by Mick Herron
And another thing he wondered about was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed: was that how he’d come off this evening? When he’d joined the Service he’d been in Psych Eval, which had involved evaluating operational strategies for psychological impact – on targets as well as agents – but had also meant carrying out individual assessments; who was stressed, who’d benefit from a change of routine, and who was a psychopath. Every organisation had a few, usually at management level, and it was handy to know who they were in case there was an emergency, or an office party. J. K. Coe had become adept at recognising the signs, but perhaps he should have been taking a hard look at himself, especially since his own trauma. Maybe that had opened a door into his dark, one never since closed. And that was why he reached for his knife every time he was startled; why taking a life left him feeling buoyed, and in control. If he’d been writing a report for his own Psych Eval folder, half of it would have been in green ink.
But J. K. Coe thought that was probably okay. Everyone needed an edge. This was his.
The car had gone; the street was dark and quiet. His blade was where it ought to be.
Behind him, in Ho’s house, something clattered and someone shrieked.
A floorboard creaked again, and Kim readied for flight.
On her first approach to Ho’s house, there’d been activity; a black van, and serious-looking men loading Roddy’s computer equipment into the back of it. There was broken glass on the pavement, and a couple of chunks carved out of the brickwork. From the back of last night’s cab she’d called Shin and said He’s home alone and Make it quick? He’s harmless. Had she really thought it would be painless? The important thing was that it hadn’t been happening to her. Those were the rules of the game: number one came first and foremost.
And just for insurance, she’d tended Shin from the outset.
You’re in charge, aren’t you?
The others have to do what you say.
You’re not like them …
None of them were ever like anybody else. That was what men liked to hear about: the many ways in which they were unique.
Kim had walked straight past the black van; found a café to nest in for the afternoon, and had returned to find the house in darkness. She’d let herself in with the key Roddy had given her, then lain on the bed, planning her next move.
He was probably dead. They’d probably killed him. Would have killed her, too, if she hadn’t played Shin. You’re in charge, you’re not like them. This had been necessary, not least because she was frightened of Danny, who had a dangerous look. And it had paid off, because Shin had let her leave; had watched her drop through the bedroom window, visibly swelling with the promises she’d made him. They’d be together, once this was all over. She would wait for him. They would fuck happily ever after.
But for every trick that paid off, there was another left you in the dust. So here she was, crouching in a wardrobe, and there was somebody out there – any number of somebodies. If it were Shin and co., the same ploy wouldn’t work twice. Shin on his own, she could shape like putty. Shin with the others watching would be a different story.
But she didn’t think that was who was in Ho’s house now.
Waiting, ready, she tightened her fingers round the wire hanger; reshaped and wrapped around her fist, its hook straightened to a jabbing point.
If someone else’s eye was the cost of her freedom, that was fine by her.
There was a draught, because the board that had been wedged over the broken pane didn’t fit properly. River prised it aside, and let dark air waft across his face. If he’d had the sense to have parents like Ho’s, perhaps they’d have kitted him out with a property too, with a front door of his own, and neighbours who were occasionally visible during daylight hours. But the thought of his mother gifting him a deposit on an ordinary house in an ordinary street almost made him smile. No, his family support came in the shape of the O.B., support that was rotting away now, had rotted away, would give any moment, and then just be a memory of timber: something that was strong and upright and always there, until it wasn’t. Well, at least he’d be spared knowing about the god-almighty fuck-up River had been part of today. That was when you knew things were bad; when your grandfather’s mental slippage was a silver lining.
He came away from the window. There wasn’t much here, now Roddy’s toys had been carted away. A brisk, efficient job the Dogs had made of it; nice to know, given they’d soon be doing the same for him. Well, good luck with that. You could pile most of what he owned into a skip without anyone deeming it a waste. No, the real waste was his career, which had turned out to have a damp fuse attached; so much so that the thoughts he’d had earlier, about walking away, themselves seemed a pipe dream now. Once the Park had taken stock of the day’s events, he’d either be offered up as a sacrifice or swept under a carpet. And again it gripped him, behind his ribs: cold panic. He didn’t dare check his phone to see what the news was saying; at the same time, he wanted to hear somebody’s voice, someone on his side. His mother? Hardly. His grandfather? He’d need a stronger signal than his phone was capable of. So who else – his father? But Frank was a renegade with blood on his hands, and River might kill him if the opportunity arose.
So there was only the here and the now; there was only this moment. Until it all fell apart, and the Dogs came and dragged him away, he’d keep on with the matter in hand, searching for someone who might be dead, which felt like the story of his life. He dropped to one knee and checked under the sofa, which was far too low to be a hiding place, but allowed him to feel he was doing something. And then rose at a crash from across the landing, and a startled shout: Louisa.
Ho’s room was heavy with an acrid, non-specific odour which, caught and bottled, would probably kill rodents, or old people. Louisa was breathing carefully. On any list of rooms she was never likely to find herself in, this one was right behind Benedict Cumberbatch’s, though for diametrically opposite reasons. Still, at least Ho wasn’t here. Just the evidence of his being: the Anime posters on the walls; the clutch of dirty mugs on the floor, rimed with chocolatey sludge.
She didn’t want to think about the used tissues blossoming between them, like failed, discarded attempts at origami.
The bed was wide, its sheets dark blue, its duvet cover brown. Seriously, thought Louisa. She dropped to her knees, checked under the bed. More discarded Kleenex roses; enough dust bunnies to dehydrate Watership Down. There’d been a bedside lamp, but it was gone – you’d think the Dogs were running a boot sale on the sly – but there were drawers in the table it had sat upon, and Louisa looked through these. Okay, so Kim wasn’t likely to be hiding in one, but how often did chances like this crop up? Not that Ho would conceal anything interesting by putting it in a drawer: his life would be parcelled into bite-sized data chunks, and distributed among the laptops and drives that were now visible only by the marks they’d left behind; the dusty outlines of removed hardware. It would all be back at the Park now; like Ho, in the process of being dismantled. Chances were, it would never be put back together again. Whether this went for Ho too was a thought Louisa didn’t dwell on, though she was conscious of a rare flash of empathy for her colleague, who had been useful on occasions, if likeable on fewer. But who was she to talk? She’d not gone out of her way to make Slough House a happier place. She’d made efforts with River, true, but Jesus: after today, the one-time Most Likely To Succeed was well and truly holed below the waterline. What they were doing here, a pointless search for a probably dead witness, was basically marking time: River and Coe were fucked, and it would take a miracle for the rest of them to survive the morning-after recriminations.
So thinking, she opened the wardrobe drawer, and a demon burst out, its right fist a thin metal spike it jabbed straight at Louisa’s face.
The last thing she’d ever see from her left eye was a screaming witch with a pointy fist: that so nearly came true, it haunted Louisa’s sleep for weeks. But she jerked her head aside in t
ime and stepped backwards, her left foot coming down on one of Ho’s discarded mugs, which broke beneath her heel and sent her pitching to the floor. She shouted as she fell, and saw from a crazy angle, like a fragment of jigsaw puzzle, River appear in the bedroom doorway.
There was no time for strategy, only for action. The woman who’d opened the wardrobe door was out of the game; the following second, a man had joined her. Kim had hit him full tilt: her head, his stomach. He was lean enough – it wasn’t like butting a pillow – but her head was harder, and full of bad thoughts. He staggered back and Kim whipped under his outstretched arm and took the stairs four at a time; more of a controlled fall than a mannered descent, but even so another figure materialised before she’d reached the bottom and grabbed her collar so her feet left the floor. The pair collapsed in a heap, and Kim slashed wildly behind with her makeshift weapon, catching flesh and hearing an outraged squawk from the barrel-shaped creature who’d caught her. The grip loosened. Kim was on her feet immediately, opening the front door. From overhead there was noise, numbers one and two getting upright and coming after her, but she was outside now, on the street, and here was another one: a man in a hoodie, a dangerous odour coming off him. He was reaching into his pouch and Kim couldn’t have that, she knew what men like this reached for, and she slashed again, the wire hanger a diagonal flash in the night air. He jerked back but she caught his chin: a few drops of blood kissed her face. No time to worry about that, because he’d recovered already, had grabbed her arm, and for a moment it was over; the three in the house were regrouping now, and this one had her in his grip, but it required no thought for Kim to do what she did next, which was knee him in the balls: a traditional move but it still had legs, and he folded immediately. Free from his grasp, she headed down the street at speed.
Go to ground. Find a corner, occupy it. Lose the coat hanger, which makes you look crim.
Without slowing she wriggled her hand from the hanger, which fell to the pavement like a discarded Easter crown. She crossed the road, ran past a line of parked vehicles to the junction, and was about make a sharp left when a car door swung open in front of her. Kim smacked into it, bounced back, and hit the ground so hard that all the bones in her body lit up like fairy lights.
Something heavy emerged and stood over her; an awful beast about to shatter its prey.
‘I’m strictly anti-chauvinist, as you know,’ it said. ‘But I do like to open a door for a lady.’
But Kim had stopped listening by then.
12
WHELAN MADE SOME PHONE calls, and while he spoke, while he listened, watched the boys and girls on the hub. One young woman in particular he kept an eye on; purely paternal – she resembled a young Claire – but his gaze tightened if she leaned across her desk to address a colleague, or bent to a drawer. There was a blank space in Claude Whelan’s memory. He kept it that way. If someone had taxed him with the details of that long-ago night, the conversation with the girl on the corner, the appearance of the plain-clothes officer, the hours in custody before it was all made to go away, he’d have been genuinely puzzled for a moment, unable to remember whether it had happened to him or been something he’d read about, so hard had he tamped the episode down. A blip, he’d have said, if pressed. A regrettable lapse, long behind him. He was content with Claire, with their perfect marriage, and if her interest in the physical side had waned from not very to nothing, that was a small price to pay for her constant support.
Jackson Lamb, of course, had ferreted out the details; had dangled them in front of Claude like a dog with a kill, its mouth full of feathers, but all he appeared to want was that Claude leave him and his alone.
For the time being, that would have to do.
Whelan spoke to the editor of Dodie Gimball’s paper; then to that paper’s lawyer; then to a Service lawyer, and then to the paper’s editor again. That second conversation was fairly short. When he had all the details he needed he rang the number the editor had at last given him, and spoke to a man named Barrett, whose rich voice it was a pleasure to listen to. Barrett, a former cop, carried out investigative work for the paper, a necessary gap in the news-gathering process now that most journalists rarely ventured beyond Twitter and the nearest Nespresso machine. Barrett relayed the details of his job for Dodie Gimball without hesitation, repetition or deviation. When he’d finished Whelan thanked him and disconnected. Then resumed staring through his glass wall.
The PM was not going to be happy.
Night keeps its head down during daylight hours, but it’s always there, always waiting, and some open their doors to it early; allow it to sidle in and bed down in a corner. Molly Doran was among this number. She had become a creature of the dark, the brightest hour she felt comfortable in the violet one, and had long ago washed up in this windowless kingdom some floors below where Claude Whelan sat. Home was a ground-floor apartment in a new build, a twenty-minute taxi ride away, but that was simply a box she hid in when custom deemed it necessary. Here was where she felt alive, especially now, on the late shift, when night was out of its basket and prowling behind her as she propelled herself along the aisles.
There were rows and rows of files in her archive, each containing lives; there were operations minutely recounted, whose details would never be open to the public, and she was fine with that. It was called the Secret Service for a reason. Transparency and openness were for pressure groups to bleat about, but Molly Doran knew that much of what keeps us safe should be kept hidden. The appetites that keep democracy alive can be unseemly. There were stories here to make liberals combust, and while Molly occasionally felt she could have done with the warmth, such a bonfire might easily get out of control.
Sometimes she spoke to her files.
‘So, my dears,’ she said aloud. ‘What are we looking for tonight?’
They didn’t answer, of course. She wasn’t insane. But she spoke to the world gathered round her the way shut-ins might speak to their walls; it was another way of talking to herself, of underlining her presence.
‘The watering hole,’ she said. ‘Such a quaint turn of phrase.’
Quaint, in this case, meaning old; postwar, but old.
Her chair made little noise. She often wondered, were she to get down on hands and useless knees, whether she’d detect grooves in the floor from her years of ceaseless trundling. Didn’t matter any more. They’d be ejecting her soon – another six weeks; no need to work your notice; why not take a little holiday? – fuck them. What did they think, she’d go surfing? The idea had occurred that she could simply refuse to go, and lock herself in, but there was a lack of dignity in that; she’d become the wrong sort of legend. Better to exit on her own terms.
‘Let’s start here, shall we?’
Here being the late fifties, and some never-implemented contingency plans, strategies, adventures, from the fag end of empire.
Hardly worth saying that the hunt she was on was a sacking offence. Jackson Lamb was so much persona non grata that Regent’s Park practically amounted to a no-Jacksons club, and even if he hadn’t been there were protocols, none of which involved having someone just turn up and beg a favour. So the whole six-weeks’-notice-and-why-not-have-a-skiing-break? could turn out to be moot: one slip-up now and being dumped on the pavement without fanfare would be the upside, inasmuch as prison would also be possible. Molly Doran didn’t fancy prison much.
But nor did she like being handed her cards by Diana Taverner. Not that Lady Di had made an appearance herself, but her fingerprints were all over this: Taverner mistrusted the eccentric, her definition of which covered anyone whose vision didn’t coincide with her own. Though if she’d ever spent time here among the records, she’d know it was the eccentrics and fantasists, the borderline cases, who’d always flown the Service’s flag highest.
Besides: Jackson Lamb. The temptation to hand him whatever rope he was looking for was not one to shrug off easily. Sooner or later he’d wind up swinging from it – nobody could be
Jackson Lamb forever without paying the price – but the certain knowledge that aiding him would give Lady Di the screaming abdabs was good enough for Molly Doran. She had a sudden image of Lamb’s carcass dangling from a gibbet. The reek of it would empty buildings. But he wouldn’t have it any other way, she knew. After half a lifetime battling the forces of oppression, he’d spent the second half revenging himself on a world that had fucked up anyway. If things had gone otherwise, he might have been something to behold. As it was, he was a spectacle; just not the kind to draw admiring glances.
Easy to spiral away into such thoughts. Her days and weeks, her years, down here; so many of them had been lost to flights of fancy, her earthbound wheels notwithstanding. It was as if the files were slowly leaking; gracing the air with secret histories, with private visions.
‘It’s Regent’s Park,’ she reminded herself now. ‘Not bloody Hogwarts.’
So saying, she reached out and plucked from the shelf the first of the night’s treasures.
She was alone in the car, and this was what grief meant. Grief meant being alone in the car.
Would she remember that, or should she make a note for future reference?
Technically, Dodie Gimball supposed, she wasn’t alone, because of the driver, but such were the details art skimmed over. Her husband was dead, and she was alone in the car, and evermore would be. Her lifemate had been destroyed – here one moment, gone the next. What was she to do now?
There were lights behind her, lights ahead; the police escort was running without sirens, but both cars were flashing their blues, and the BMW’s interior pancaked in and out of colour. Every so often, too, it blurred, as tears filled Dodie’s eyes, but the outpour never came. It was as if a valve had stuck, refusing to allow the free passage of water.
Dennis was gone. They had killed him. They would pay.