London Rules

by Mick Herron

  Roderick Ho, she thought. The reason her heart was in warning mode was Roderick Ho.

  Make it quick? He’s harmless.

  They were only going to work him over, they’d said, but she hadn’t really believed it. Which meant, her beating heart whispered, that making herself scarce was the wise next move.

  Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she left the room and was on the landing when the doorbell rang.

  She froze.

  But why worry? It was mid-morning, in one of the world’s biggest cities. There were postmen and people peddling religion; there were meter readers; there were pollsters who wanted to know what you thought about things you’d never thought about. The shape behind the mottled glass in the front door could have been any one of these. When she altered position, light slid across the blurred outline of a face, as if it were being scribbled upon.

  The doorbell rang again.

  There was a back way, through the tiny garden, over the fence; an escape route, except one that meant going down the stairs, making her briefly visible to whoever was at the door. Who was rattling the handle now, and meter readers didn’t do that. They just pushed a card through the slot. Kim backed away from the landing and re-entered her bedroom. Its window gave onto the garden, a drop about twice her own height. There came a splintery whisper from downstairs, as if a metal lever had been inserted into a gap too small for it. The window was a sash and was locked; a screw device that only took seconds if you weren’t panicked by intruders. Kim’s fingers leaked fear, and kept slipping. The splintery sound became a crack. The window-lock gave, and its rod fell into her hand. There were footsteps on the stairs, and her heart battered her ribs as she pulled the window up and tossed her bag out. She would follow it. It would take a second. Less. But her top caught on something as she bent to lever herself through the gap: lives have hung on less. Threads, promises.

  When she turned, he was in the room with her, his gun pointing directly at her face.

  Emma Flyte didn’t seem too enamoured of Slough House. She wasn’t actually running her finger over surfaces and tutting, but that might have been because she was trying to avoid touching anything. ‘I’m familiar with the phrase “office culture”,’ she’d said, on looking round. ‘But yours appears to involve actual spores.’

  River wouldn’t have minded, but he’d cleaned up just last week. Or thought about cleaning up, he now remembered. A plan he’d ultimately rejected in favour of doing sod all.

  Flyte had chosen his office in which to assemble them because Lamb’s room barely had space enough to roll your eyes. Lamb, pouting like an emperor in exile, had commandeered River’s desk, and was currently rearranging its clutter with his feet. But at least he’d kept his shoes on. River was leaning against a filing cabinet, his instinct being to keep everyone in sight, while Coe was at his own desk, acting, as usual, as if he were alone. Catherine had pulled a chair against the wall and sat calmly, a folded newspaper in her lap, and Louisa and Shirley were either side of the window, like mismatched candlesticks. Ho, of course, had been hustled away by Dogs and Lady Di, so wasn’t there. That’s all of us, thought River.

  Shirley had glowered at both him and Louisa that morning, but her heart hadn’t been in it, mostly because she’d wanted to tell them that she’d been right and they’d been wrong. Somewhere around two in the morning, there’d been broken glass all over Ho’s street. A body had come through a window, and been spirited away. It all sounded like the kind of thing slow horses daydreamed about while fiddling with spreadsheets – action, excitement, other people getting hurt. Though Shirley’s vagueness with the details suggested she hadn’t covered herself in glory.

  ‘So Lamb was there all the time?’ Louisa asked.

  ‘Go out with Kim, go home to Jackson Lamb,’ said Shirley. ‘Ho’s priorities are seriously fucked.’

  Afterwards there’d been police followed by, in short order, the Dogs. It had been, Shirley said, a travelling circus, and nobody had a clue what was going on.

  Situation normal, then.

  Flyte, who had positioned herself by the door, was casting an eye over the assembled company. River’s previous encounter with her had involved his head coming into violent contact with hers, and the fact that this was accidental probably didn’t console her as much as it did him. At the time she’d suffered bad bruising, but the damage had left no permanent trace. If Kim was an eight and a half, possibly a nine, Emma Flyte was a ten, possibly an eleven.

  What she was focusing on now was Coe, who was fixing buds in his ears.

  ‘What’s that?’

  He didn’t respond.

  Lamb said, ‘He’s a bit stand-offish. Try punching him in the face.’

  ‘Coe,’ Louisa said. ‘Someone wants a word.’

  Coe looked at Flyte.

  ‘What’s that?’ she repeated.

  ‘iPod.’

  ‘Put it away.’

  ‘Why?’

  Emma Flyte said, ‘Do I look like I’m here to answer questions? This is a lockdown. No comms.’

  ‘It’s an iPod,’ Coe repeated.

  ‘I don’t care.’

  Catherine said, ‘You’re familiar with Slough House’s brief, I assume?’

  ‘I’ve had that pleasure.’

  ‘Then you’ll know that some of us have … issues.’

  ‘What’s your point, Ms Standish?’

  ‘Just that listening to music has the effect of calming Mr Coe down. He’s subject to panic attacks, you see.’

  ‘And what happens if he doesn’t listen to music?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Catherine said. ‘We’ve never prevented him before.’

  ‘But he carries a knife,’ Shirley put in.

  Flyte looked at Coe. He was thin, white and wearing a hoodie that had bunched around his shoulders: if you were looking for someone to play Bowie on an off-day, he’d not be a bad start. When he had first arrived in Slough House, River recalled, J. K. Coe had been tense as a fist. If he’d loosened up a bit since, he’d become no friendlier.

  ‘Do you always talk about him as if he weren’t here?’ Flyte asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is he always like this?’

  Shirley said, ‘It’s part of his transitioning process. He’s spending six months living as a prick.’

  Coe didn’t bat an eye. He did, though, look as if he were about to say ‘It’s an iPod’ again.

  Maybe it was this that triggered a sigh from Flyte. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Listen to the damn thing.’

  Coe’s only response was to plug himself in.

  River glanced at Shirley, who had been known to get angry when a tense situation resolved itself without violence, but she just shook her head as if disappointed but not surprised. She caught his glance, though, and stuck her tongue out. Then looked at Louisa. ‘I spy,’ she began.

  Louisa said, ‘Continue with that, and I will kill you. I will kill you dead.’

  ‘Well we have to do something. Apart from anything else, I don’t plan to quietly starve.’

  The idea that Shirley could quietly do anything was unnerving.

  ‘We need provisions,’ she said.

  ‘She has a point.’

  ‘I’ll go get some treats, yeah?’

  ‘Nobody leaves,’ said Flyte. ‘You do know what “lockdown” means?’

  ‘Nobody’s leaving,’ Lamb explained. ‘Dander’s just popping out for a few minutes.’

  River, Louisa and Catherine were excavating money from pockets and purses, and passing it to Shirley.

  ‘Just make sure there’s nutrition involved,’ said Catherine.

  ‘And maybe sugar,’ said Louisa.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Flyte said.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Shirley. ‘Back in five.’

  For a moment it looked as if Flyte might attempt to physically prevent Shirley from going through the door, which both River and Louisa, for different reasons, imagined might be a valuable use of
the next five minutes, but it was not to be. Shirley simply ducked under Flyte’s arm and was off down the stairs, her heels a receding rhythmic clatter.

  Flyte looked at Lamb. ‘Ever considered instilling discipline into your staff?’

  ‘All the time. I favour the carrot and stick approach.’

  ‘Carrot or stick.’

  ‘Nope. I use the stick to ram the carrot up their arses. That generally gets results.’ Lamb frowned. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m using metaphor. This is not a fucking poetry reading.’

  It looked like a fucking poetry reading, though, inasmuch as there were few people there, and none of them stylishly dressed. Well, Flyte was an exception, though River suspected she’d make a plaid skirt and woollen tights look good. As it was, she wore a dark business suit over a white shirt. Her hair was tied back, her eyes were unamused, and he probably ought to stop contemplating how she looked: hot or not, she was Head Dog, and her predecessor had once kicked River in the balls. If she caught him eyeing her up she might follow suit. She probably wanted to anyway, for old times’ sake.

  Lamb seemed happy enough to engage with her, though. ‘So you’re on Claude Whelan’s list of things that make him happy.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Well, Lady Di doesn’t like you. Usually, that’s the fast track to a UB40. And yet you’re still in place. Which means either First Desk fancies you or you’ve got dirt on him.’

  ‘I do my job,’ Flyte said. ‘I do it well. Whelan knows that.’

  ‘I don’t trust him. He’s got vicars’ eyes.’

  ‘… Vicars’ eyes?’

  ‘Too bright. Too shiny. Give him half a chance, he’ll start a conversation with you.’ He turned to River. ‘I’m devoutly religious, as you know. But priests give me the creeps.’ Back to Flyte: ‘He’s First Desk because he was in the right place when the music stopped, that’s all. Taverner would sell her mother’s kidneys for the job, and the thing is, she’d do it well. But Whelan’s middle management. Which is PC for mediocre.’

  ‘He’s got the Prime Minister on side.’

  ‘I rest my case.’

  Catherine said, ‘What will happen to Roddy?’

  Flyte’s eyebrows twitched, which River interpreted as a shrug. ‘Debriefing.’

  ‘Will it be hostile?’

  ‘I don’t imagine it will be especially gentle.’

  River, Louisa and Catherine each contemplated that, two of them with light smiles playing on their lips. J. K. Coe was away with whatever fairies were whispering in his ear, but wasn’t – River noticed – miming the piano parts with his fingers. And Lamb had assumed what the slow horses called his hippo-at-rest position: apparently docile, but you wouldn’t want to get too close.

  Nobody doing anything remotely useful. Just an ordinary day in the office, River thought.

  Shirley returned lightly spackled with rain and clutching emergency provisions. Which turned out, on inspection, to comprise two bottles of red wine and a family bag of Haribo.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Louisa, at the same time as Lamb said, ‘Give me one of those.’

  Shirley offered him the Haribo.

  ‘Very funny.’

  She passed him a bottle of wine.

  ‘I can’t work out which is going to be worse,’ Flyte said. ‘The alcohol intake or the sugar rush.’

  Catherine said, ‘You used my money to buy wine?’

  Shirley said, ‘Yeah, see, what I thought was, there’d be that much more for the rest of us.’

  ‘Well, you can’t fault her logic,’ Lamb said. He’d opened his bottle, and was drinking straight from it. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Brainstorm.’ He looked at Flyte. ‘I hope you don’t find the term offensive.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not epileptic.’

  ‘No, but you’re blonde. Some of you get touchy when brains are mentioned.’ He looked round the room. ‘Someone wants to kill Ho. Someone not one of you, I mean. Any ideas?’

  ‘Kim,’ said Shirley. ‘His girlfriend,’ she added.

  ‘Why? Apart from the obvious.’

  River said, ‘She’s way out of his league. Way way out.’

  ‘Doesn’t always result in homicide.’ Lamb looked at Flyte. ‘You ever shag a two?’

  ‘… I’m not answering that.’

  ‘There you go.’

  Louisa said, ‘She’s scamming him. Has to be.’

  ‘Okay. And while he has more money than the rest of you, on account of he had the sense to be the only child of a successful businessman, he’s still not worth the long-term investment of a serious con-artist. If it was just his money, she’d have cleaned him out and hit the bricks months ago. And probably not bothered hanging around to have him whacked, unless she was acting on a purely aesthetic basis.’ He looked at Flyte again. ‘I’m going to assume you don’t have your pity-fucks executed.’

  ‘Not so far. But I’m thinking of introducing a shoot-to-kill policy for fat bastards.’

  ‘There. Ten minutes, and you’re fitting right in.’

  Louisa said, ‘Information.’

  ‘That has to be it. Let’s face it, Ho’s a dick, but he knows his way around a password. If he didn’t, I’d have squashed him into a plastic bag and dropped him in a river long ago. So this female—’

  ‘Kim.’

  ‘His girlfriend.’

  ‘—whatever, she’s a honey trap. What do we know about her?’

  ‘She’s Chinese,’ Shirley said.

  River said, ‘She looked Chinese.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lamb. ‘Let’s not jump to racist conclusions. She might be normal, but just look Chinese. One other thing, though—’

  J. K. Coe gave a start, and sat upright.

  ‘Oh, did we wake him?’

  Louisa, who was nearest, kicked Coe, and he reached up and pulled his earbuds loose.

  Lamb said, ‘Excellent, I do like it when people at least pretend to pay attention. One other thing I forgot to mention. Whoever she’s in cahoots with was responsible for Abbotsfield.’

  The silence that greeted this was marred only by the sound of Shirley masticating a Haribo.

  Then J. K. Coe said, ‘I think we’ve got a problem.’

  7

  DURING THE WINTER THE day tires early, and is out of the door by five: coat on, heading west, see you tomorrow. The night then takes the long shift, and though it sleeps through most of it, and pays scant attention to what’s occurring in its quieter corners, one way or the other it muddles through until morning. But while summer’s here the day hangs around to enjoy the sunshine, and allowing for a post-lunch lull, and the odd faltering step when its five o’clock shadows appear, generally powers on as long as it’s able. And in those unexpectedly stretched-out hours, there’s more opportunity for things to come to light; or, failing that, for light to fall on things.

  The light that fell on Regent’s Park that afternoon cast perfect shadows. As if designed by a professional, these were sliced laterally by venetian blinds to etch themselves onto desks and walls and floors, turning the upstairs offices into pages from a clothing catalogue, needing only model or mannequin to complete the effect. But as with swans, all the actual work at the Park went on out of sight; as picturesquely industrious as the upper storeys looked, it was down on the hub where the sweat and toil happened; where Lady Di Taverner and Claude Whelan gazed through glass walls at the boys and girls monitoring the world, and all the varied realities it had to offer. Here, the hunt for the Abbotsfield killers continued. It was slow progress. This surprised nobody. If you turn up out of nowhere and kill everything in sight, you don’t leave much to be tracked by. The origins of the killers’ odyssey were shrouded in static. Their jeep first appeared on CCTV eight miles north of Sheffield; backtracking took it to the outskirts of that city, where it disappeared in an electrical storm: the jerky whirr and buzz of too many cameras watching too much traffic, and skipping too quickly between too many points of view. Even a jeep could
disappear in the stillness between digital breaths.

  And when this happens, conspiracy theories blossom like mould. There must be a reason why the jeep had been able to evade surveillance so effectively; there must be an underlying cause. And there was a reason, and the reason was this: shit happens. When everything goes smoothly and the wind blows fair, the men in the jeep are arrested before they’ve finished oiling their weapons, and their victims continue their lives without ever knowing the fate that sidestepped them. But when shit happens the bad guys disappear, and their victims’ names grace headlines, and the boys and girls of the hub work on through the everlasting day, in a doomed attempt to atone for failures that others have laid at their door.

  Meanwhile, other hunts were afoot as the afternoon light continued to poke and pry into disused crannies. Files were opened – some of them actual cardboard folders, containing actual paper, the idea being that to steal these you’d have to be in the building, whereas digital theft required no presence – and perused for hot content, this being highlighted for First Desk’s attention. Members of Parliament aren’t spied on as a matter of course, though many believe themselves to be. But the awkward customers among them, and the notoriously indiscreet, the suspiciously innocent and the flamboyantly wayward, all pass across the Service’s radar, often at the behest of their own leaders, for while the Service exists to preserve the security of the nation, the insecurities of the political elite need tending too. The current prime minister, like many of his predecessors, had an overtuned ear for possible treachery – he had, as a wag once noted, predicted seven of the last two backbench rebellions – and throughout his inexplicably prolonged residence at Number 10 had demanded in-depth reports on pretty much every MP in his party who had achieved more than two column inches or seven minutes’ airtime on consecutive days. This had resulted in a lot of paperwork, and much of what it revealed was never in fact disclosed to the PM, it being determined that the information in question was politically irrelevant, or personally embarrassing, or too potentially useful to be squandered so lightly. And as a result, in Molly Doran’s collection there existed a file on Dennis Gimball; a file tagged not with a black label, nor with a red or a green – any one of which would have pegged him as requiring close attention, up to and including discreet retirement from public service, as several former home and foreign secretaries might attest – but with a white label to which a small cross had been added by hand, probably Molly’s own, to indicate that between its covers might be found a quirk or a dropped stitch, an unexpected weave in the fabric of a life; a chink into which a makeshift key could be slotted, and made to turn.