She said, “I won’t pretend to have full knowledge of everything he’s up to at any given time, but I can tell you Lamb wouldn’t implement anything Charles Partner ever dreamed up. Or cooperate with Taverner, unless there was something in it for him.”
“Taverner controls a large budget.”
“He’s not interested in money.”
“Really?”
“Well, I wouldn’t leave the petty cash where he could find it. But if I had a Swiss bank account, I wouldn’t need to hide the number from him.”
Whelan nodded, as if this confirmed something he suspected. Which irritated Catherine, who was pretty sure it was an act. She said, “Does that give you enough background? Because when you’re ready to talk to Lamb, please let me know. I might bring popcorn.”
“The call was Monday afternoon. Has anything out of the ordinary happened since?”
Well, this could go either way. What was ordinary for Slough House was everything but in most places. So it was tempting to tell him no, that the even tenor of slow-horse life had continued uninterrupted for months, but there was a point of principle here, one Lamb himself would endorse. Don’t try to hide something from someone who might already know about it.
Catherine wasn’t the world’s best liar, anyway.
She said, “We’ve had an employee issue.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of my colleagues had an . . . episode.” Catherine reached for her glass, and took a sip. Water tasted wrong. “A rather violent one. She was arrested.”
“When did this happen?”
“Monday evening.”
“So it might have been related to the phone call.”
“I don’t see how.”
“It’s a matter of patterns, though, isn’t it?” As if to underline the thought, he mirrored Catherine’s recent action: reaching for his drink, tasting it. “What was the nature of this, ah, episode?”
She gave him the bullet points: the iron, the bus, the traffic jam of witnesses.
“Were the Dogs called in?”
The Dogs being the Park’s internal police force, generally first on the scene when Service-related shit was hitting taxpayers’ fans.
“And she’s now, what? On bail? In a cell? Unemployed?”
“She’s receiving treatment.”
“So I’d imagine. Whereabouts?”
“In the San.”
Whelan raised an eyebrow. “The place in Dorset?”
She nodded.
“That’s a pretty exclusive, not to say expensive, form of rehab.”
“She’s a valued employee.”
“No, she isn’t. She’s Slough House. Any public meltdown involving the police, she’d be cut adrift, you know that. So what happened?”
Catherine said, “I asked Diana Taverner for a favour.”
Whelan stared.
“She owed me one. I gave her my lasagne recipe, she’d been pestering me about it for ages.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Whelan finished his drink. Then asked, “How long have you worked for Lamb?”
“I try not to think about it.”
“No, I can see why. Because he’s rubbing off on you.”
“If that were the case,” she said, “I’d definitely make hay with that delightful image. Now, to the best of my recollection, Shirley’s episode apart, nothing out of the ordinary happened on Monday or since. That being so, I think we’ve finished, don’t you?”
“For the time being.” The waitress approached and he shook his head, warning her off. Then said, “But not for good. Because I’m going to need to find out more about this phone call.”
“I’m sure you’ll do whatever you think best.”
“Even if that means annoying Lamb.”
“I’m not sure he’ll notice, to be honest. But if I might offer advice?” Catherine stood, buttoning her coat. “Don’t take him at face value. There’s a reason Lamb acts the way he does.”
“And why is that?”
“He’s a joe. Always has been. Always will be.”
“And you admire that.”
“Admiration would be beside the point.”
“But you’re on his side.”
“As opposed to whose?” Catherine wondered, but not until later; not until she was out on the street again, noticing how, even to her sober view, the colours had deepened with the hour’s darkening, the washed-out reds and faded blues looking richer than before, the greys and browns an earthier, muddier soup.
Security at the embassy was of the fuck-you variety: suits, shades and visible earpieces, as if someone had rung Heavies-’R’-Us. Diana Taverner’s invitation to enter was a hip-height hand-waggle, and once through the front door she had to surrender her phone to a woman who scanned the barcode on her e-mailed invite with an expression suggesting that a better time awaited her elsewhere. The only bright note was offered by the youngster who subsequently waved a wand over her, still fresh-faced enough to look like he might be channelling Harry Potter rather than checking her for tech. She nodded pleasantly, offering a smile that would pass for the real thing, and was swooped on by a functionary who ushered her through to a well-clad drawing room, all the while maintaining a polite distance. “Our apologies for the security, Ms. Taverner. But you know how it is.”
“Of course. There are always chickens out there, looking to come home to roost.”
“Forgive me. I’m told my English is good, but some idioms remain opaque.”
