He could keep banging away at this gate for another half hour, but it wouldn’t make a difference—when the hummingbird knows it knows, and dude? The hummingbird knows.
Yeah, he can do that . . .
He had driven west for this final assault, as if being nearer would make a difference, and was parked on a meter off Ladbroke Grove, studying his laptop in the driving seat of his faithful steed, the Rodster roadster; a Ford Kia, that rare beauty. Light was starting to die, and the street music entering its evening phase, its pulse quickening, reaching that sweet spot where it matches the beating of a human heart. On the pavements, Londoners swept past—tourists too—arm-in-arm or hand in hand, while Roddy sat alone. But that was okay. The kind of cat he was was the kind that walks by itself. And knows where it has to walk, and what it has to do once it’s walked there.
Roddy folded his laptop, tucked it under his seat. Sometimes, when something needs doing, it needs doing by hand. Sometimes—hot girl summer or not—you do it by yourself. You didn’t have to tell him this.
Dude, the hummingbird knows.
Rows of spirits behind the bar, hanging upside down like it was their natural position. It reminded Avril of—no, she didn’t want to think about that. But she thought about it anyway: It reminded Avril of a body she’d seen once, hanging upside down from a pylon. The means by which people were murdered, by which their fellow people murdered them, was a well that would never run dry. Did anyone else in this pub have memories like hers? Thankfully not. Probably.
CC had, but didn’t now. CC’s memories had been snuffed out when he breathed his last: That was how the world operated, else it would have more than bad air and melting ice caps to worry about. The atmosphere would be choked with unshriven sins and unforgotten nightmares, and half the population would be begging for extreme weather events to wash them away.
She paid for a scotch, and went to sit at a corner table. A moment later she was joined by Sid Baker, bearing a similar drink.
Avril said, “You’re nowhere near as good at that as you think you are.”
“I scored high at shadowing, in my trainee year. But I’ve been shot in the head since then.”
“We’ve all got excuses. The trick is not to trot them out so readily. It gets tiresome.” She raised her glass. “To CC.”
“CC.”
They drank, then Avril said, “He had a foolish final act, but don’t judge him by that. He was a good friend and he served the country well.”
“Was he shot in the head?”
Avril inclined her own, acknowledging Sid’s point.
“Where are Al and Daisy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. You were a team. A unit. You had procedures and fallbacks and emergency protocols. Not just the ones the Park organised. You’d have had your own, because that’s what joes do. They build their own defences because they don’t trust anyone else. Not in the long run.”
“You know all about it.”
“I live with someone who does.”
Avril studied her. “The young man you were with. David Cartwright’s grandson?”
She nodded.
“Now there was a man who lived in the secret hours. Is the younger one the same?”
Sid said, “I don’t really think he knows quite how much. But yes.”
“Well, then. Good luck. You’re going to need it.”
“Thanks. Do you know Jackson Lamb? He runs Slough House.”
“Can’t say I do.”
“He’s a bit of a legend.”
Avril said, “There’s never a shortage of legends in the Service. They should open a theme park.”
“Those two women last night were his joes.”
“And he’s the vengeful type, is he?”
“Yes,” said Sid. She picked up her glass and sipped from it thoughtfully. “I don’t even think he cares that much about them, but . . . he cares about what they are. What they do. That they shouldn’t go unavenged.”
“You mean, he cares more about what he thinks he should care about than whatever it is he should be caring about? Sounds about right for a legend.” She raised her gaze to the ceiling. There was nothing to see except the usual: the craquelure of ages, an unidentifiable stain or two, and, above the bar itself, a montage of postcards from regulars, or escapees. “I should have just got on a train. Gone home.”
Sid said, “It wasn’t their fault. Al and Daisy. I already told you I think that.”
“And in the grand scheme of things, what does your opinion count?”
“Nothing. That’s my point. Lamb won’t see it that way, and the others, my friends—they’re his joes. It’s a stupid, rubbish department and they’re supposed to be desk drones, but they’re his joes and their friends are dead. Believe me, they’ll come for Al and Daisy.”
“Good luck finding them.”
“They won’t need luck. They’re desk drones, but one of them—he’s a dick, but he’s kind of a genius, too. When it comes to computers, that is. Al or Daisy so much as pick up a payphone, he’ll find a way of tracing them. And Lamb will not let them go.”
