. . . and what struck her as she headed down the stairs was how suddenly these moments happened—even for a slow horse—the trigger points of a career, like the one in a clothes shop when her target sprouted half a dozen decoys, causing Louisa to lose him, which led to Slough House, and all that followed: the soul-shrivelling inertia, the fog of failure, the blistering effects of being close to Jackson Lamb, so that some nights she had to shower for twenty minutes on getting home; and worst of all, that brief period during which she and Min found happiness to cultivate, which lasted months but was over in a heartbeat, after which she took to blurring her boundaries with drink and strangers, and who knows how long she might have spent exploring that purgatory if not for the diamond she stole on that rooftop, with which she bought herself some peace and quiet, at least for a while, but trigger moments always come round, regular as ogres in storybooks, and here was another one, waiting on the dance floor . . .
Avril watched as Al walked round CC, because only an amateur strikes up conversation with an armed man while standing behind him. Which was precisely what CC was now, because that’s what a gun does: turns a loved one into an armed man. Except when it does the other thing it does, which is turn a loved one into a draught excluder. She followed Al and the pair flanked CC. The Brains Trust against the world.
Sid Baker was on the world’s team, along with a young man Avril guessed was Service. The pair were shielding Peter Judd, whom she recognised from TV, newspapers, the internet and occasional nightmares. The look on his face suggested he was currently having a nightmare of his own.
“You’re here,” CC said, without averting his gaze from the trio in front of him.
His hand, Avril saw, was unsteady. “You imagined we’d go home?”
“Hope springs eternal.”
Al said, “This is what Taverner wanted? You’re a Manchurian candidate?”
Avril said, “She told you, didn’t she? About what we did.”
“She shouldn’t have had to. You should have told me yourselves.”
“We didn’t think you’d approve.”
“But I would have understood.”
CC’s hand tremored. His colour was high. He spoke to the Service pair. “River, Sid, I need you to move aside.”
“Can’t do that, Stam.”
“Please put the gun down.”
“When I’m done with it.”
“Don’t you cretins carry weapons?” Judd said. “One of you deal with him. Now.”
River gave Sid a sideways glance. “Having second thoughts?”
“Take his gun away!” Judd shouted.
“Now,” said Al, “the first problem with that is, taking a loaded gun from anyone is a dangerous business.”
“Just out of interest,” River said.
“The second problem? I don’t take orders from pricks.”
“CC, love?” said Avril. “If you’re doing this to protect us, it doesn’t matter any more. Really doesn’t. The whole world can know about it.”
“But this way you’ll be safe,” CC said.
His hand tremored again.
Once her friends had entered the building, Daisy had followed—
The door gave onto a corridor, at the far end of which was another door they must have gone through. Approaching it, she peered round: there they were, in a large dark space, along with CC and the young woman they’d left at the service station. Two other men, at one of whom CC was aiming a gun. He doubtless had good reason, but Avril and Al weren’t keen.
Backing away, she peered along the corridor. It followed a curve, presumably hugging the dance floor, which meant there’d be access to the far side, allowing her to enter behind the opposing forces—which was what the other men were. Pitchfork had coded this into her system: Anyone not on her team was an enemy.
There was no need to check she had her blade. She always had her blade.
The corridor wasn’t long, and she moved along it soundlessly. It was funny how the old skills came back.
. . . but not bursting onto it because bursting into a room where there’s an armed man was a mistake, so she made herself stop, breathe, wait and then push the door open softly, with no light breaking through because the staircase was unlit, and half the group had their backs to her, including the gunman, and looking her way were River and Sid and that pompous arse Peter Judd, and all that was needed was for everyone to keep a cool head and it would be fine, they’d all walk out into the sunshine and laugh about it, enjoy a glass of wine, and she’d tell them about the new job, that she was moving on, but first the present had to be dealt with, meaning the gun, and it was unlikely she’d be able to reach the gunman without triggering a reaction, but the best way of dealing with doubts was to shelve them, so that’s what she did—took a deep breath—stepped quietly onto the dark dance floor, inching away the distance between herself and the assembled group, hoping nothing unexpected would intervene . . .
Ash said, “I’m out of here.”
“You can’t just—”
