by Mick Herron
He dumped his jacket on a chair, headed into the kitchen and scored an energy drink from the fridge. Not the common choice for a nightcap, but that was how he rolled. He’d have energy sleep, dreaming energy dreams. Wake full of energy visions. He sent a quick text to Kim – You don’t need beauty sleep, babes: she’d work out what that meant – put both his phones on to charge, and headed up the stairs. Some nights he sat for a while in what the estate agent had called his mid-storey conservatory, an upper room with a mostly glass wall where the previous owner had grown flowers or herbs or shit, but which Roddy used as a den: computers, sound system, high-def screen. Maybe a few tunes before bed, he thought. Sit in his comfy chair and grab a few melodies: he liked big-ass guitar sounds this time of night. Above him a floorboard squeaked. He rose two more steps then stopped, listened. The floorboard squeaked again.
There was someone in his house.
No night bus used this stop, it turned out, so anyone standing here was going to look pretty conspicuous pretty soon, Shirley thought. And then: those fuckers have driven away, haven’t they? To be certain she’d have to walk all the way to the shops, and if it turned out they were there after all it would look like she didn’t trust them, which would piss them off, so as soon as she walked back here again, they would, in fact, drive away. It was what Shirley would have done.
Fuck it.
In her pocket was the wrap of coke, and now would be the perfect time. Keep her sharp, keep her vigilant. But though her hand strayed there and fondled its comfortable shape, that was as far as she went for the moment. Soon it would be midnight, one day sliding into the next, and then she’d have sixty-three days. It was still just a number, but a bigger number than the one she had now. Did that matter? Not really. But just because something didn’t matter wasn’t a reason for not taking notice of it. If it didn’t matter, then it wouldn’t matter if it actually happened, either. The number reaching sixty-three, that is.
She shivered, the day’s warmth having dissipated. If Marcus were here he’d be grumbling about how he could be in bed, though they both knew he wouldn’t be in bed; he’d be in front of an online casino, in the never-ending bid to recoup yesterday’s losses. She shook her head. Some losses stayed lost. Her mind drifted back to the morning: the car mounting the pavement, and her own instant reaction. She hadn’t been wrong. Someone had tried to kill Roderick Ho. That was why she was here: not because it was imperative that Ho remained unkilled, but because this was real, and it was happening, and it was something to do.
Her hand still in her pocket, she wandered down the road. Ho’s house was easy to keep an eye on: it had that big window, glass wall almost, on the first floor. The kind of thing estate agents creamed over, but anyone with sense just thought: what the fuck? There was little point in adding features to London houses. If you wanted to increase the value of a property, you only had to wait five minutes. Meanwhile, Ho was home, but hadn’t turned lights on. The others were probably right: nothing suggested he was in danger. But it was her own time she was wasting – well, and theirs – and she’d look an idiot if she cashed out now.
After eleven. Twenty-five minutes until the numbers rolled over. The wrap in her fingers was warm to the touch, but she’d leave it intact for now. Maybe later, if she started to fade. But right now, all was quiet.
His first thought was, she’s come back. Had only been teasing: he’d go into his den and there she’d be, down to her underwear already. Surprise! It was for just such an eventuality that he’d given her a key … But that didn’t work, or only for a moment. Kim was heading home in a taxi, fully clothed. There was no way for her to be upstairs. Whoever it was, it didn’t seem likely that ramRodding was on their mind.
And then he thought: all that stuff that Dander was going on about this morning, when she’d ruined his Pokémon moment. The car she’d said tried to take him out. Had that been for real?
He was on the staircase, two steps from the landing, and frozen in the moment. On and up or back and down? If he turned and headed down, whoever was up there would know. And they’d be behind and above him, which wasn’t where you wanted an enemy to be.
Where you wanted an enemy to be was a long way away.
Roderick Ho lived a rich, full life. Admired by all who knew him, envied by all the men; and if he weren’t committed to Kim, he’d be up to his neck in hopeful women every night of the week. So a player, definitely, and one who could handle himself – his Pokémon agility underlined that – not to mention an active agent of the security services: he was basically born for situations like this. So how come his knees were turning to water, and he couldn’t move from this stair?
Seconds passed. There was no more creaking from above, as if whoever it was had also frozen in place, and was waiting for Roddy to appear. If they were an enemy, they’d be armed. Nobody broke into a place intending harm without carrying the tools for the job. And if it were a friend … His reasoning broke down. The only person who had a key was Kim, and she’d never used it.
Stay or go?
Fight or flight?
His hands curled into fists.
Whoever was up there, they were hiding in the dark. That would be because they knew about Roddy, knew his reputation, knew they needed darkness and surprise. Well, they’d already lost one of those, and didn’t even know it yet. Roddy knew they were there. He also knew his house the way a cat knows its whiskers. He could glide through its rooms like a phantom on a skateboard while an intruder would blunder haplessly into unexpected doors and furniture. It would be the work of a moment to assert his dominance. This guy, whoever he was, had better be prepared to rue the day. Roddy was coming for him. He took a step up, caught his foot on the riser, and fell flat on his face.
Which wasn’t great, but the momentum was there now, the decision taken. Roddy had to move, and move fast. Scrambling to his feet, he launched himself up the remaining stairs and burst into the darkened room like a lightning bolt, adrenalin flooding his system: his hands now chopping machines, ready to slam into an opponent’s throat; his feet deadly weapons, aching to kick and bruise and kill. He snarled, a low deadly sound. His teeth were bared. Victory was his for the taking.
From a corner of the room Lamb said, ‘Not now, Cato.’
‘Standish has been on at me to get more healthy, so I’ve had a little detox. Found some sparkling water in your fridge. Knew you wouldn’t mind.’
‘… That’s champagne.’
‘Is it? Thought it tasted funny.’
Lamb scowled at the treacherous beverage.
‘… Er … Why are you here?’
‘Just checking to see if you’re dead.’ Lamb belched, paused, then belched again, more loudly. ‘No need to thank me. But if you want to ring out for a pizza, it wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘There might be some in the fridge.’
‘Yeah, there was, but I fancy a hot one.’
He had dragged a chair into the corner and taken his shoes off, though he still had his coat on. Bits of left-over pizza were scattered on and around his frame, and the champagne bottle dangled loosely from his hand.
‘So. Anyone try to kill you or anything?’
‘… No.’
‘Pity. Would have been nice to get this sorted, one way or the other.’ Lamb stood suddenly – he was capable of sudden movement when least expected – and peered through the big window. What he saw out there provoked what might have been a chuckle, if it wasn’t another belch. He turned back to Ho. ‘And there was no one tailing you?’
‘I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed,’ Ho said, allowing himself a quiet, professional smile.
‘So either you’re getting worse or your colleagues are getting better. Fuck me, that’s a puzzler.’
‘Why do I need protecting?’
Lamb shrugged. ‘I’m not convinced myself. That you’re worth protecting, I mean. But someone’s clearly got it in for you. I mean, look at the facts. Dander saw someone try to run you over, and you seem
to have a girlfriend. I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but something’s going on.’
‘… I don’t get it.’
Lamb turned and clapped Ho on the shoulder. The younger man nearly buckled under the weight. ‘We should get that sewn onto a sampler for you. Save a lot of chat. Now, where’s the bed? This champagne of yours has made me right sleepy.’
‘… Bed?’
‘Yeah, it’s starting to look like you’re too tight to stand your boss a pizza. And some of us have offices to run in the morning.’
‘I thought you were here to keep guard.’
‘Christ no. What gave you that idea? I’m here to make sure somebody else is.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Give her a sword and a helmet, she’d look like a brave little hobbit. Now, I’ll give you five minutes to change your sheets. And I’m busting for a piss. Where’s the nearest basin?’
Ho pointed towards the landing, numbly.
‘I’ll have a fry-up in the morning,’ Lamb said, heading in that direction. ‘But no beans. They play havoc with my constitution.’ He farted on exit, to illustrate the problem.
Ho moved to the window and looked out. A hobbit? He couldn’t see anyone. He rubbed his eyes, but that didn’t help. And Lamb, here, at this hour? For half a moment he constructed a world in which Lamb had got word to Kim, warning her to keep clear of the house tonight, and this made things a little happier, but unfortunately didn’t make sense. Maybe it was true, though. Maybe he was on somebody’s list. He stepped back from the window abruptly, in case there was a nightscope trained on him, and felt his foot crack the fragile neck of the discarded champagne bottle. It was starting to feel like things were not going entirely his way.
He wondered if he had clean sheets.
When two rolled round and rolled away again, and nobody came to relieve her, Shirley had a brief moment during which she rained imaginary hellfire down on Louisa and River, and then thought: sod it. Being here was her idea. She could either man the fuck up or head the hell home. And home had its own issues, being haunted this time of night by memories of her ex. Might as well be standing at a bus stop, cold and hungry, keeping a watch over a colleague she had no particular interest in keeping alive. It wasn’t, anyway, the need to save Ho that was keeping her here. It was that she hadn’t been able to save Marcus.
And again she felt the wrap of cocaine in her pocket, and the needle-sharp suggestion it was making to her fingers: take me.
Yes, okay.
But not quite yet.
Something moved.
It was a man, briefly caught by a streetlight, walking towards her on the opposite side of the road. Shirley was cloistered in shadow and didn’t think herself visible. Even so she held her breath as the figure reached Ho’s front door and let itself in using a key.
Ho has a housemate?
Not possible. It couldn’t be possible to share a house with Roderick Ho.
She was already moving towards the door, though the figure had closed it behind him. The house remained in darkness, quiet as a nunnery, but damage required no noise; he might emerge in seconds, leaving silent carnage in his wake.
Lamb should have let me have the gun.
Though actually, it’s not entirely clear how useful it would be right now.
She reached the front door and stood for a moment. She had a set of skeleton keys she’d inherited from Marcus, but not with her. Kick it in?
Yeah, right. And break a leg.
But there was a ground-floor window, and she had a fist. She shrugged her jacket off, rolled it round her right hand and drew her arm back to punch through the glass.
Inside, somebody screamed.
There was someone in his house.
Hadn’t he already had that thought? If so, he was having it again:
There was someone in his house.
Roderick Ho was lying on a makeshift bed of clothes and cushions and wondering why his ear was bleeding. Broken glass, it turned out. Maybe he should have swept that broken bottle up before settling down to sleep. But while reaching for a box of tissues, which for strategic reasons he kept handy at night, he felt the air shift, or a noise being stifled; something, anyway, to indicate a foreign presence on the stairs. Lamb. But why would Lamb be on the stairs when he was already in Ho’s bedroom?
Ho was trying to remember what else he had in his fridge worth stealing when a dark figure entered the room, heading towards him in a crouch, the way Roddy himself moved in his ninja dreams.
He felt like a Pokémon character, about to be bagged and boxed.
‘Kim?’ he said hopefully.
A light went on. The room went white. The figure turned and faced the nightmare in the doorway: Jackson Lamb, teeth bared, naked belly pendulous over a grubby pair of boxers.
And a plastic blue bottle in his hands.
‘Evening, sunshine,’ said Lamb, and squirted bleach in the stranger’s face.
The man dropped whatever he was holding, and screamed.
Lamb swung a hammer-like fist into his chest.
The man staggered backwards, tripped over Roddy’s still-recumbent form, and fell through the big glass window onto the street below.
When Shirley punched the glass a figure crashed to the pavement, as if she’d won a prize at a fairground attraction. She tried to turn, but her rolled-up jacket snagged on the broken window, and before she could tug free a car pulled up. Glass was falling like slivers of frozen rain, and through the large jagged hole it had left the bull-like figure of Lamb appeared, apparently naked, unless she was having a mental episode.
Lamb?
At Ho’s?
Naked?
… Whatever.
She wrenched loose, aware she was ruining her jacket, and turned in time to see a black shape being hauled into a silver car. At the same time someone leaned through the passenger window and pointed something at her. While she dropped behind the nearest car bits of wall flaked from Roddy Ho’s house, and chips flew from his door. Shirley could feel the pavement against her cheek, smell the filth in the gutter. A car door slammed, and the vehicle moved. When she risked a look she saw something bounce off its roof – a blue plastic bottle? – but it was gone a moment later, a diminishing wraith amid the fuzzy glows that hang around lamp posts at two in the morning. She shook her head and rubbed her cheek, feeling the latter beginning to swell. Another chunk of glass fell loose, and shattered on the ground.
When she looked up, Lamb was scowling down at her, his bare chest and shoulders carpeted with greying curls.
‘Ten out of ten for attendance,’ he said. ‘But nul fucking points for getting the job done.’
Then he withdrew, leaving shards of the night still falling from the sky.
6
IT BEGAN TO RAIN that morning, about the time London was coming to life; a series of showers that rolled across the city, reminding its inhabitants that summer wasn’t a promise, merely an occasional treat. The skies loomed grey and heavy, and buildings sulked beneath their weight. On the streets traffic played its wet-weather soundtrack, a symphony of hissing and slurring against a whispered backbeat of wipers, and in Slough House there was a muted atmosphere, because rain on office windows is a sad and lonely affair, and life in Slough House was hardly a barrel of laughs to begin with.
The car that pulled up on Aldersgate Street was black, as befitted the general mood, and sleekly rejoined the flow as soon as Diana Taverner alighted. She ignored its departure, as she had its driver throughout their shared journey; stared instead at Slough House’s front door, which was also black, or had been – was now faded, and almost green around the edges – and shook her head. Any lesser reason than planting a bomb under Jackson Lamb’s backside, she’d not come within a mile of the place. Up above, on a second-storey window, the words W. W. Henderson, Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths were etched in gold paint; a long-forgotten cover story or simply the relic of a previous tenant: she had no idea which. Only now, as she stood before the door, did she rememb
er that this was itself a cover; a barricade masquerading as an entrance. She imagined its key tucked away in a drawer of Lamb’s desk; imagined, too, that if the door were ever opened, the building would crumble like a betrayed network. Her collar was up, but she had no umbrella. How long was she supposed to stand here, waiting for Slough House to welcome her in? But that wouldn’t happen, and there was, she now recalled, an alleyway to her right, a door set into a wall, a backyard. These she found with no difficulty. The building’s back door, though, required effort, as if it preferred that she remain out in the rain. When it gave way at last, opening onto a staircase, it did so with a squeal like a distressed cat. The staircase smelled of mould and dashed hopes. One of its bulbs had died, and the other buzzed a bluebottle serenade.
Someone appeared on the next landing, a short broad figure that might have been of either sex. It seemed about to challenge her, but then, evidently realising who she was, retreated back into its room. Which displayed good sense, Lady Di conceded, but didn’t inspire confidence as to the security of the premises.
Onwards and upwards. The staircase grew no cleaner or brighter, and all the office doors were closed.
On the top floor she paused. She knew, though the available doors offered no clues, which would lead to Jackson Lamb: its lower panels were punctuated by toe-cap impressions, the pedal signature of one whose preferred method of entry is the abrupt. She should knock, but wouldn’t. But before her hand had reached the handle, a gravelly tone sounded from inside: ‘Well don’t just stand there.’
She opened the door, and went in.
It was a dark room, cramped, its only window veiled by a venetian blind. A lamp sat on a wobbly-looking pile of thick books, and the shadows it cast didn’t reach the far corners, as if whatever lay back there was best left undisturbed. A print in a smeary-glassed frame was of a bridge somewhere in Europe, while a cork noticeboard, hung lopsidedly, was mostly buried beneath a collage of brittle yellow clippings. And in the air, beneath the taint of stale tobacco smoke, a tang of something older, something furious and unreconciled. Though that was probably just her imagination.