by Mick Herron
‘And Slough House has been under attack before,’ said Louisa.
‘You don’t have to remind me,’ said Lamb. ‘It’s muggins here had to delegate the paperwork last time. What sort of car?’
‘A Honda. Silver.’
‘Any identifying characteristics? Like, oh, I don’t know, a number plate?’
‘I was too busy rescuing Ho to get it.’
‘If it happens again, you might want to re-prioritise. What did it do, swerve at him?’
‘It mounted the kerb.’
‘Huh.’
Catherine said, ‘There’s no cameras there. Hit or miss, they got clean away.’
‘Leaving the scene of an accident doesn’t make whoever it was an assassin. Your average citizen would sooner pay tax than make a statement to the cops. Anyone lean out of the window, shouting “I’ll get you next time”?’
Shirley shook her head.
‘Well then, let’s assume it was a tourist. An unexpected sighting of Roderick Ho would alarm almost anyone, and you know what foreigners are like. Excitable. And rubbish drivers. Why didn’t Ho bring this up himself, anyway? Not usually a shrinking violet, is he? More like poison ivy.’
‘He didn’t notice,’ Shirley said.
Lamb stared at her for a moment or two, then nodded. ‘Yeah, okay. I can see that happening.’
Louisa said, ‘Silver Honda. It headed east. We can find it.’
‘And offer it another go? I like your thinking. But me, I’d be more inclined to stick than twist. Ho survives a second attempt on his life, he’ll start to think he’s special. In which case I might have to kill him myself.’
‘Are you going to take this seriously?’ said Catherine.
‘I’m glad you ask. No, I’m not. Dander, you’re not the best eyewitness in the world, what with being a coked-up idiot with anger management issues, so I don’t think I’m going to be allocating our puny resources on your say-so. Of course, if any of you think I’m making a managerial misstep here, you’re more than welcome to piss off. I don’t want to close down your options or anything.’
‘So we just forget it happened?’ said Catherine.
He sighed. ‘I’m not playing devil’s avocado here. It was almost certainly nothing. Our Roderick, as I’m sure you know, spends half his time fucking up the credit ratings of people who nick his seat on the Tube. Sooner or later he’ll try that on with someone who works out what happened. So yes, he might well end up a smear on a pavement one day, and it’ll be a huge loss to the Kleenex corporation, but meantime let’s not get our knickers in a twist about a badly executed three-point turn.’ He bared his awful teeth in a wide-mouthed grin. ‘Now, I’m an ardent feminist, as you know. But haven’t you girls got better things to worry your little heads about?’
They filed out. Before leaving, Catherine turned. ‘Advocate,’ she said. ‘By the way.’
‘Up your bum,’ said Lamb. ‘As it happens.’
‘Fourteen dead,’ Diana Taverner said. ‘And more to follow.’
‘Any CCTV?’
‘Nothing of immediate use. Too chaotic. We’ll pass it to the sight and sound crew, see what they come up with. And there’ll be citizen journalist stuff, we’ll gather that in too. Christ on a bike, though. Who’d do something like this?’
Whelan raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, okay, we know who’d do this,’ she said. ‘But why? Random carnage is one thing. But this is like something from Batman.’
Whelan had returned from Number 10 with prime ministerial outrage echoing in his ears. On the journey back the car had halted momentarily outside a TV showroom, and exactly the way it happened in movies – God, he hated it when that happened – every screen on display was showing the same footage he was watching now: blood and debris and – thankfully muted by distance – the awful screams of the dying. His phone had rung while he’d been stranded there: Claire. His wife. Was he watching this? Yes, he was watching this. She hoped he’d do something, hoped he’d bring this to an end. So much violence, so much horror.
There’d been violence and horror at Abbotsfield too, but she hadn’t called him in the middle of the day to say so. Her shock and disgust had awaited his return, in the small hours. But this – no. This couldn’t wait. She had to tell him now.
He had assured her that all that could be done would be done. That those responsible would swing, though of course not really. But this was the acceptable language of vengeance. You visited your angry fantasies upon the guilty, but in the end settled for whatever the courts handed down.
Now he said, ‘You think it’s the same crew?’
‘Different approach,’ said Lady Di. ‘Different target. Different kind of attack altogether.’
‘I can see that. Everyone can see that. But still. Do you think it’s the same crew?’
She said, ‘If it is, we’re in trouble. Because there’s no way of knowing what they might do next. Random, erratic acts of slaughter don’t make for an MO, which leaves a hole in any profile we build up. Whoever did this used a single pipe bomb. It could as easily be a lone wolf, a disgruntled teenager. But yes, it could be part of a larger campaign, with the differences deliberately built in, to throw up a smokescreen. We’ll know more when the forensics come through.’
Or when someone claims responsibility, Whelan thought.
The footage ended and he folded the laptop shut. Di Taverner walked back round the front of the desk. She didn’t sit. Prowling was more her style: one-to-ones often meant watching her pace a room like a cat mapping out its territory. Which all of this would be, if she had her way. Claude Whelan’s role as First Desk often seemed like a balancing act, and Lady Di – one of a number of so-called equals, all termed Second Desk – was waiting for his fall, not to be ready to catch him, but to be sure that when he hit the ground he never got back on his feet.
Which was why she was his usual sounding board when shit hit the fan. At least when she was there in front of him, he could be sure she wasn’t behind his back.
Besides, she had a wealth of experience of shit hitting fans. In her time, she’d lobbed more of the stuff around than a teenage chimpanzee.
He watched her pace for a while, then said, ‘What do we know about Dennis Gimball?’
He meant, of course, what did Di Taverner know about Gimball that wasn’t already in the public sphere, which itself was a fair amount. While a party backbencher, Gimball’s few forays into the wider public consciousness had revolved around incidents in pubs and speeding offences, but he’d blossomed into celebrity once he found his USP: cheerleading the campaign to get the country out of the European Union and back into the 1950s. Spearheading this crusade had involved leaving the party, a departure he undertook with an oft-mentioned ‘great reluctance’ but few inhibitions about making bitter personal attacks on former colleagues, whose responses in kind he cited as evidence of their unworthiness for public office. With his tendency towards maroon blazers, slip-on shoes and petulant on-camera outbursts he made for an unlikely media star, and having him step centre stage had been, one sketch writer commented, like watching a Disney cartoon in which Goofy took the leading role: at once both unexpected and disappointing. What should have been a cameo became a career, and the whole thing went on for what felt like decades, and when it was over there was more than one bewildered voter who wondered if the referendum hadn’t swung Gimball’s way in the hope that victory would guarantee his silence on all future topics. So far, this wasn’t working out.
‘Well,’ said Lady Di. ‘I think we can safely say he’s found the new flag he was looking for.’
‘Critic-in-chief of the security services, you mean.’
‘I doubt it’s a matter of keenly held principle so much as a convenient handle on public attention,’ she said. ‘If that’s any comfort.’
‘Anything we know that he’d rather we didn’t?’
She gave him an approving look. ‘You’re coming on, Claude. Six months ago, you’d have been shocked
at the very thought.’
Whelan adjusted the photo of his wife on his desk, then adjusted it back to the way it had been. ‘Adapt and survive,’ he said.
‘I’ll check his file. See if there’s any peccadillos worth airing. Hard to believe he’d have managed to keep anything under wraps, though. His wife makes Amy Schumer look like a model of discretion.’ She paused. ‘That was a cultural reference, Claude. I’ll make sure you get a memo.’
He smiled faintly. ‘Didn’t she once write a column describing refugees as earwigs?’
‘Which is exactly what she was fed during a reality TV show soon afterwards. Not often you see karma actually landing a punch.’
‘Did she say what they taste like?’
‘Somalians,’ said Lady Di. ‘You have to hand it to her. She doesn’t go out of her way to make friends.’
But as was often the case with columnists, the more contempt they expressed for those unlike themselves, the more popular they became. Or more talked about, anyway, which they deemed the same thing. A kill list of people actually harmful to the national well-being, thought Whelan, would vastly differ from the official one used in the bunkers where they steered the drones.
Lady Di said, ‘But we’re just the stick she’s beating the PM with. Once he expressed his absolute confidence in us, in you, we became the enemy. It’s a zero-sum game, remember. If the PM gave a speech in praise of lollipop ladies, Gimball would declare them enemies of the state. And Dodie would devote her next three columns to recounting how many traffic accidents they’ve caused.’
Most things Claude Whelan knew about the treacherous nature of those who sought power he’d learned from Diana Taverner, but rarely because she spelled it out like this. Mostly, he just observed her behaviour.
He said, ‘So what does that make Zafar Jaffrey? Our enemy’s enemy?’
‘You’re asking because we’re interested? Or because the PM wants to know?’
It was because the PM wanted to know. Earlier, before the meeting at which Whelan had been invited to address the Cabinet, the PM had taken him aside. Jaffrey. He’s squeaky clean, yes? Because I’m hearing rumours.
‘She’s been putting the boot into him too,’ said Whelan. ‘His picture appears on her page any time she’s referring to Islamist extremism. You don’t need a psychology degree to join the dots.’
‘Well, he’s black,’ said Lady Di. ‘They don’t actually use the words “send ’em back”, but I think it’s safe to say the Gimballs aren’t about to endorse a rainbow coalition.’ She paused. ‘Jaffrey’s been poked at by everyone from us to the transport police, and I expect the Girl Guides have had a go too. Nobody’s caught him making suicide belts in his basement yet.’
‘Any dubious connections?’
‘He’s a politician. They all share platforms with dodgy customers one time or other, because dodgy customers make it their business to share platforms with pols. But if he was into anything seriously muddy, it would have shown up by now. Let’s face it, he’s in his forties, he’s got a dick. If he was the type to fall for a honeytrap, he’d have done so already.’
‘No buts?’
‘There are always buts,’ said Lady Di. ‘We’ve been fooled before.’
‘Then let’s take another look,’ Whelan said. ‘Just in case he’s trodden somewhere he shouldn’t since last time we checked.’
She regarded him with a face so innocent of calculation, it was clear her brain was in overdrive. ‘Any particular reason? I mean, it’s a busy time for us to be re-marking our own homework.’
But Westminster, Whelan reflected, wasn’t the only zero-sum game in town. He had no intention of letting Diana Taverner know all the angles. At any given moment she had enough of her own in play to make a polyhedron.
‘Call it housekeeping,’ he said. ‘Use the Dogs, if you want. They’re not tied up with Abbotsfield, or this latest thing. I’m sure they’ll welcome the distraction.’
Lady Di nodded. ‘As you wish, Claude.’
‘Oh, another thing. There’s a service at the Abbey, day after tomorrow. For civilian casualties of war? In the light of recent events, it’ll act as a memorial. There’ll be high-profile attendance, so we’ll need to run the usual checks.’
‘And meanwhile we’ll keep seeing if we can track down the Abbotsfield killers, yes?’
Sometimes it was worth letting Lady Di have the last word, if only to guarantee that the conversation was over. He nodded curtly and watched her leave the room; then, alone, reached out and let his fingers dally a moment on Claire’s photograph, accessing her calm fortitude, her moral certainty. Bring this to an end, he thought. It would be nice if things were that simple.
In the kitchen Louisa stopped to make a cup of tea, because any time spent not looking at lists of library users was a small victory in life’s long battle. Shirley was on her heels, a little close for comfort. Shirley, thought Louisa, was not quite as manic these past few weeks as formerly. Which some people might take as a good sign, but which Louisa thought more a distant early warning.
Without preamble, Shirley said: ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘I’m going to have to say Daenerys Targaryen,’ Louisa said, without looking round. ‘It’s not so much the dragons, more the whole freeing the slaves bit. Though the dragons do get your attention, don’t they?’
‘Because I know what I saw,’ Shirley went on. ‘And that was definitely an attempted hit.’
It didn’t look like there’d be an early exit from this encounter. Suppressing a sigh, Louisa filled the kettle. ‘Want a cup?’ This was, she thought, the first time she’d asked Shirley if she wanted tea in however long it was they’d worked together, and was oddly relieved when Shirley ignored the offer.
‘I just wish I’d got the plate.’
‘Might have helped clarify the situation,’ Louisa agreed.
‘Hey, you weren’t there. It happened pretty fast.’
‘It wasn’t a criticism,’ Louisa said, though it had been. Shirley was pretty swift when it came to a lot of things: taking offence, changing her mood, eating a doughnut. Gathering data, it turned out, not so much.
‘Anyway, it was a hit. Whoever it was would have stolen the car. All we’d find would be a burnt-out wreck in the middle of nowhere. Plate wouldn’t help.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Lot of fucking use, talking to you.’
And that was the old Shirley right there, but what was different was she didn’t storm out of the kitchen after saying it, and start a lot of door-banging and equipment abuse. Louisa knew she’d been attending anger management classes, but this was her first clue that they were actually working. Which she’d have thought required whatever the female equivalent of chemical castration was, but there you go. The miracles of counselling.
‘Thing is,’ she said, since Shirley was still hovering, ‘I can’t get too excited either way.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, on the one hand Lamb’s probably right. What are the chances Ho’s on a kill list? I mean, a professional one. Obviously anyone who knows him wants him dead.’ She fished a teabag from a battered tin. ‘And on the other hand, if he’s wrong and Ho gets whacked, well, I’m not sure there’s a downside.’
‘Unless Ho’s been targeted because of what he is,’ said Shirley. ‘One of us.’
‘Ho’s a lot of things,’ Louisa said. ‘But “one of us” is not the first that springs to mind.’
‘You know what I mean. It’s funny, sure, because it’s happening to Ho, and he’s such a tit he doesn’t even know it. But what if whoever’s after him thinks it’d be simpler to plant a bomb in the building? Or storm in with a shotgun? Have you forgotten what happened last time?’
Louisa said nothing. Last time Slough House ended up in the crosshairs, it was Marcus who’d paid the price. And if she and Shirley had anything in common apart from pariah status, it was that they’d both cared for Marcus.
The kettle boiled, pluming steam i
nto the small room. She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and poured hot water into her mug. Shirley still wasn’t going anywhere, and Louisa was starting to feel a tug of compassion for her. When Min Harper had died, Louisa had had nobody to talk to. Marcus and Shirley hadn’t been lovers, but they’d been the closest thing to partners Slough House had to offer. The grief Louisa had felt, Shirley was going through now. Not the same – no two feelings were ever the same – but close enough that Louisa could almost reach out, almost touch it.
But once you started breaking down those walls, there was no telling what might come crawling through.
She looked in the fridge, found the milk. Added maybe half a teaspoon of it to her cup. Funny how you always stuck by your own rules of tea-making, even when the bag you were using was full of flavoured dust, and the water tasted tinny.
Shirley said, ‘So what I was wondering,’ then stopped.
Louisa waited. ‘What?’
‘… Nah. Forget it.’
‘Shirley. What?’
‘Maybe I’ll keep an eye on him a bit. Ho.’
‘You’re gonna watch Ho’s back?’
‘Well. Yeah.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Just in case. Case it happens again, you know?’
Jesus.
‘And that’s what you were wondering?’ Louisa said. ‘Whether I think that’s a good idea?’
‘I was wondering if you wanted to help,’ Shirley mumbled.
‘Spend my free time watching Roderick Ho,’ said Louisa. Just releasing that thought tainted the air, like a fart in a crowded lift.
‘Just for a day or two. Not long.’
Louisa sipped her tea and decided it would have tasted a whole lot better if, instead of adding half a teaspoon of milk, she’d gone and hidden in her office until Shirley had left the building.
‘You’re basically going behind Lamb’s back, you know that, right?’
‘You have an objection?’
‘Well, not a moral one,’ said Louisa. ‘I just wouldn’t want to be you when he finds out.’
‘What makes you think he’ll find out?’
‘Experience.’ She remembered the shunt and crash she’d heard earlier. It wasn’t that she didn’t think something had happened, involving a car. She just didn’t think what happened had been what Shirley thought had happened. ‘Look, Shirley.’ And she didn’t feel great about saying this, but said it anyway: ‘I get it that you’re worried. I just don’t think you need be. What happened last time, Marcus and everything, that was bad, sure. But that was just us getting caught up in bigger events. Nobody’s targeting us. Why would they?’