Like any Joe, he had his favourite spots. Like any Joe, he mostly avoided them; made his visits irregular, aborting them if there were too many people around, or too few. But like any Joe he needed a space in which he could think, which meant somewhere no one expected him to be. This stretch of canal fit the bill. It was overlooked by the backs of tall houses, and there were usually cyclists around, or joggers; at lunchtimes, shop and office workers wandered down and ate sandwiches. Sometimes narrowboats toiled past, heading into the long tunnel under Islington, where no towpath followed. It was so obviously a place where a spook might sit and think spook thoughts that nobody who knew the first thing about spooks would imagine any spook stupid enough to use it.
So Lamb had called Lady Di from there, and issued his invitation and then he’d sat as the afternoon faded, looking like an office worker who’d just been made redundant, possibly for hygiene reasons. He’d chain-smoked seven cigarettes thinking through Shirley Dander’s report of her trip into the Cotswolds, and as he’d lit the eighth a shudder wracked him top to toe, and he coughed like the Russian had coughed. He had to throw the still king-size fag into the canal while he concentrated on holding his body together, and by the time the fit left him, he felt he’d run a mile. Clammy sweat wrapped him, and his eyes were blurry. Somebody really ought to do something about this, he thought, before leaving the bench, so Lady Di could arrive there first.
And now she ignored his approach, barely acknowledging him as he sat. Her hair was longer than last time he’d seen her, and curled more, though that might have been art. She wore a dark raincoat which matched her tights, and when she spoke at last she said: “If this bench marks my coat, I’m sending you the cleaning bill.”
“You can get coats cleaned?”
“Coats cleaned, teeth fixed, hair washed. I appreciate this is news to you.”
“I’ve been busy lately. It’s possible I’ve let myself go.”
“A bit.” She turned to face him. “What did you want with Nikolai Katinsky?”
“I’m not the only one’s been busy, then.”
“When you go harassing former customers, they have a habit of pulling the communication cord. And I can do without the complication right now.”
“On account of your domestic difficulties.”
“On account of mind your own fucking business. What did you want with him?”
“What did he tell you?”
Diana Taverner said, “Some story about his debriefing. That you wanted him to go over what he’d told the Dentists.”
Lamb grunted.
“What were you really after?”
Lamb said, “I wanted him to go over what he’d told the Dentists.”
“You couldn’t just watch the video?”
“Never the same, is it?” His coughing fit had entered that comfortable mental zone where it might have happened to somebody else, so he lit another cigarette. As an afterthought, he waved the packet vaguely in Taverner’s direction, but she shook her head. “And there was always the chance he’d remember it differently.”
“What are you up to, Jackson?”
He was all innocence and airy gesture: Him? He didn’t even have to speak. Just wave his cigarette about a bit.
“Katinsky’s strictly from the shallow end,” Taverner said. “A cipher clerk, with no information we didn’t already have from other, better informed sources. We only hung onto him in case we needed swaps. Are you seriously telling me you’re developing an interest?”
“You’ve looked him up, then.”
“I get word you’ve been rousting nobodies from the Dark Ages, of course I looked him up. This is because he mentioned Alexander Popov, isn’t it? Jesus, Jackson, are you so bored you’re digging up myths? Whatever operation Moscow was thinking of running way back when, it’s as relevant now as a cassette tape. We won that war, and we’re too busy losing the next one to have a rematch. Go back to Slough House, and give thanks you’re not in the firing line any more.”
“Like you, you mean?”
“You think it’s easy, Second Desk? Okay, it might not be life behind the Wall. But try doing my job with both hands tied, and you’ll find out what stress feels like, I guarantee it.”
She stared at him, underlining how serious she was, but he held it easily enough, and wasn’t bothered about letting her see the smile itching onto his lips. Lamb had done both field and desk, and he knew which had you gasping awake at the slightest noise in the dark. But he’d yet to meet a suit who didn’t think themselves a samurai.
Taverner looked away. A pair of joggers panting down the opposite towpath broke apart for a woman pushing a pram. Only once the pair had jogged on, and the pram was approaching the incline up to the bridge, did she continue. “Tearney’s on the warpath,” she said.
Lamb said, “Being on the warpath’s Tearney’s job description. If she wasn’t rattling a sabre, them down the corridor would think she wasn’t up to it.”
“Maybe she isn’t.”
