Maybe they had, conceded Louisa. It was difficult arguing a point when you had no reliable information or accurate knowledge. Unless you were online, obviously. ‘Does it say how Gimball was killed?’
‘Nope.’ Shirley scrolled through Twitter again, where precise intelligence was being posted by informed witnesses. ‘But I expect he was shot. Or stabbed.’
‘Or poisoned or suffocated,’ agreed Louisa. ‘You’re probably right.’
She was thinking about the sequence of events back there; the precise moment when news of Gimball’s death had wafted through the public consciousness like wind through long grass. She said, slowly, ‘The van left as soon as the news broke. There were people in the library finding out about it on Twitter while I was standing by the window, watching.’
‘So?’
‘So maybe that’s why they left. They hear that the other group has succeeded, so there’s no need for them to do anything. They only need to hit one pol, and that’s job done.’
‘So you do believe me,’ Shirley said.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘I think I do,’ said Shirley.
‘Oh, please. Do tell.’
‘I think shit’s hitting the fan,’ said Shirley. Then she brightened. ‘Yellow car.’
It was more gold than yellow, but Louisa let it ride.
Some years back, it seemed, a ship-in-the-night minister had determined that what the Service really needed was a lot more record-keeping. Despite an in-house suspicion that this was precisely what a covert organisation could get by happily without, transparency and openness had been in vogue in Westminster at the time, largely because of the widespread hope that if there were concrete examples of these virtues available for the pointing at, it might foster a belief that they were operating across the board, and nullify the need for further enquiry. Thus was born the Service Archive, a ‘tool for correlating current events with historical precedents’, which would be of incalculable strategic use assuming it was ever actually operational. Currently, though, its status was not dissimilar to that of countless other Civil Service projects, in that its existence had been ordained, the process for bringing it into being had been set in motion, and it would thus continue gestating until it was officially put a stop to, despite having long been forgotten about by everyone concerned in its conception. In this particular instance, its obscurity was exacerbated by the Service having accepted its brief in the same spirit in which it was delivered, and assigned the task of ‘archive maintenance and augmentation’ to Slough House. In other words, to Roderick Ho.
This, it should be said, was Flyte’s interpretation of events, not Roddy’s verbatim account.
‘And you gave access to your ongoing work product to this … Kim?’
‘My girlfriend,’ Ho supplied.
‘You gave your girlfriend state secrets?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I did what now?’
The man who appeared at the top of the stairs was black, thickset and snappily dressed by Slough House standards, though there were, Catherine Standish admitted, days when any male arriving with his flies done up could claim that. It was a moment before she recognised him, because his hair was shorter than on their previous encounter, but this was Welles, one of the Dogs. He had a strange first name. Devon, that was it.
Lamb said, ‘Chimneys all been swept, thanks. Maybe next year.’
‘You’re Lamb,’ said Devon Welles. ‘I’ve heard about you.’
Lamb scowled at Catherine. ‘You been on Facebook again?’
Welles came in, gave the room a quick once-over, then returned his gaze to Lamb. ‘I gather there’s been a little trouble.’
‘Your lady-boss dropped the ball,’ said Lamb. ‘I assume you’re looking for it.’
‘Mostly just making sure you’ve not kicked it through a window,’ Welles said. ‘You’d be Catherine Standish,’ he told Catherine. It wasn’t a question.
‘There are more chairs next door,’ she said. ‘And there’s always tea.’
She made it sound a philosophical apophthegm, though whether of consolation or dread, it was hard to tell.
Welles said, ‘I’ve only seen the stairs and this office. But I’m not inclined to drink anything brewed on the premises, thanks all the same.’
Lamb raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m militantly anti-racist, as you know,’ he reminded Catherine. ‘But sometimes uppity’s the only word that fits.’
‘Is he like this all the time?’
‘I expect so,’ said Catherine. ‘I don’t work weekends.’
Welles found a chair that was hidden under what might have been an old coat, might have been the shed skin of a previous inhabitant. Pulling it nearer the desk, he accepted Catherine’s wordless gift of a tissue and wiped it down before sitting. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Slough House. I have to say, it lives up to its billing.’
‘If you’re hoping to be voted least popular visitor,’ Lamb said, ‘I should warn you the competition’s stiff. But keep talking.’
Welles looked at Lamb’s feet, still propped on the desk, but masked any emotion they prompted, and addressed his next words to their owner. ‘Ms Flyte explained what happened here. In detail.’
