was the absent River’s. “What we actually need to know is what the hell’s going on. And since young Cartwright’s not here to tell us, and old Cartwright’s lost the plot, we’re going to have to work it out ourselves.”
Louisa said, “Has he really lost it? The old man?”
“I’ve had more illuminating conversations with ducks,” Lamb assured her.
“River said he was worried about him.”
“Been confiding in you, has he, young Double-Oh Three-and-a-Half?”
“Well, he—”
“But not enough to pick up a phone and let you know he’s alive.” He shook his head sadly. “Kids today, eh? Who’d have ’em?”
Shirley said, “France is pretty big.”
“Excellent. We have a geographer. Any further insights?”
“All I meant was, River must have had more to go on than just that.”
“Yeah, well, you have a point, oddly enough. River found a train ticket in the dead man’s pocket. Plus a café receipt . . . Christ. An actual fucking clue. He must think he’s died and gone to heaven.” He looked at Louisa. “Not literally. Keep your hair on.”
“Where was the café?” she said.
“God knows. Well, him and River.” Lamb pushed his chair back, and with surprising dexterity swung first one then the other foot onto River’s desktop. Some unimportant, to Lamb, devastation ensued. “So. We have what I believe our American chums call a sit-u-a-tion. An assassin with a UK passport, but apparently based across the channel, arrives to take a pop at David Cartwright, but trips over his dick in the process. River’s gone haring off like the half-cocked idiot he is, taking the only clue with him, and the old bastard himself doesn’t know what time of day it is, let alone why anyone might want to punch his ticket. Leaving us here, now. Any bright ideas? Don’t be shy.”
“What do the Dogs say?” Marcus asked.
“The dogs say bow wow,” said Lamb. “Ask me a harder one.”
“You know what I meant.”
“They’re currently scouring Kent for a bewildered pensioner, so I imagine they’ll have their hands full. But any moment now, if they haven’t done already, they’re going to work out that it’s not River who’s dead, and alter the course of their investigation. Actually,” he said, “that might involve asking why I identified the body as River’s. So don’t be alarmed if we have unexpected company.”
“Why did you identify the body as River’s?” Louisa said.
“Because, bizarre as it sounds, he’s now a joe in the field. And you don’t blow a joe’s cover.” For a moment, it looked as if Lamb were about to say more, but he clamped his mouth shut instead. And then opened it again to repeat, more softly. “You don’t blow a joe’s cover.”
“You could have told us.”
“Well, I could. But that would have involved trusting you not to do something dickheaded, like blog about it, or hire a skywriter.” He smiled kindly. “I know you think of me as a father figure, and want to do well to impress me. But if you weren’t all useless fuck-ups, you’d not be here in the first place.”
“You’re telling us now,” Shirley pointed out.
“And that’s because, like I just said, by now they’ll have established that the body isn’t River’s. So it’s become a little moot, see?” He paused. “I said ‘a little moot,’ not a little toot. Don’t go getting ideas.”
“Where’s David Cartwright now?” Louisa asked.
Lamb hesitated, then said, “He’s safe.”
“There’s something you’re not telling us.”
He gave her a pitying look. “If I were to tell you everything I know,” he said, “you’d grow old and die before I was halfway done.” He shifted his feet suddenly, and a handleless mug that had sat on River’s desk, seeing service as a penholder, fell to the floor and completed its useful life. He looked at Ho. “You’re very quiet.”
“What about—”
“No, don’t spoil it.”
JK Coe spoke. “We have two fixed points.”
A short silence followed, then Lamb said, “Did someone fart? Only I heard a squeak, but I’m not smelling anything.”
“What’s that mean?” Shirley said. “Two fixed points?”
“Intended victim. Source of plot.” Coe was snapping his phrases off as soon as they were done, as if they were costing him pain.
Louisa said, “Triangulation requires three points.”
“Clue’s in the name,” Marcus pointed out.
Coe said, “The old man must have a French connection. He can’t tell us but someone will know.” The fingers on his right hand twitched. “There’ll be records.”
“I was wondering about returning him to the shop,” Lamb said. “But it seems he has a working brain.” He paused. “He’s gunna fit in round here like a monkey at a dog show, but we’ll worry about that later. You heard him—find the connection. What ties the old man to France? That’ll be our third reference point. Any questions? Good. Off you fuck.”
“Just one,” Shirley said, when safely back in her own office. “What’s all this triangulation shit?”
The bus spat him out mid-morning in what would have been called the village square in England, though it wasn’t square. More of a large junction, whose adjoining roads didn’t quite meet, leaving this haphazard space of which a low wall carved off one corner, and the stacked tables of a café claimed another. A pair of trees swayed one side of the wall, and there were cars parked underneath, cars the bus was even now missing by inches as it swung away from the bus stop, which was marked as such only by a dog-eared timetable stapled to one of the tree trunks. It was raining softly, else those tables might have been in use, and the air had an edge to it, the unmistakable tang of a recent fire: not leaves or barbecue, something larger. This falsely lent the idea of warmth to the morning, and River tugged his jacket’s zip higher before checking again the café receipt he’d taken from Adam Lockhead’s pocket. Le Ciel Bleu, Angevin. And there it was, as advertised, behind those stacked tables; lights on, windows misted. Dim shapes moving about inside. The rectangular piece of card on the front door’s frosted glass clearly said Open, or Ouvert, or would when he got close enough to read it.