Lech Wicinski. Catherine had assigned him to Roderick Ho’s office; both Louisa and Shirley had space, but Shirley could be volatile on days ending with -y, and Louisa had made it clear she didn’t want to share. It was like wrangling teenagers. But as to how Wicinski had blotted his copybook, Catherine didn’t know and didn’t want to. Apart from anything else, mere blots didn’t warrant Slough House. Most recruits had set fire to their copybook, shoved it through First Desk’s letterbox, then tried to douse the flames by urinating through the slot.
She said, “Disciplinary files are supposed to be sealed. You’ll have HR on your case if you start talking about your team’s misdemeanours.”
“Really? I never knew that.” He considered for a moment. “Good job I’m the soul of discretion, or things could have got embarrassing.”
“Imagine.”
“But anyway, they caught him with child porn on his laptop.”
Catherine Standish closed her eyes.
“I know, right? Time was you could pass it off as an allergy to pubic hair. But these days, you want to see pubic hair, you’ve really got to go looking. If the
“I did not know that,” she said, in a flat tone.
“Well, smarten up. The name should’ve been a clue. I’m not saying all Poles are kiddy-fiddlers. Wouldn’t hire one as a babysitter, though.”
The idea of Lamb being in need of a babysitter, for any reason whatsoever but especially one involving an actual baby, was too upsetting to contemplate. Which was why Catherine responded, rather than allowing the moment to drift away at its own speed. “He doesn’t look the type.”
“And what does the type look like?”
He had a point. They didn’t all sport tracksuits and medallions.
She said, “That’s a criminal offence. How come he’s been assigned to us?”
“Maybe they think I’m collecting the set.” He counted off on his fingers. “Fuck-ups, basket cases, druggies and drunks. Now a kiddy porn-peeper. When I’ve got a dog-botherer, I win a case of cutlery.”
“And what would you do with cutlery? You mostly eat with your fingers.”
“You’re very confrontational lately. I have to walk on eggshells, God knows why. You’re too old to be on the rag.” He sniffed suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you’re hitting the bottle.”
“You’re asking me? You wouldn’t be able to work it out for yourself?”
“You alkies can be devious. It’s the reason no one trusts you.”
She said, “As long as we’re on the subject, I hope you don’t plan to drink during the actual ceremony. Those who are genuinely grieving might take it the wrong way.”
“There’s no point having a hip flask if you don’t use it.”
“That’s not a hip flask. It’s a small bottle.”
“Jesus. Who put you in pedants’ corner?” Lamb produced the offending bottle, unscrewed the top and took a swallow. “And a less tolerant man would take issue with that. Genuinely grieving, I mean.”
“You’re not seriously going to pretend you’re mourning his passing. So why are you even here?”
“You’re expecting me to say, to make sure the old bastard’s dead, aren’t you?”
She didn’t reply.
“And well, yeah, that’s part of it. Okay, so he was off his head the last year, but if I’d done half what he got up to I’d pretend to go doolally too, in case the busies turned up with a charge sheet and a bucket full of questions. So maybe he was on his game the whole time, and he’s faked his death. He’d not be the first.”
She stared at him, mouth not entirely closed.
“We’re spies, Standish. All kinds of outlandish shit goes on. You want some of this?”
She shook her head.
“Like I said, devious. A blind man could tell you do.” He put the bottle away, but its odour lingered in the air, and caught the back of her throat.
“You hated him.”
“I hate a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I won’t get lonely when they’re all dead.”
You’re lonely now, she thought but didn’t say. You’re lonely now.
“And what about Wicinski? Lech.” She had to force herself to use his name. Some allegations tainted every syllable, even when they were just that: allegations.
“There’s an ongoing investigation, unquote,” Lamb said. “While facts are assessed and outcomes determined. Unquote.”
“So he wasn’t actually caught red-handed?”
“One-handed, you mean. But no. His laptop’s guilty as charged, but his dick’s still in the dock.”
“Which means, for the moment at least, we regard him as innocent. Unless I’m misremembering the basic principles of British justice.”
“Your faith in human nature really pisses me off, you know that?”
“As good a reason as any for clinging onto it.”
The taxi gave a lurch as it pulled away from a set of lights, and the motion made everything drunken for a second: Catherine was in a strange loose place, and rattled around, unanchored. And then the moment passed, though the taste at the back of her throat remained, as it likely always would. The taste she’d never forget, and would always be straining to remember.
