She was halfway down the path when Lamb called.
“Diana?”
She stopped and waited without turning.
“You were half right. Arranging to meet in a graveyard was a hint.” Once more he flicked a dying cigarette off a headstone. “Just not the kind you think.”
That was all, and without responding Taverner continued on her way. Once she’d vanished round the side, and the sound of environmental damage had again disturbed the quiet close, Lamb stood, shook himself like an untidy dog and headed into St. Leonard’s by the side door. Inside, the rainfall seemed more pointed, pattering on the roof like anxious cats. Two candles burned beneath a stained glass window depicting St. Len at his typewriter, a mild blasphemy concerning which there were two schools of thought, neither of which interested Lamb. The candles, though. These were clearly the work of Catherine Standish, who sat on the bench nearest. She was facing the altar, and continued to do so as he made his way down the uneven slabs of the aisle and lowered himself onto the bench with a noise like a dying air mattress.
For a while there was only the rain’s mild percussion and a faint hissing which might have been the candles. Lamb started tapping his fingers against the bench in what was possibly, in his head, a rhythm, but Catherine remained focused on the altar, or whatever lay behind it, or above. He paused. She didn’t react. He started again. Same difference.
“Broadsword calling Danny Boy.”
A faint sigh.
“Can you hear the pipes a-calling?”
She said, “I was thinking, we should spend more time in churches. They’re quiet, and you can’t smoke.”
He glanced heavenward. “They have sprinklers?”
“Just don’t, that’s all.” She raised her gaze towards the rose window. “We could do with a little stillness. Some mindfulness. You’ve heard of mindfulness?”
“Didn’t that get popular during lockdown, like wild swimming and going mental?” Lamb looked at his hands, clasped on his lap. One was holding a cigarette, which it hadn’t been until just then. “On the other hand, I don’t suppose it takes long. Emptying Ho’s head’d be the work of a moment.”
Catherine said, “I wouldn’t worry. It doesn’t seem likely that any better-living practices will catch on in Slough House. Not if this morning’s anything to go by.”
“You called by the shop?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“They’re a mess, what do you think?” She leaned back, closed her eyes. Opened them again. “Roddy was playing . . . music, I suppose you’d call it. Very loud, very angry music. And Shirley and Lech had had a fight, and I mean an actual fight. There’s been damage to office equipment.”
“Who won?”
“Who do you think?”
“Silly me. What about Cartwright?”
“River wasn’t there. Not fit for work, remember? And not about to be, either.”
Lamb examined his cigarette, then said, “Joke’s on me. I was planning on putting together a five-a-side squad this year.”
“That’s very funny. It’s lightened the mood. And I hate to be a wet blanket, but I was looking at the regs. You know, the Service regulations? The book of rules that governs our existence?”
“You want to keep it down a little? You’ll offend God.”
“In present company? He won’t notice I’m here. And there’s a regulation about departmental sizes, about when a section ceases to be deemed large enough to qualify as an independent unit. Do you want to hear how the rest of it goes?”
“No, don’t spoil it. I imagine it’s something along the lines of forthwith, and cease, and then, ooh, either absorbed into existing departmental structure or something something something triggering mandatory redundancy protocols.”
“Anyone would think you’d studied it recently.”
“It was forced upon my attention. Which reminds me, we’re out of bog roll.” He stood, abruptly enough that she flinched. With the cigarette between his lips, he placed himself in front of the metal stand of candleholders, which was as spattered with wax as Nelson was with pigeon shit, but held just the two lone sentries burning bright. “For Christ’s sake, the Park’s not going to close us down because we’re low on people power. The Park’s going to close us down because Taverner’s circling her wagons, and anyone not inside pissing out is a legitimate target who, in her words, needn’t bother winding their clocks.”
“Your conversation went well, then.”
“I may have told her I expect her resignation on my desk by the morning.”
“I’m not sure it works that way.”
“She wasn’t impressed either. Was not impressed at some length, in fact. I thought spies were supposed to be discreet. She could speechify the arse end off a donkey.”
He leaned forward and touched the tip of his cigarette to naked flame.
Catherine said, “So we have one dead, which may still turn to two dead, and that’s not counting Stamoran, who’s unlikely to recover from his stroke. All because Taverner tried to have Peter Judd murdered. And it’s us who’ll be made scapegoats.”
“Yeah. Is it just me or does it seem a bit unfair?”
