‘Yeah, right,’ River said. ‘Excuse me, Park, but our team gave one of your secret documents to some bad guys, and they’re busy running rampage with it up and down the country. Can you imagine how that’ll go down? And let me emphasise, we’re already not popular.’
‘It isn’t about popularity.’
‘No, but it is about who’s left standing. And trust me, Di Taverner will dismantle Slough House brick by brick first opportunity she gets. And this, if you’re still unsure, would count as one of those.’
‘Taverner isn’t in charge. Whelan is.’
‘You keep telling yourself that.’
‘You’re starting to sound like your boss,’ Flyte said.
‘He didn’t say “fuck” enough,’ Louisa pointed out.
‘Who didn’t?’ And this was Lamb back, of course. He could always be trusted to enter a conversation at its most awkward point.
‘Your mini-me here,’ Flyte told him. ‘He’s picked up your habit of twisted thinking.’
‘Has he? Because I’m not sure I’ve ever put that habit down.’ Lamb did put himself down, though: heavily, on River’s chair once more. ‘What do you suppose they’re doing with Ho?’
‘I imagine they’re trying to discover what connects him to the Abbotsfield killers,’ Flyte said.
‘Yeah, I didn’t think they’d invited him round for tea and Jaffa Cakes. What I meant was, what’s the current protocol for debriefing squashy bodies? Will they be plugging him into something, hitting him with something, or injecting him with something?’
Catherine murmured words. Nobody heard what they were.
‘None of those are standard practice,’ Flyte said after a moment.
Lamb said, ‘Yeah, right, nor is pissing in a lift. But it happens. So which one is it, and how long will it take? Bearing in mind that Ho hasn’t been trained not to reveal things under pressure.’
‘And that he knows fuck all about anything,’ River muttered.
Flyte said, ‘The first thing they’ll do with him is nothing.’
‘And is that nothing the kind you plug him into, hit him with or inject?’
‘I meant literally, they won’t do anything with him. They’ll lock him in a room and let him sweat. Probably for a few hours. By the time they get to asking him questions, he’ll be an open book.’
‘I hope they’ve got their coloured pencils ready,’ Lamb said. ‘So chances are, they haven’t started on him yet?’
‘Why does that matter?’
Lamb bared his teeth in an unholy grin. ‘It gives us a little time.’
‘… You’re going to have to elaborate.’
Catherine leaned forward and gave Emma her sweetest smile. ‘Oh, I think Mr Lamb has a plan.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because he claimed he was going to empty his bowels. And he never takes less than fifteen minutes to do that.’
Lamb smiled proudly. ‘If a job’s worth doing,’ he said.
‘So where did you really go?’ Flyte asked.
‘To fetch this,’ said Lamb, and he unfolded the newspaper he was still holding and showed her Marcus’s gun.
Claude Whelan wouldn’t have been surprised if a butler had opened the door. It was a mews flat not a mansion, but still: a grammar school boy, he retained that sense of expecting the worst when dealing with privilege. In the event, though, it was Dodie Gimball – arch-columnist; keeper of the flame – who answered the bell. She wore a knee-length grey skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse, which looked to Whelan like battle gear. Her smile was as false as her nose. The latter had cost her upwards of twenty grand; the former, years of practice.
‘Mr Whelan. So
‘Mrs Gimball.’
‘Oh, do call me Dodie. I imagine you’re familiar with so many details of my life, it seems artificial to have you stand on ceremony.’
Given his awareness of what her nose job had cost, it would have been disingenuous to contest that. ‘Dodie, then.’
‘You’re on your own? No armed guards or, what do you call them? Dogs?’
‘I don’t know how these stories get about,’ he said.
‘Of course you don’t. Can I take your coat?’
‘Thank you.’
The rain had passed over, and while the eaves were still dripping and the gutters puddled, the sun was peeping from behind tattered clouds, and Whelan’s raincoat quite dry. As he handed it to her, as she hung it on a hook, Dennis Gimball emerged from the front room. Or parlour, Whelan supposed.
‘Ha. George Smiley, no less.’
‘If only,’ Whelan replied. ‘Thank you for taking the time to see me.’
‘I was given the distinct impression I had little choice in the matter.’
There was an aggressive edge there, a bluster, which surprised Whelan not at all. Gimball’s public performances always contained this element; an aggrieved awareness that not everyone present held him in the esteem he deserved – as compared to, say, Peter Judd, who successfully conveyed the impression that he gave no fucks for anyone who didn’t cheer his every syllable. But Judd was presently waiting out a hiccup in his career – long story – while Gimball apparently presented a threat to the PM’s position. One of the unforeseen consequences of Brexit, reflected Whelan, was that it had elevated to positions of undue prominence any number of nasty little toerags. Ah well. The people had spoken.
