But there was no danger. That was what he had to remember. There was no danger because nobody knew where he was or what he was doing. Only Min would know, as he got back on his bike and slunk across the city to Louisa’s, only Min would know he’d messed up a tail job, the kind a rookie could pull off without breaking a sweat.
Some days it all fell apart.
Except, except, not today, because there he was again, that beautiful bulky Russian, stepping from an alcove where he’d stopped to examine a menu … Min only realised his heart had been racing because it now climbed down to normal.
Keeping the same careful hundred yards behind, he followed the Russian along the Edgware Road.
Jackson Lamb was in his office, where the only light source was at knee-level, a lamp that sat on a pile of telephone directories. Enough of it crept upwards to cast troll-like shadows across his face, and bigger ones across the ceiling. On the desk, next to his feet, was a bottle of Talisker, and in his hand was a glass. His chin was on his chest, but he was awake. He seemed to be studying his cork noticeboard, to which was pinned a montage of out-of-date money-off coupons, but he might have been staring straight through it: down a long tunnel of remembered secrets, though he’d claim if questioned that he’d been wondering whose turn it was to fetch him cigarettes. A claim he’d validated in advance by recently stubbing out the last of his current pack.
He seemed oblivious to everything, but didn’t so much as flicker when Catherine Standish spoke from the doorway where she’d been standing for almost a minute. “You drink too much.”
In answer, he raised his glass and studied its contents. Then drained it in a single swallow, and said, “You’d know.”
“Yes. That’s my point.” She came into the room. “Having blackouts yet?”
“Not that I remember.”
“If you can joke about it, you’ve probably not started wetting yourself. There’s a treat in store.”
“You know what’s good about reformed drunks?” Lamb said.
“Please tell.”
“No, I’m asking. Is there anything good about reformed drunks? Because from where I’m sitting, they’re just a pain in the arse.”
Catherine said, “You know, that would still work if you took the word ‘reformed’ out.”
Lamb gave her a penetrating stare, then nodded thoughtfully, ruefully, as if arriving at a gentle appreciation of her wisdom. Then he farted. “Better out than in,” he said. “You know, that would still work if it was about you.”
Proving once and for all that she couldn’t take a hint, Catherine went nowhere. Instead she said, “I’ve been doing a little digging.”
“Oh god.”
“And you know what?” Moving two box files onto the floor, she claimed the chair they’d been occupying. “The night Dickie Bow died, that mess with the trains?”
“Amaze me.”
“Someone sabotaged a fusebox outside Swindon. The network meltdown was a fix. You don’t think that’s suspicious?”
“I think it shows a lack of faith in First Great Western,” Lamb said. “The idea that you need to resort to sabotage to create chaos, that’s preposterous.”
“Very funny. What are you up to, Lamb?”
“It’s above your pay grade. Let’s just say I found a loose thread, and pulled it.” He looked at his watch. “Are you still here?”
She said, “Yes. And guess what? I’m not going anywhere. Because it took me a while to work it out, but I got there. I don’t know why you wanted me in Slough House, but you did. And you’re not going to get rid of me, are you? I don’t know why, but I know it’s so. You feel guilty. I don’t like you and doubt I ever will, but beneath all your stupid drunken offensiveness, you’re paying off some debt, and that gives me an advantage. It means you can’t shut me up.”
Lamb said, “That was cute. If this was a film you’d let your hair down now and I’d say, but Miss Standish, you’re beautiful.”
“No, if this was a film I’d stake you through the heart, and you’d disappear in a cloud of dust. Dickie Bow, Lamb. He was a has-been.”
“Yep. He’d have fitted in round here like a dream.”
“He was also a drunk.”
“Further comment would be tactless.”
She ignored that. “I pulled his records. He—”
“You what?”
“I asked Ho to pull his records.”
“I hope you’re not corrupting that kid. We’ve already got a ringer on the premises.”
“A what?”
He said, “Lady Di tells me one of our newbies is her snitch. Find out which, would you?”
“It’s on my to-do list. Meanwhile, Bow. You know he spent the past three years on the nightshift in a Brewer Street bookshop.”
“I doubt the booktrade’s what pays their rent.”
“No, he was downstairs with the dirty mags and the sex toys.”
Lamb spread his hands in a forgiving gesture. “Really, who hasn’t found themselves, one time or another, leafing through a porn mag with a dildo in their hand?”
“A fascinating glimpse into your home life. But let’s not change the subject. Last time Bow was in play Roger Moore was James Bond. You really think he found a Moscow hood and tracked him halfway across the country?”
Lamb said, “He died.”
“I know he did.”
