“It’s not complicated. The phone is on his desk. Sometimes it rings. He’ll either answer it or not, depending on what mood he’s in, and whether he’s even there. If he’s out and it rings and I hear it, I’ll answer it. If I get there in time.” It felt a little like explaining how stairs work. “I think that covers everything.”
“There was a call on Monday afternoon,” Whelan said. “To that number. At five forty-six. Did Lamb answer it himself?”
Catherine’s mind fed off static for a moment, as anyone’s would. “I imagine so,” she said. “I didn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“The call was from a Dr. Sophie de Greer.”
“Am I supposed to recognise the name?”
“She’s a government adviser, a Downing Street, ah . . .”
“Flunkey?”
Whelan blinked. He said, “That’s the last phone call she’s known to have made. Dr. de Greer hasn’t been seen since.”
Catherine lifted her glass to her mouth, felt the slice of lemon brush her upper lip. The sensation didn’t take her back, exactly, but it suggested that the door was always open. She looked around. Bars had not changed since they’d been her daily backdrop; or, more likely, they had changed and changed back again. The theme of this particular establishment was industrial chic, or possibly warehouse glamour. The furniture was solid and blocky, bulbs hung from the ceiling in metal bowls, and the visible pipework followed a schematic no sane plumber would have devised. The walls these pipes hung on were distressed, or that was the word whoever was responsible no doubt used. Call that distressed? she wanted to ask. I work between walls that make these look ecstatic. The glass in her hand felt heavy, but held only water. If she was ever going to fall, when the day came that she fell, it wouldn’t be with a Claude Whelan. Nor even with the Claude Whelan.
“I’m wondering if there’s any light you can cast on this for me.”
“You’d have to speak to Lamb.”
“I intend to. But not before I’ve done a little background.”
“I’m afraid I can’t offer any. I didn’t answer her call, and I’ve no idea what it was about.” She put the glass down. “Sorry not to be of more help. But if we’re finished . . .”
“Not quite.” He also placed his glass on the table, and spent a moment adjusting its position according to some quiet whimsy of his own. He’d started his career over the river, she reminded herself, among the weasels, who dealt in data rather than human intelligence, and as a result were considered tricky when it came to social interaction. Whelan had been an exception: on his first day at the Park he’d set the Queens of the Database all atizzy by wearing open-necked shirt and chinos. But it was as well to remember that you could deck a weasel out in tennis whites, he’d still be a weasel.
He said, “You were Charles Partner’s PA before transferring to Slough House, am I right?”
People didn’t ask if they were right without knowing they were. She gave a single nod, and he went on:
“While Partner was in office he instigated a protocol. An illegal one.”
“I wasn’t privy to all that went on behind Charles’s door.”
“I thought you were close.”
“So did I.”
He waited, but Catherine had nothing to add.
“The protocol was called Waterproof. Does that ring bells?”
“Well, it’s not an unfamiliar word. But I don’t recall encountering it professionally.”
“It involved disappearances.”
That made sense. Much of her Service career had involved disappearances of one sort or another.
“There’s been a suggestion that the protocol is still in use,” said Whelan.
“I see,” Catherine said. “So you think this—de Greer?”
“De Greer.”
“You think this de Greer woman has been the subject of an historic, not to mention illegal, Service protocol? Based on a phone call she apparently made to Slough House?”
“It’s a line of enquiry.”
“For her sake, I hope you have others. Because anything on the scale you’re suggesting requires organisation and resources. We have a fridge whose door won’t close properly. Does that sound like we fit the bill?”
“It sounds like that’s the way someone wants you to look. Slough House may be a damp and draughty teardown, but it’s outlasted sturdier institutions. Not to mention my career, as you’re well aware.” He rested a finger on the rim of his glass. “Lamb and Taverner saw to that between them. In fact, any time Taverner wants a dirty deed done, it seems to me it’s Lamb she turns to. And you know what they say about old spooks like Lamb. The past’s their playbook. Partner was his mentor, don’t forget. So yes, adapting one of his historical—illegal—schemes, that sounds right up his alley.”
Or his passage even, was Catherine’s involuntary thought, as a street sign not far from here came to mind. That “Lamb’s Passage” seemed a vulgarity was an occupational hazard, one she wondered if the other slow horses suffered from: a Lamb-style Tourette’s, brought on by proximity. Face masks no protection.
