“Imagine.” Lamb dropped his smoked-out cigarette, and performed his social duty by grinding it underfoot and leaving it where it lay. “Well, I’m glad you got that off your chest. Anything else bothering you, you can always reach my voicemail, which I make a point of deleting unlistened to.” He stood. “Saves us both time.”
“Sit down and shut up. I’m not finished.”
He sat. “Are you really coming to me for advice on this, Diana? Because joking aside, your next move’s obvious. Admit nothing, deny everything, and make counter-accusations. Sound familiar? It’s the Number Ten playbook.”
“It’s the schoolyard playbook, to be fair. And while I appreciate the input, no, I don’t need your advice. I’m not dumb enough to think you give a flying dog-dump about grievance procedures, but there’s an important difference between us, which is that I’m not you. But the way things have been lately I’m under siege, which means any threat to my position, no matter how trivial, might have consequences. And while I’m famously tolerant of all manner of outrageous impositions, if there’s one thing I will not do, it’s suffer fucking consequences.”
“You want this whiner found.”
“Your boy Ho should be able to do it in his sleep.”
“Might interfere with his sex life. Which also only happens in his—”
“You’ll do this for me?”
“Provided it doesn’t inconvenience me in the slightest, sure. What are friends for?”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, please, you’ll set me off again. Can I go now?”
“There’s something else. You’re not going to like it.”
“That’s a broad spectrum.”
“Cartwright won’t be coming back.”
Lamb didn’t so much as twitch. “And this upsets me how?”
“Because much as you like to pretend otherwise, you enjoy having him around.”
“Well, I’m not saying he won’t leave a gap. He goes, I might have to hire a living statue, or an influencer. You know, someone with no discernible talent beyond a misplaced sense of importance.” He was holding another cigarette now, and put it in his mouth unlit. “But it’s hardly a surprise. The way I remember it, the whole point of Slough House was to get the idiots off the books.”
“And the way it turned out, we despatch them to you and they take root.”
“I can think of a few got weeded out.”
“Yes, your mortality rate’s distressing, given your remit’s paperwork based. Most offices in the country, you could expect raised eyebrows about that. You’re lucky we’re still a secret service. If this was public domain, you’d be a laughing stock.”
“Easy for you to say. But comedy’s harder than it looks,” said Lamb. “So what’s Cartwright’s problem, anyway? Apart from being Cartwright, I mean.”
“He won’t pass the medical.”
“They’ve introduced an IQ test?”
“He suffered a toxic shock, Jackson. From a nerve agent whose long-term effects remain unknown. We keep him in employment, we could be looking at God-knows-what liability in the future, so the sensible route is to get shot of him now. With all due sensitivity, obviously.”
“Well, yeah. Kid fucking gloves.”
“But he might need reminding that when he found himself rattling death’s doorknob, he was on what the lawyers call a frolic of his own. So if he’s expecting a disability pay-off, he’s in for a disappointment.”
“He’s a slow horse. Disappointment’s his factory setting.”
“You’re taking this suspiciously well.”
“Cartwright’s just part of the furniture,” said Lamb. “And I hate furniture. Losing him won’t keep me up at night.”
“Does anything?”
“Viagra.”
“Sorry I asked.” She stood. “Well. Back to civilisation.”
“Just so I’ve got this straight,” said Lamb. “You want my boy Ho to work out who made this complaint against you so you can piss on their chips while saving your career. And at the same time you’re crapping on one of my crew just to save the Park some workman’s comp down the line. Pardon me if I’m being obtuse, but what’s in it for me?”
She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a bottle wrapped in green tissue paper.
“Deal.”
“Something else you should know,” she said.
“For fuck’s sake, what is this,
“An enquiry came into my office. About another one of yours.”
“Let me guess. Standish has been swiped on Tinder, and someone’s checking her sex tree.” Lamb made a vague hand gesture, as if offering Taverner the keys to his kingdom. “Just hand over the employee list for the 1990s, that should cover it.”
“Not Standish. Louisa.”
“Guy? I imagine she’s been through Tinder twice by now. Surprised she has time to show up in the office, to be honest.”
“Well, that might not be on the cards much longer either. She’s being headhunted.”
“Really?” Lamb looked doubtful. “If someone’s collecting heads, I’d have thought Dander’s was a better bet. Make a good bowling ball.”
“Maybe you could add that to her employee profile. That aside, remember Devon Welles? He was Flyte’s second.”
Emma Flyte: former head Dog. Resting now in peace.
“I remember someone called Dorset. Or was it Rutland?”
“That’s him. He’s in the private sector now, doing very happily for himself. And recruiting former comrades, it would seem.”
