by Mick Herron
‘No, but that would be headline news,’ Lady Di conceded. ‘Given his current state. He’s dead, Claude.’
‘He’s what?’
‘Dead. In an alley in Slough. Someone damn near took his head off.’
‘They took his … Oh, Jesus! What with, a machete?’
‘A tin of paint. Don’t look at me like that, reports are confused. But it’s definitely him, he’s definitely dead, and there are no current sightings of any hostiles. Which is … strange.’
‘Someone murdered Dennis Gimball with a can of paint,’ Whelan said faintly, ‘and there’s something you’re finding strange?’
‘It’s not the usual pattern. Terror bots don’t hit their target and fade away, they score as many victims as possible and go out in a blaze of glory. All we’ve got is an anonymous sighting of a black male with a face tattoo, and given the general level of eyewitness reliability, this’ll probably turn out to be a teenage girl with a birthmark. If it’s not a smokescreen to start with.’
‘Let’s move out of the hall, shall we?’ They headed for the stairs, and on the first landing down Whelan stopped her and said, ‘I spoke to him this afternoon.’
‘To Gimball?’
‘Before he set off for Slough.’
‘I see. To warn him off flaming Zafar Jaffrey in public, I presume.’
He said, ‘It would have upset a few apple carts.’
‘The PM,’ said Lady Di.
‘For these purposes, yes, he’s an apple cart. It’s an open secret Gimball was announcing his return to the fold this evening, and the odds are good he was also going to break whatever story his wife had up her sleeve. I was … advising him against such a course.’
‘You were doing the PM’s dirty work.’
‘In the national interest.’
‘Are we sure about that?’
‘I don’t much care for your tone, and this isn’t the time for a strategy review. What’s done is done. We now need to make sure that whoever’s responsible for this appalling act is identified as swiftly as possible.’
‘Before anybody speculates that it might have been us, you mean.’
‘That would be a ridiculous assumption.’
‘Of course it would, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be made,’ Taverner said. ‘Gimball was your – I mean our – fiercest critic. If you were coming the heavy with him the afternoon he was killed, well. It’s not going to look pretty.’ She reached out and removed a speck of lint from his lapel. ‘To be blunt, Claude, it’s going to look like we had something to do with it.’
A horrible possibility was forming, like a cloud taking shape, in Whelan’s mind. ‘And did we?’
‘Now you’ve lost me.’
‘You’re Ops, Di. Did we have anything to do with this?’
She said, ‘The small print’s a pain to trawl through, but if you look at the T&Cs carefully, you’ll notice I’m not allowed to have serving MPs whacked. With or without your knowledge.’
‘That’s a comfort.’
‘But I’ll not forget you felt the need to ask. A little trust wouldn’t go amiss.’ She led the way down the next flight and into the lift lobby, and while they waited said, ‘What if it’s connected?’
Whelan was still processing the new information. ‘To …?’
‘To all the rest of it. Abbotsfield. The zoo bombing.’
‘What connection could there be? They were random attacks, this is a targeted assassination.’
‘Maybe so. But there’s a guerrilla cadre operating within the UK, so they’re automatically top of the suspect list when it comes to the death of a serving politician. Regardless of whether or not you had a meeting with that politician hours before he died. You’re the head of the Security Service, for God’s sake. For all anyone knows, you were there to warn him of impending danger.’
‘Well, yes, but …’
‘Ah.’ The lift arrived. Diana Taverner stepped into it, then said, ‘So someone else was present.’
‘His wife. Dodie.’
‘The journalist,’ she said flatly.
‘That’s right. The journalist.’
‘You do have a way of complicating matters, Claude. Couldn’t you have done it over the phone?’
‘Well, I didn’t think GCHQ needed to know.’
They stepped out onto the hub, and made their way to Lady Di’s office. Behind her closed door, she said, ‘Flyte didn’t have precise details of the dirt Gimball has on Jaffrey. Have you run that down yet?’
‘She’s been running smear stories on him for months. The details barely matter, it’s the timing that’s the problem.’
‘Well it might be an idea to find out,’ said Taverner. ‘If it’s real, it could be just what we need to keep the public occupied while we track down the Abbotsfield crew.’
‘I don’t think the PM’s going to be in favour of Jaffrey being exposed to bad publicity. That’s precisely what we were trying to avoid.’
‘Yes, but the PM’s going to have to lump it. If it comes to a choice between feeding the media our own head or lobbing it Zafar Jaffrey’s, I’m not going to think long and hard, are you? Especially not when Gimball’s own wife can do the job for us. We need to steer her in the right direction. Whatever she thinks about you, us, she’s got to hate Jaffrey more.’
Whelan stared out at the hub. All the boys and girls – they were always boys and girls; it didn’t matter that some were fathers and mothers themselves – were intent on work, mostly centred on the weapons used at Abbotsfield. The pipe bomb lobbed into the penguin compound had been home-made; the device on the train was based on an internet recipe. Any reasonably competent psychopath could have devised either, given a Wi-Fi connection and a full set of digits. But automatic weapons implied serious backing.
Taverner said, ‘Claude?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘You’re going to have to decide which flag you’re flying. The Service doesn’t exist to further the interests of the party in power. In fact, the party in power is arguably our natural enemy. Given that it’s holding the purse strings.’
‘We serve the nation, Diana,’ Whelan said. ‘And the party in power is democratically elected to lead that nation.’ He turned back to the glass wall, and the worker ants beyond, but continued talking. ‘I tried to get hold of Flyte earlier, but she’s not around. I was told you had her on something.’
‘She’s at Slough House. It’s in lockdown. And can stay that way until we’ve determined what connects Jackson Lamb’s pet nerd with Abbotsfield. Has he talked yet?’
Whelan said, ‘I was leaving him to soften up. A crew was sent to his house, they’ve collected his IT. Quite a lot of it, apparently. Have we got anyone in Slough?’
‘We’ll wait on the police reports. It’s not like our forensics’ll be better than theirs. We’re using the same contractors half the time.’
‘Keep me posted. I’ll talk to Dodie Gimball.’
‘No, let me,’ said Taverner.
‘Diana—’
‘If she thinks you had her husband killed, how happy is she going to be to see you?’
He paused. ‘Maybe so. All right, then.’ He turned to go, then turned back. ‘Are we really calling them “terror bots” now?’
‘They always turn out devoid of personality. It seems to fit.’
‘If we end up throwing Jaffrey to the wolves,’ he said, ‘I’ll need to be sure he deserves it.’
Taverner waited until Whelan had gone before she replied. ‘He’s not one of us, Claude. That usually suffices,’ she said. Then she turned the dial on her desk which frosted the glass wall, hiding her from view.
Apart from that, how was the show, Mrs Lincoln?
An old gag, which he’d have to make sure didn’t slip out at an inappropriate moment. Which, for a budding pol, was any moment, ever.
So otherwise, you enjoyed the motorcade, Mrs Kennedy?
Zafar Jaffrey ran a hand through his already enjoyably tousled hair a
nd shook his head, though there was nobody with him.
Apart from the whole thing about Dennis Gimball being murdered, and the news breaking on Twitter midway through, the evening at the library had gone passably well. The answer he’d given on the likely impact of Brexit on the local hospitality industry would, under other circumstances, have caused chatter; as it was, his talk had been eclipsed, and all attention drawn like iron filings to Twitter’s magnet. Utter confusion. As usual with social media, rumour had the inside lane, and by the time official confirmation came through – death; cause still unknown – it had been definitively stated by observers as far away as Texas that Gimball had been attacked by burkha-clad suicide bombers. But facts could wait. The immediate aftermath was a deliciously stunned sense of news happening; of the dark heart of political conspiracy being exposed once more.
What Jaffrey needed to know was where Tyson was; what his bagman had done.
He’d escaped as soon as possible – easy to claim he was needed elsewhere – but waited until he’d reached home before calling.
‘Were you there?’
‘I’m in the car, boss.’
‘I appreciate that you’re in the car, Tyson.’ He could hear the usual ambient noise: the humming of the engine; the swishing of traffic. ‘That’s not what I asked you. Were you there?’
‘… Was I where, boss?’
There was something he’d noticed about youngsters who’d lived on the criminal margins; who’d dipped a toe – both feet, sometimes – in a lifestyle which prided itself on disregarding the civilised norms, and it was this: they were incredibly fucking childish. They thought widening their eyes proof of innocence.
‘Come to the house, Tyson. When you’re back.’
‘I thought maybe in the morning, boss?’
‘No, Tyson. Tonight.’
So he’d waited in the dark; a gradually strengthening sequence of gin and tonics for sustenance. Gins and tonics? Gins and tonic, he settled on. The gin element was well past plural; the tonic still coming from the same half-bottle. He was a bad Muslim, he knew, but there were limits to how strong one could be, how good.
Earlier, he had spoken to his mother. She had wanted to know what she always wanted to know: how many had been in attendance, what questions had been asked, whether anyone mentioned Karim. Always that last question, and still Zafar didn’t know why, precisely. Was she worried his younger brother, the Syrian ‘martyr’, had forever scuttled Zafar’s political career? Or did she just want to know he wasn’t forgotten? Sometimes Zafar wanted to tell her that his own public life, far from being hampered by his brother, had been made by him; his own awakening germinated by the news of Karim’s death. It was true that there were those for whom his sibling connection would ever bar him from political credibility, and sections of the media which would fan those flames every chance they got. But the deeper truth was, if not for Karim’s wasted life, Zafar would never have entered the public arena. As it was, he felt the need to eradicate the stain left by his brother’s unwise choices – and prove, too, that being Muslim did not mean being an enemy in his own country. It was shameful that there was a need to prove such things, but that was how the world spun.
But he hadn’t known how long-lasting the tremors of one Hellfire missile could be; how they would continue to churn the ground beneath his feet so many miles and years away from their detonation point.
Tyson arrived at last; late enough that it was clear he’d been dragging his wheels. Zafar poured him a coke and sat him on the sofa. An interviewing arrangement, not dissimilar from the one he’d used when he’d first met Tyson Bowman, and seen in him a young man worth saving. There were many who wouldn’t have looked past the tattoo.
‘Did you speak to Mr Gimball?’
‘… Kind of.’
‘Kind of yes? Or kind of no?’
Tyson was frightened. That was something else it was important to remember about the young: they were often frightened, because there was always the chance they’d be sucked down into an abyss they’d only gradually become aware of. And they always tried to hide this fear, but it never went away.
‘It’s all right, Tyson,’ he said. ‘Whatever happened, we can fix it.’ This was a lie. ‘But I need to know what it is I have to fix.’
He’d become the shining light in these youngsters’ lives: the only one to show faith, offer support, without demanding their souls in return. But this meant a lot of them thought him capable of any manner of impossibles, including fixing things that couldn’t be mended.
‘I wanted you there to observe,’ he reminded Tyson now, hating himself for doing so; hating that he was making sure his own essential innocence was part of Tyson’s story. But he’d started, so he’d finish. ‘To talk to him if the opportunity arose, but not to force the issue.’
‘Didn’t force the issue, boss.’
‘I just wanted to know what he planned to say.’
Because if Ed Timms had been right, and Gimball had been preparing to throw shit at the walls, Zafar would have needed as much warning as possible. To wrap up the Dancer Blaine business, and then cover his tracks.
‘So what happened?’
‘I was gonna explain to him,’ Tyson said. ‘Tell him not to dis you, like. Keep his mouth shut.’
Zafar’s heart was all the way deflated now, a useless piece of rubber curled up and drying in his chest. He could see it happening as clearly as if it were projected onto his sitting-room wall: Tyson catching Gimball unprotected; overconfident swagger on one side, panicky reaction on the other. Fists clutching lapels. A struggle, a blow.
‘And did you …?’
Did he what? Zafar didn’t even know what question to ask. There’d be no consoling answers.
‘It was just a bit of argy. I didn’t touch him.’
‘You didn’t touch him?’
‘Not hardly.’ Tyson rolled his shoulders. ‘Just messing a bit. He wouldn’t stay still.’
It was like talking to a child who’d stoned a cat. I didn’t mean to hurt it. It was the cat’s fault.
He thought, Tyson has to disappear. And I’ll have to finish what he started. Like most of his decisions, it was no sooner made than he was formulating the strategy: he’d need to cancel tomorrow’s meetings; fake a head cold, whatever. All of that was doable. He was good at details.
But still he could feel the ground trembling beneath his feet; those shockwaves ploughing up the earth.
Catherine said, ‘I think it’s about time you explained what happened, don’t you?’
Lamb had left, with Welles on his heels like a man who’d been rabbit-punched then put on a leash: there really was cause, she sometimes thought, to hang a warning notice on Lamb’s door. She’d have gone home herself, if not for the gauntlet of pubs, bars and off-licences she’d have to run. As it was, the role of den mother had once more dropped onto her shoulders.
Shirley had found what was left of the Haribo, and had tucked in before Catherine could warn her about Lamb’s rejection policy. Louisa was leaning against the radiator – they were in River’s room – and frowning about something, or possibly everything. J. K. Coe was at his desk, hood up. River was also seated, but visibly arriving at the conclusion that Catherine was mostly talking to him, and unlikely to take silence for an answer.
‘We’ve told you,’ he said at last. ‘A man followed Gimball up the alley, and Gimball didn’t come out again.’
Catherine pursed her lips. After a moment, River looked at Coe. ‘That’s what happened, right?’
Still hooded, Coe said, ‘That’s what happened.’
Shirley said, ‘The bad guys were in Birmingham.’
‘But Jaffrey wasn’t attacked,’ said River. ‘Was he?’
‘They were in a van. I chased them off.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Catherine said. She returned her gaze to the two men. ‘“We only saw one”,’ she said. ‘I’m quoting here.’
‘Quoting who?’ River asked.
&nb
sp; ‘Mr Coe. That’s what he said when you got here.’
‘Well, he counted right.’
‘It’s not his arithmetic that bothers me. It’s more that he was so keen to volunteer information. It usually requires strong persuasion before he opens his mouth in company. Doesn’t it, Mr Coe?’
Coe shrugged.
‘And like Lamb said, he appeared a little more bushy-tailed than usual. And I think we all remember the last time that happened.’
‘You don’t seriously think,’ River began, then stopped.
‘We don’t seriously think what?’ Catherine asked.
For half a moment, maybe less, the only sound in the room was a fly banging against the dust-tracked windowpane; just one more futile attempt to escape from Slough House.
And then a penny dropped.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Louisa. ‘You didn’t!’
‘It was an accident.’
Louisa, mouth wide, looked at Catherine, who was staring into whatever abyss had just opened inside her own mind. Shirley had frozen mid chew, and her face had the blurred rubbery look that comes from being caught between two expressions. The men exchanged a glance, then resumed their defensive postures. And the fly hurled itself at the glass once more, and vomited invisibly on contact.
It was Catherine who spoke first. ‘You killed him?’
It was Coe she was talking to, and Coe didn’t answer.
‘Mr Coe? Pull your hood down and answer the question.’
Unexpectedly, Coe did as he was told. ‘… Not exactly.’
‘But imprecisely, right? In some vague, non-specific, possibly even daydreamy fashion, you killed him? Please say you didn’t.’
‘He was hit by a tin of paint.’
‘How?’
‘… It got knocked off some scaffolding.’
‘By who?’
‘Whom.’
‘Don’t even—’
‘It was an accident,’ said Coe.
‘Yeah, I think we’ve established that,’ Louisa put in. ‘But whose fucking accident was it?’
‘His,’ said River.
Everyone in the room turned to River.
‘Well it was! I was fighting the tattooed guy!’
‘So you didn’t invent him?’