It should have been an in-and-out job; had been sold to him as such. He hadn’t been given background, which was fine: if that stuff mattered, it wouldn’t be in the background, and besides, all stories were the same in the end. This particular version, someone had seen something he shouldn’t, and wanted paying to keep quiet about it. Fine if what he’d seen had been the neighbour kissing the milkman, and what he’d wanted was a little of the same; less fine if the mark was in the arms business, and the tag was fifty grand. Because there was a strict policy in that line of work: you did not allow anybody to take one bite from your apple. Because one bite led to two, and two bites later the whole fucking tree was gone. No, some orchards were best left alone, because they were owned by people who knew people like Frank Harkness, who in turn knew people like Lars. And people like Lars, he’d be first to admit, didn’t care whose apples they were safeguarding, as long as the money was right.
Add to that the bruised cheek from where the woman had headbutted him that first night, and what you had was what the movies called a situation. One which, if it hadn’t been for the fucking snow, would be over already.
Instead, another woman had turned up: a blonde in a long dark coat who was also handy, apparently. The whole thing was beyond a joke.
He reached the bottom of the road that bisected what passed for a High Street and it became a tree-shrouded dirt lane, a wooden gate effecting a boundary between the two, next to a signpost suggesting occasional flooding. Trees covered the track towards the estuary, so the snow became a whisper rather than a shout, a series of grace notes nestled in tree joints. The ground was muddy, offering a smorgasbord of prints, both boot and animal. Maybe a boy scout would have studied this longer. Lars just walked on, eyes peeled.
The first woman had been wearing a white ski jacket, which would have little camo-value here. The blonde, though, was dressed in black, and if she knew what she was doing, might get close.
But this was farming country. Gunshots wouldn’t startle the locals; especially gunshots muffled by snow-covered trees.
He walked on, sticking to the track.
Somewhere up ahead, he heard voices.
It could have been worse. The girl could have been killed.
The bolt had sliced flesh from her arm, spraying a theatrical gout of blood into the air—Lucas had stumbled telling this part, as if the description were beyond him, though the memory was fixed; the blood black in the spotlight’s gleam, the pattering as it hit the ground. Girl and target collapsed, the girl screaming through the gag. The pumpkin came loose, and rolled into shadow. And the excited buzz the men had been sharing climaxed in a two-second silence, while drunken coked-up brains assessed damage and formed contingency plans.
Then the man who’d fired the bow laughed, a werewolf bark, and the others joined in.
Five minutes later, the weeping girl had been led away.
His story over, Lucas had subsided into silence.
And here, now, in the morning, Emma said, “Any normal kid would have gone to the police.”
“Think about the people he saw,” said Louisa. “A royal, for god’s sake. And Judd used to be Home Secretary. In charge of the police, remember? And—what was that?”
Both became still.
The noise had come from down the track; a soft padding on a path littered with twigs and dead leaves.
Emma put her hand on Louisa’s elbow, but Louisa shook her head. Two short jabs of the finger: one towards Emma, the other to the shed.
Then she stepped off through the trees.
The door opened.
He’d been lying on the floor in Shirley Dander’s room, into which grey light fizzled from a sky with the clarity of a stained tablecloth. The carpet smelled of dust and ancient spillage. It was Slough House in close-up, worn and mouldy, and if he lay long enough he’d seep into its fabric; become another spore in its culture of damaged mediocrity. Thoughts he put on hold as the opening of the door was followed by a heavy incoming tread.
Lamb said, “You still alive?”
Lech said nothing.
Lamb kicked him, not gently.
“Fuck you!”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Lamb threw himself into a chair, as if the chair had done him some great disservice in the past, and was suddenly smoking. Had a bottle too, which must have been in his overcoat pocket. Two glasses appeared from another pocket, and he poured a small measure into one and pushed it in Lech’s direction.
The other, he filled halfway to the brim.
“That’s quite the barcode you’ve been given.”
Lech said nothing.
Lamb sighed. “If I have to kick you every time I want a reply, my foot’ll be black and fucking blue before we’re done. Now get off the floor and drink that.”
He didn’t want a drink, but suddenly he did. And nobody else was offering.
