When it was quiet he’d fired up again and lay a while longer. He was on a Greyhound bus in his mind, zipping past endless fields of wheat. Middle of nowhere.
That was when they’d come back with the girl.
There was nothing you could do, Catherine had thought, to make these offices worse. The threadbare carpets, worn in patches, revealed a floor which did not inspire confidence, and the walls bulged inwards in places, as if planning to obliterate all they contained. Paintwork blurred into various stains daubed in accident or anger—coffee splashes, curry sauces—and corners were black with mould. Even the air: even the air felt like it had come in here to hide. No, this was as bad as things got. A flamethrower would only improve matters.
But it turned out she’d been wrong. You could make things worse. You could dump a damaged body between two desks, and have it lie on the floor, its head on a lifeless cushion. You could look down on a man whose face had been used to sharpen a blade.
There’d been no charge, no trial. Just punishment. And now this.
Hard to refute the statement your own face made.
She said, “You need medical attention.”
“No.”
“I’ll get you a cab. I’ll come with you. If you don’t get those cuts seen to—”
“No.”
“—they’ll scar.”
He looked at her, his dark face darker than ever.
“You can’t live with that carved into your cheeks.”
“I’m not going to a hospital. Not looking like this.”
“Not a hospital then,” she said. “Lamb will know someone.”
“No.”
Two different kinds of pain, meeting head-on. A crash no part of him was going to walk away from.
“I’ll leave you to think about it. But think hard. If you’ve a chance of getting those cuts to heal, you have to act soon.”
And how had this come to pass, she wondered, leaving him. At what point had she become Slough House’s conscience? Guiding the slow horses towards their better choices, when her own lately had been courting disaster?
The morning was wearing on. The only word from Wales was an occasional call from River: no sign of Louisa, though her car had turned up. Lamb had relayed this without comment. Louisa’s car, abandoned, meant nothing. Perhaps she’d just grown sick of it, and left it by the side of the road.
Lamb was drinking, which was early even for him. The only other concession he’d made to being indoors was taking his shoes off. His feet were on his desk and he was scowling at the wall so hard Catherine felt sorry for it. Imagine absorbing Lamb’s moods, day after day. Then again, where did that leave her?
She said, “He won’t get it seen to.”
“Surprise me again.”
“He’ll carry those marks forever if he doesn’t do something.”
Without looking at her Lamb said, “He’s not gunna let anyone see them. It’d be like turning up at a christening holding a dildo. Everyone’ll assume the worst.”
“So what’s his alternative?”
Lamb said, “Nothing you want to dwell on.”
“You think he really did it?”
“Not anymore.”
“What’s made you change your mind?”
“I haven’t.”
She said, “Someone should record you for training purposes. How not to have a conversation.” She sat. “The words ‘not anymore’ suggest a change of attitude.”
“Yeah, well, in this case they mean I hadn’t given it any thought till now.”
“He arrives with paperwork saying he’s been viewing child pornography, and you hadn’t given it a thought?”
“You’re all fuck-ups, Standish. The manner of your fuck-uppery’s irrelevant.” He was holding a lit cigarette. How did that happen? “Far as Wicinski was concerned, the bit that worried me was him using his office laptop. I mean, I work with idiots. But that’s Olympic standard.”
“So you weren’t bothered what he was here for,” she said. “Didn’t stop you goading him.”
He looked offended. “Course not. You think I’m made of stone?”
“And now you’ve decided he’s innocent.”
“Because anytime anybody really, really wants me to believe something, I turn it upside down and rattle it hard.” He raised his teacup to his lips. Talisker, Catherine knew. And give him credit, he wasn’t hiding the fact. He simply hadn’t been bothered to hunt down a glass. “The only people who know about Mr. Solidarnosc’s supposed tastes in wank-matter are here or at the Park. Or they’re a third party who fitted him up. And given Coe’s not on the premises, I’m focusing on options two and three.”
“Why would the Park crucify an innocent man?”
“Why would the Park ever do anything? But I’ll tell you what last night’s carve-a-Pole was all about. Someone’s sending a message.”
“What message?”
“Oh, do keep up,” said Lamb. “The message was ‘paedo.’ What do you want, pictures?”
“But—”
“But fuck,” said Lamb. “If you can remember what that’s like.” He stabbed his cigarette to death on the nearest surface. “Whoever did it wants everyone to focus on what Wicinski supposedly did. And not on whatever it was he actually did that made them fit him up in the first place.”
“So not the Park, then.”
