“He drove away in a car, and while Cartwright here was too busy playing Starsky and Hutch to get his number plate, there’ll be CCTV footage, even if the Dogs didn’t think to make a note of it. But I suppose, having lost their head, they’ll have trouble licking their balls, let alone doing their job.”
“Emma’s gone?” asked River.
“That got your attention, didn’t it? Yeah, Flyte’s history, and she was oh-so-nearly one of the gang. Pity. She’d have brightened this place up no end. Not that I’m objectifying her, you understand, but she’s a right cracker. And some of us have a sense of aesthetics.” He slipped a hand down his trousers and scratched vigorously. “You still here?” he asked Ho. “Find the car. It’ll be hired, under an alias, but that’ll be a start.”
“Why not stolen?” Shirley asked.
“To avoid unnecessary attention. Any more questions?”
“Yeah, what’s Starsky and Hutch?”
Ho left, having to sidle round Wicinski, who refused to move. Something going on there; Louisa hoped she wasn’t going to be forced to pick sides. Roddy Ho versus a kiddy-porn user: it’d be like choosing between Jeremy Clarkson and Piers Morgan in a bare-knuckle death match. There ought to be a way both could lose.
“Meanwhile,” said Lamb. He eyed River, Louisa, Shirley and Coe, his gaze somehow drifting over Catherine and Lech. “You lot can walk back the cat. We can assume Harkness’s base of operations is Europe, because he’s about as welcome in the States as a turd in a martini. Which means European arrivals, planes, trains and ferries. Do we still have that face-recognition malarkey?”
Louisa said, “Yes, but it’s so old it mostly recognises eighties pop stars. It’d be quicker walking the streets with an e-fit, asking passersby.”
“Ho’s kit’s faster,” River put in. “Why can’t he do that?”
“Because Ho’s looking for the car,” Lamb said.
“He could multi-task.”
“Multi-task? He couldn’t charge his phone while having a dump.”
Coe said, “Last time we saw Harkness, he was running his own private French Foreign Legion. It’s more likely he was dropped off on a beach than he walked through border control.”
“You know, mostly I forget you’re here, and when you do speak I wish you weren’t. Maybe he crawled under the wire, yes, but since we lack the ability to run a trace on uncaught illegal immigrants, let’s just do what we can, yes? Unless you have a better idea?”
Coe shrugged.
River said, “The Park keep tabs on entry points, and their recognition software’s up to date. If he came in through channels, they’ll already know.”
“But they’re not likely to share that with us, are they? On account of, you know, you lot being not only surplus to requirements, but an actual hindrance and embarrassment.”
“Last time he showed, we were his target,” River insisted. It was no warmer in Lamb’s office than anywhere else in Slough House, but Louisa could see his temperature rising; a pink flush creeping upwards from his collar. “If they know what he’s up to now, they should keep us in the loop.”
“We’ve talked about your proximity to loops before,” said Lamb. “And you’re no nearer one now than you were then. So let’s do things my way, shall we?” He adopted a martyred expression. “I mean, just for a fucking change? Planes, trains and ferries, then. On your bikes. In fact, there’s an idea. Add bikes to that list. Just in case.”
“What about me?” Wicinski asked.
“What about you?”
“What do I do?”
“You sit in your office and try not to think about children. And if you do, you try not to fiddle with yourself while doing so. Or is that too big an ask?”
“I am not a paedophile!”
“The thing is, there’s no way to make that statement sound convincing. Funny, that.”
Louisa didn’t want to look Wicinski’s way, but couldn’t help it. The man’s face had turned grey, which wasn’t the colour she’d have expected. Neither anger nor embarrassment; rather, the expression you might see on someone looking into a pit, the bottom of which was out of sight, and whose edges were starting to crumble.
Lamb broke wind loudly.
Nobody moved.
“Did I misfart? That’s your signal to leave.”
They left; mostly back to their offices, though Louisa followed Catherine into her room. It seemed as if Catherine hadn’t noticed; her back to Louisa, she began straightening files that didn’t need straightening. A lock of her hair had come loose from its ribbon, and Louisa had to quash an urge to reach out, undo the bow, and see Catherine come undone. Except, it occurred to her, that’s what she was already seeing. Catherine with a hair out of place was as familiar a sight as Jackson Lamb handing cake round at Christmas. But before she could utter this, or something like it, Catherine turned, her hands full of folders; using them, Louisa thought, as a shield, a barrier. She regarded Louisa calmly, then said, “Are you sure you want to hang around up here? When he’s on a crusade, it’s best to make yourself scarce.”
