Clown Town полностью

She cradled the receiver and stared blankly at it. Not a good idea to be around Slough House: That could have worked as a motto for any given day these last dozen years. On the other hand, her peaceful sanctuary of a flat with its calming scents and cheerful background noises, its air of being somewhere she could truly be herself, held secret dangers. It was a place where she was left to her own devices, and those devices, when it came down to it, were corkscrews and bottle openers. Left to her own devices, she’d drink. Here—so far—there’d always been something else to do.

At the current moment, this was call River, and round up the slow horses. So, a deep breath later, this was what she did.

The look on the PM’s face indicated that he hadn’t received many instructions since winning a landslide vote. “Listen to what, precisely?”

“A recording of a meeting that took place some while ago.” She placed it on his desk. “It’s the reason all this . . . activity came about.”

“It’s to do with Pitchfork?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t back away, but clearly wanted to. As if she had taken his office for a tree, and was hanging a bag of dog shit on a low branch, like idiots do. “Then you can’t imagine I want to listen to it. It would put me in an impossible position.”

“It’s not an operational record, Prime Minister. More an informal aide-mémoire.”

“I have no clue what that means, but I can’t see it makes any substantial difference. I’ve said all I have to say, and this meeting is now over. I’ll await your letter. Have a good rest of afternoon, Diana.”

“Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.” She put the cassette in her pocket. “You can think of that as my last act in office. Just as not listening may turn out to be one of the last in yours.”

She didn’t quite get as far as the door.

He said, “The man’s been dead for a decade. The operation he was involved in, his . . . other activities, they were done and dusted before I entered Parliament. Besides, it was the party I serve that negotiated the peace agreement that put an end to all that.” He removed his glasses, stared blankly at the lenses as if hoping to identify some flaw, then replaced them. Used to theatrical gestures, she waited patiently. “Pitchfork was a squalid business, but it is long over. And I may be well versed in theories of collective responsibility, but nothing on that tape can warrant more than an historical apology, and your implication that it might be otherwise is a blatant attempt to safeguard your own position. Which, we’ve just established, is beyond safeguarding.”

“So you’re calling my bluff.”

“If you want to put it like that.”

“A better way would have been to let me walk out of the door,” she said. “Now, let me reassure you. I’m not suggesting you might be held to account for anything you had no active part in, Prime Minister. Quite the opposite, in fact. Do you mind if I sit while we wait?”

“. . . Wait?”

“While you summon one of those microcassette players I mentioned.” Taverner settled herself into a chair, producing from her pocket, as she did so, the tape. “This thing’s not going to play itself.”

When Devon Welles checked in at Holborn late afternoon, he was told he had a visitor. In his office.

The offices were private turf, and visitors—guests—clients—never allowed access to them unaccompanied.

“Why on earth—?”

The double act who tended reception exchanged miserably puzzled glances. “We don’t know.”

He went upstairs fearing the worst, so wasn’t disappointed to find Jackson Lamb behind his desk, studying paperwork he must have hoicked out of a drawer. Without looking up, Lamb twitched his head towards the closed door behind him. “I’d give that five minutes.”

Devon looked at the door, then back at Lamb. “That’s a cupboard.”

“Needs must. Is this what you charge clients? There’s a bill for ninety grand here.”

“It includes VAT.”

“It’d have to include a fucking house.” He tossed the papers to the floor. “I could start to feel inadequate.”

“On my account? I deserve a medal.” Devon briefly considered challenging Lamb for his office chair, and settled for the visitor’s version instead. “To what do I owe the outrage?”

“Prices you charge, I should let you work that out for yourself.” Lamb was holding a cigarette; it had appeared between the fingers of his left hand while his attention was apparently elsewhere. “But let’s just say I gather you have a vacancy that won’t be filled any time soon. Too late for me to throw my hat in the ring?”

Devon said, “Emma Flyte told me about you. About how edgy you think you are.”

“To be fair, I’m not the only one thinks that.”

“You might be surprised. But okay, I’ll go along. One of your crew’s dead, another’s in intensive care, and you’re here, what? Just to make light of that?”

“Where did Judd go afterwards?”

“I got him out.”

“Because he’s your client.”

Devon didn’t reply.

“And the two oldies, they what? Vanished into thin air?”