On Aldersgate Street he’d waited for Louisa to catch up. ‘You heading home?’
‘That seems to be our instruction.’
‘So are you?’
‘Hell no.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Didn’t think so. What was with the, “I think they’ll struggle by without us” bit?’
‘Last thing I want right now,’ River told her, ‘is pairing up with Coe again. Or Shirley.’
‘You think they’ll head that way too?’
‘I’m not making any predictions about Coe. Except that whatever he does, I hope he does it far away. But Shirley, yeah.’
‘You’re probably right. We tubing it?’
He’d left Ho’s car keys on his desk; besides, central London’s traffic would be jammed to a standstill. ‘Yep.’
They’d separated on arrival, patrolling streets that were slowly, then quickly, transformed by the public. It was a pointless exercise, but it was hardwired into them all the same. It was the job they’d trained for, before they’d soiled their copybooks. It was that tiny spark of hope, not quite dead, that, carefully nurtured, might light their way back to their careers. Two hours in they’d rendezvoused for a Coke, then headed back into the throng. Now, ninety minutes later, the memorial service was gearing up to start, one o’clock ready to strike its ragged antiphony. River saw Louisa up ahead, by a streetlight; holding two cups of coffee one-handed while she checked her phone.
‘Anything?’ he asked, relieving her of a cup.
‘Nada. You?’
‘Same.’
Cars went past, a little way distant. The only traffic carried VIPs to the Abbey. That would be the princes arriving, he thought, or the PM. It was starting.
‘Seen Shirley?’
‘Nope. Coe neither.’
‘I expect they’ve gone to bed.’
Louisa spat coffee.
‘Christ, no. I meant—’
‘I know what you meant. I just—’
‘Yeah.’
‘I mean, can you
‘The service?’
‘Everything.’ She glanced around, to check nobody was listening, but dropped her voice anyway. ‘Coe. The Gimball thing. Shit, River, it’s fucking huge.’
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen,’ he said, keeping his own voice level. They began to walk, past a row of parked cars.
‘Have you thought about taking it upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know what good it’ll do. I was there, same as Coe. We both know what that’ll mean, if it comes to handing down verdicts. There are reasons why the Park might want to cover it up, but probably plenty more why they won’t. Not least being, we’re not their favourite people.’ His coffee was too hot. A hot drink on a hot day. Better than nothing, though. ‘You want to know something funny?’
‘Please.’
‘I was planning on quitting. Before it all kicked off. I’d decided I’d had enough, and was gonna jack it in. Start a new life.’ He laughed: not a real laugh. ‘Good times.’
Louisa put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re all over the place right now, though. With your grandfather and all.’
‘Yeah. Still.’
‘So I wouldn’t make any big decisions. Not until … yellow car.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Not until it all shakes down a bit. We catch these guys, we get to be heroes. That’ll alter the picture. Besides, you know. Lamb. He has a way of sorting things out.’
River said, ‘There are limits. Anyway, catching these guys, that’s not gonna happen, is it? Realistically. Even if they do turn up here. In which case, frankly, we’re more likely to get shot than be heroes.’
Louisa dropped her cup into a bin. ‘Now, that’s just defeatist.’ She fished her phone out again. ‘I still think it’s strange we’ve not seen Shirley.’
‘It’s a big crowd. She’s a small person.’
‘But with ways of making her presence felt. I’m gonna call her.’
‘You’ll probably wake her up.’
Louisa said, ‘Yeah, that’ll be fun too,’ and made the call.
Fixed to the wall were two TVs, currently mute, each showing footage from Westminster Abbey. The PM was just disappearing inside, shadows swallowing him as surely as history would, any moment now. Then again, people had been saying that for a while. The other screen showed crowds lining the roads. It might have been a celebration, but there were few flags flying. Close-ups showed serious expressions, occasional tears.
Emma Flyte said, ‘Have you ever seen so many blues on the street?’
‘Royal wedding?’
‘Even then. And khaki, too. There must be two full regiments out there. You could basically stage a war in central London.’
Welles said, ‘You’re worried something’s going to happen? Or that it’s not?’
They were in the Dogs’ quarters – ‘the kennel’, naturally – having been told by Taverner to remain there for the foreseeable, which as far as Flyte was concerned, might turn out not that long. Yesterday she’d sat in Slough House, handcuffed to a chair, and listened to those idiots discussing which of Gimball or Jaffrey might end up dead. If she’d brought that straight to the Park, maybe Gimball would have made it through the night. As it was, her career probably wouldn’t survive him by much.
But here she was, and she’d dragged Devon along behind her. She’d yet to hear him complain about it.
