He’d been reaching for Clint Eastwood, which wasn’t going to make anyone’s day if Roderick Ho found out.
“Your office-mate gets touchy if other people use his stuff.”
“. . . Seriously?”
“Famous for it.”
“Talk about anal.”
“. . . Yeah, a word to the wise? Don’t say that in front of Lamb. He’ll take it as an invitation.”
Which was enough to be getting on with. Any more would count as spoilers. So she just added, “Good luck,” and carried her coffee to her office. On the way she heard a shriek from Ho’s room and wondered what that was about, but not enough to go and find out.
And twenty minutes after that, the phone had rung.
For a while—five rings—she stared at the offending instrument, its
“. . . Henderson’s.”
“Is that . . . Is this Min Harper’s office?”
Something inside Louisa uncurled and shivered.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Harper doesn’t work here anymore,” she said. The words, her tone of voice, came laced with black crêpe.
“I know, I know . . . I just . . .”
Louisa waited. It was a woman’s voice, about her own age, far as she could tell. Unsure of herself. Min had been dead a while. Louisa was over it, in the way you got over a childhood illness; some part of you would always be weaker, but you’d never get ill in the same way again. That was the theory, anyway. And whether it was true or not, Min wasn’t coming back.
“Could you tell me why you’re calling?” Louisa found herself reaching for a pen, like anybody else, in any office anywhere. A pen, a pad, the usual tools. “Let’s start with who you are.”
“My name’s Clare Addison. That’s my name now, I mean. But I’m Clare Harper as was.”
Louisa’s pen made no mark on the paper.
“Min was my husband,” the woman said.
With power comes responsibility, along with the opportunity to stick it to those who’ve annoyed you on your way up. Diana Taverner wasn’t gauche enough to have compiled an actual list, but like any competent First Desk, her mental envelope had several names scrawled on the back of it.
First Desk . . . Even thinking it made her smile.
When Claude Whelan had opted for retirement rather than one of the alternatives on offer—among them, the chance to be taken outside and shot—there’d been no obvious candidate for the role; or none that had survived Diana Taverner’s vetting, which in at least one instance had come close to being the surgical procedure its name suggested, rather than the background check that protocol required. A potentially messy business, but as the individual in question had attended the same prep school as Oliver Nash, and had, on two occasions, attempted to flush Oliver Nash down a toilet on the grounds that Oliver Nash was a sneak and a drongo and a tool, and as Oliver Nash was now Chair of the Limitations Committee, which was responsible for putting a list of potential appointees for the role of head of the Service in front of the Prime Minister, the whole thing was a rare example of the Old Boy Network paying off in a woman’s favour, and could be cited as progress if it weren’t, obviously, never to be spoken of again. But as it was, everything had worked out to the satisfaction of all important parties, these being Taverner herself and Oliver Nash. Taverner had been put forward as the only available candidate in the circumstances, and the newly appointed Prime Minister—herself a needs-must choice, though she appeared to be the only person in the country unaware of the fact—had bestowed her blessing, and Taverner now held the office from which lesser talents had conspired to keep her for too long. And yes, of course she had a mental list of those awaiting retribution, and if some were currently off-limits, that situation would resolve itself in time. For now, she’d make do with those within reach. Hence this morning’s treat: an audience with Emma Flyte, Head Dog.
“This won’t come as a surprise.”
Flyte gave not a flicker in response.
This was happening in Regent’s Park, which was not, as the crow flies, a huge distance from Slough House, but by any other metaphor was a lifetime away. The Park was the Service’s headquarters; it was where baby spooks learned their ABCs, and where flyaway spooks returned, once their missions were complete. It was where you didn’t get to visit if you’d been exiled to Slough House. Once that had happened, it might as well be Oz: ruby slippers not included.
“This, ah, reappraisal of your performance.”
“My last appraisal scored me as way above satisfactory.”
