Slow Horses (31 page)

The first had been finding Charles Partner’s body.

She pulled on the dress she’d laid out for the morning. Tied her hair back, and checked her reflection.
My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic
. It was rare that she could look at herself without those words uncurling in her mind.
My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic
. For a long while she’d thought herself a coward. It had taken some time to understand that becoming dry involved bravery, not the least part of which was making that assertion in public. Reaching for a weapon rather than a phone was that same bravery making itself felt. It had taken great effort to rebuild her life, after so many props had been taken away, and if most days it didn’t feel like much of a life, it was the only one she had, and she wouldn’t surrender it without a fight. The fact that the only weapon in reach had been a bottle could be labelled one of life’s little ironies.

My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic
. There was this to say for the AA mantra: you were in no immediate danger of forgetting who or what you were.

Ready to face her monstrous boss, she joined him in the other room. ‘What’s going on?’

He’d been standing by her bookshelf, gathering data. ‘Later. Come on.’ He was already heading for the door, not looking back. Expecting her to be on his heels.

Maybe clocking him with the bottle would have been the way to go. ‘It’s the middle of the night,’ she said. ‘I’m going nowhere until you tell me what’s happening.’

‘You got dressed, didn’t you?’

‘I what?’

‘You got dressed. So you’re ready to leave.’ He had that look she was used to, of expecting her to do stuff simply because he said so. ‘Can we move?’

‘I got dressed because I’ve no intention of standing in my dressing gown while you invade my space. If you want me to go anywhere, start talking.’

‘Jesus, you think I was hoping to catch you in your underwear?’ He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. ‘Shit has hit fan. Big time. Leave now with me, or soon with less friendly people.’

‘You’re not lighting that in here.’

‘No, I’m lighting it as soon as I get outside, in less than one minute. Stay or come. Your choice.’

Catherine stepped aside to let him leave.

She was always aware of Lamb’s physical presence. He took up more than his share of space. Sometimes she’d be in the kitchen at Slough House and he’d decide he needed to be there too: before she knew what was happening, she’d be pressed against the wall, trying to stay free of his orbit while he rooted in the fridge for somebody else’s food. She didn’t think he did this deliberately. He simply didn’t care. Or was so used to living in exile inside his own skin that he assumed others would give him room.

Tonight, she was more aware than ever. Partly because Lamb was in her home, smelling of cigarettes, and yesterday’s alcohol, and last night’s takeaway; wearing clothes that looked like they were melting; taking her measure with his eyes. But there was more to it. Tonight, he gave the impression that someone was riding his coat-tails. He was always secretive, but she’d never seen him look worried before. As if his paranoia was paying off. As if it had found an enemy that wasn’t only his past, lurking in a shadow his own bulk threw.

Scooping her keys from a bowl, unhooking her coat from its peg, she grabbed her bag, which was heavier than expected, double-locked the door behind her, and headed downstairs.

He was in the lobby, unlit cigarette in his mouth.

She said, ‘What sort of trouble? And how come I’m in it?’

‘Because you’re Slough House. And Slough House is officially in the shit, as of tonight.’

Catherine cast her mind briefly through the last few days’ activity; found nothing in her memory but the usual list-assembly, the data-sift. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘Cartwright’s blown a fuse, and we all get to burn down with him.’

‘Not a million miles off,’ Lamb admitted. He pushed open the door, and went through it first, scanning the parking area. ‘These the usual cars?’

‘Like I notice?’ she said. Then said, ‘Yes. They’re the usual cars.’

This earned her a swift glance. He said, ‘Baker’s been hurt. Moody’s dead. There’s probably a C&C out on all of us, and I’d rather not spend the next couple of days answering stupid questions underneath Regent’s Park.’

‘Sid’s hurt?’

‘And Moody’s dead.’

‘How badly hurt?’

‘Not as badly hurt as he’s dead. Did you hear that bit?’

‘Jed Moody was always going to end badly. But I like Sid.’

Lamb said, ‘You’re full of surprises, you know that?’ and led her out of the building forecourt, with its resident parking and low wall surround and tall green anonymous bushes, and saw the SUV parked on the pavement opposite.

Nick Duffy, noting Lamb’s reaction, said, ‘I hope he’s not going to take this the hard way.’

‘How hard could that be?’ asked Webb. James ‘Spider’ Webb: and there was something as inevitable about his comment as there was about the nickname he’d been saddled with. Webb was under thirty, and married to the notion that anyone twenty years older was lucky to have made it through the flood.

Duffy suppressed a sigh. He’d been scratching the bottom of the barrel all night; had been forced to send Dan Hobbs to collect the Slough House geek solo. That had ended well, with Hobbs lamping a citizen. So Ho was missing, and the other slow horses had either dumped their mobiles or were congregating in a sewer under Roupell Street. Meanwhile, Duffy was forced to commandeer non-Dogs like Spider Webb, to make up the numbers.

On the upside, Lady Di had been right. Here was Lamb, come to collect Standish himself. So provided he didn’t do anything remarkable, Duffy would chalk at least one success on his side of the ledger.

Answering Webb, he said, ‘You’d be surprised.’

They got out of the SUV, and crossed the road.

Lamb and the woman watched them come. Not a lot of options, Duffy knew: they could have gone back inside, which wouldn’t have helped, or they could have made a run for it. But if Lamb had skills underneath his slobbish exterior, speed wasn’t among them. Duffy doubted he’d be running anywhere.

Two yards short of the waiting pair, Duffy said, ‘Busy night.’

‘Angling for overtime?’ Lamb said. ‘You’re talking to the wrong man.’

Spider Webb said, ‘I need to know if either of you are carrying a weapon.’

‘No,’ Lamb said, without bothering to look at him.

‘I need to check that for myself.’

Lamb, still not looking at Webb, said, ‘Nick, I’m not holding. Not a gun, not a knife, not even an exploding toothbrush. But if your lapdog fancies frisking me, he’d better frisk my colleague first. Because he’s not gunna be able to do her with two broken wrists.’

‘Jesus,’ Duffy said. ‘Nobody’s frisking anyone. Webb, get in the car. Ms Standish, you’re in the front. Jackson, we’re in the back.’

‘And supposing we object?’

‘If you were going to object, you’d not have asked the question. Come on. We’ve all been doing this far too long. Let’s get to the Park, shall we?’

It occurred to him later that Lamb had been playing him. Calling him Nick? They’d met, sure, but were hardly buddies. And Duffy was Head Dog, and not easily flattered. But Lamb, unlike Duffy, had seen undercover service, and it was impossible to ignore that. Kids like Webb might see only a burn-out; an older generation remembered what it was that caused the burn-out … Jesus Christ, Duffy thought. He must have found it as tricky as winding his watch. But those thoughts came later, back in Regent’s Park, by which time Lamb and Standish were long gone.

The four of them got in, and Webb started the car.

Lamb sneezed twice, then sniffed, and—Catherine didn’t see; she was looking straight ahead—made a noise like he was wiping his nose on his sleeve. She was glad she wasn’t sitting next to him.

Approaching her was a sporadic trickle of traffic; nothing like the stream, then the flood, these streets would see in an hour or two. The city was still dark, but dawn’s first whispers could be heard, and the streetlights were losing their grip on the air. She’d spent many mornings, this sort of time, waiting for light to creep into her room. The first few hundred, she’d been trying not to think about drinking. She didn’t do that so much any more, and sometimes even slept through till the alarm, but still: the early morning was not unfamiliar to her. It’s just that she wasn’t usually in a car; not usually under arrest. However it had been phrased, that’s what was happening here. She and Lamb were under arrest. Though really, it ought to have been just her, and Lamb should have been somewhere else. Why had he come for her?

Behind her, he said, ‘Loy, was it?’

Duffy didn’t answer.

‘I’m guessing Loy. He’d be easiest to turn. It would take Taverner about three minutes.’

From the front, next to Webb, Catherine said, ‘Three minutes to what?’

‘To get him to agree to whatever she said. She’s rewriting the timeline. She’s putting Slough House in the frame.’

Duffy said, ‘This journey’s going to pass a lot quicker if we postpone the conversation till we get there.’

Catherine said, ‘Frame for what?’

‘For the execution of Hassan Ahmed.’ Lamb sneezed again. Then said: ‘Taverner’s scorching the earth, but it won’t work. It’s the cover-up that gets you in the end, Nick. She knows that, but she thinks she’s the exception. That’s what everybody thinks. And everybody’s always wrong.’

‘Last time I was at the Park, Diana Taverner was in charge. Until that changes, I do what she says.’

‘That’ll sound good before Limitations. Christ, I thought you were Boss Dog. Isn’t it your job to make sure nobody goes off reservation?’

Catherine glanced sideways. Webb, Duffy had called the driver. He looked the same age, same type, as River Cartwright, but quicker to ask how high when told to jump. He caught her looking: just a flicker from his eyes, which were mostly on the road ahead. A faint smile curled his lip.

She had barely a glimmer of what was happening here, but there was a certain comfort in knowing whose side she was on.

‘Look,’ Duffy said at last. ‘All I know is, you’re wanted at the Park. That’s it. So you’re wasting your time trying to find out what’s going on.’

‘I already know what’s going on. Taverner’s covering her arse. Thing is, she’s too busy doing that to worry about Hassan Ahmed. Remember Hassan, Nick?’ Duffy didn’t reply. ‘Taverner would sooner he had his head cut off than admit it was her fault. Which is why she wanted Loy, who’s no doubt signed off on her version of events by now. And Moody being dead, well, she can paint him any colour she likes. Not as if he’s about to contradict her.’

Up front, Catherine decided that the streets were starting to look themselves again; places where business was done and people moved freely, instead of skipping from shadow to shadow. Moved as if they belonged here.

Lamb said, ‘But it’s all going to unravel, Nick. The sensible thing to do would be forget about Lady Di’s London rules and concentrate on finding the kid before he gets whacked too. If that’s not already happened.’ He sneezed again. ‘Jesus, you keep a cat in here or what? Standish, you got tissues in that bag?’

Hoisting the bag in question on to her knees, Catherine unzipped it and took out Lamb’s gun, which he’d placed there while she was dressing. The safety catch was clearly marked, and she snicked it off before pointing the gun at her chosen target.

‘We all know I’m not going to shoot you dead,’ she told Webb. ‘But I’ll put a bullet through your foot if I need to. And that’ll wipe the smirk off your face, won’t it?’

‘You two can walk home from here,’ said Lamb. ‘If that’s all right.’

Chapter 15

Blake’s grave lies half a mile or so from Slough House, in Bunhill Fields cemetery. It’s marked by a small headstone, also dedicated to his wife Catherine, and is out in the open, at one end of a paved area lined with benches and sheltered by low trees. The stone doesn’t mark the couple’s exact resting place, but indicates that their remains are not far off. Next to it is a memorial to Defoe; Bunyan’s tomb is yards away. Nonconformists all. Whether that was why Lamb chose it as a meeting place, nobody was prepared to guess, but that was where they gathered all the same.

Having failed to collect Kay White, River arrived alone. He climbed the gates, which were padlocked, and sat on a bench under a tree. Traffic was building up in the background. The city never really slept; it endured white nights and fitful slumbers. Its breakfast was cigarettes, black coffee and aspirin, and it would feel like death warmed up for hours.

A rattling at the gates meant that others were arriving.

Min, Louisa and Roderick Ho strode into view, Ho clutching a laptop. Min and Louisa looked as pale as River felt, but were walking tall. Things were happening. They weren’t on the sidelines any more.

Ho said, ‘Moody really dead?’

River nodded.

Ho said, ‘Right,’ and sat on the bench opposite. He opened his machine, booted up and attached a dongle. Nobody asked what he was doing. If he’d sat and listened, or tried to kickstart a conversation, they’d have asked, but Ho diving into the web was business as usual.

‘White?’

River shook his head. ‘Too late.’

‘Not—’

‘No. Christ, no. She was just being driven away. What about Loy?’

‘No sign.’

Louisa sat next to River. Min stood. He stretched suddenly; went on to tiptoe, and extended his arms as if crucified.

‘It’s the Dogs, isn’t it?’

‘Guess so.’

‘They think we killed Jed?’

River said, ‘I think they think we killed Alan Black. How well did you two know him?’

Both shrugged.

‘He was around. But not much of a talker.’

‘Let’s face it, there are no big talkers at Slough House.’

‘He ever say why he quit?’

‘Not in my hearing. You never knew him?’

‘He was before my time,’ River said.

‘Why would they think we killed him?’

‘Because we’re being set up,’ River said. ‘Is that a car?’

It was. It slowed, parked and the engine died; all of this out of sight, behind the trees lining the cemetery’s western edge. River and Louisa got to their feet. Ho, absorbed in his screen, paid no attention. At the far end of the path, there came a clinking sound, and the noise of a bolt being shot.