Because if Ed Timms had been right, and Gimball had been preparing to throw shit at the walls, Zafar would have needed as much warning as possible. To wrap up the Dancer Blaine business, and then cover his tracks.
‘So what happened?’
‘I was gonna explain to him,’ Tyson said. ‘Tell him not to dis you, like. Keep his mouth shut.’
Zafar’s heart was all the way deflated now, a useless piece of rubber curled up and drying in his chest. He could see it happening as clearly as if it were projected onto his sitting-room wall: Tyson catching Gimball unprotected; overconfident swagger on one side, panicky reaction on the other. Fists clutching lapels. A struggle, a blow.
‘And did you …?’
Did he what? Zafar didn’t even know what question to ask. There’d be no consoling answers.
‘It was just a bit of argy. I didn’t touch him.’
‘You didn’t touch him?’
‘Not hardly.’ Tyson rolled his shoulders. ‘Just messing a bit. He wouldn’t stay still.’
It was like talking to a child who’d stoned a cat.
He thought, Tyson has to disappear. And I’ll have to finish what he started. Like most of his decisions, it was no sooner made than he was formulating the strategy: he’d need to cancel tomorrow’s meetings; fake a head cold, whatever. All of that was doable. He was good at details.
But still he could feel the ground trembling beneath his feet; those shockwaves ploughing up the earth.
Catherine said, ‘I think it’s about time you explained what happened, don’t you?’
Lamb had left, with Welles on his heels like a man who’d been rabbit-punched then put on a leash: there really was cause, she sometimes thought, to hang a warning notice on Lamb’s door. She’d have gone home herself, if not for the gauntlet of pubs, bars and off-licences she’d have to run. As it was, the role of den mother had once more dropped onto her shoulders.
Shirley had found what was left of the Haribo, and had tucked in before Catherine could warn her about Lamb’s rejection policy. Louisa was leaning against the radiator – they were in River’s room – and frowning about something, or possibly everything. J. K. Coe was at his desk, hood up. River was also seated, but visibly arriving at the conclusion that Catherine was mostly talking to him, and unlikely to take silence for an answer.
‘We’ve told you,’ he said at last. ‘A man followed Gimball up the alley, and Gimball didn’t come out again.’
Catherine pursed her lips. After a moment, River looked at Coe. ‘That’s what happened, right?’
Still hooded, Coe said, ‘That’s what happened.’
Shirley said, ‘The bad guys were in Birmingham.’
‘But Jaffrey wasn’t attacked,’ said River. ‘Was he?’
‘They were in a van. I chased them off.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Catherine said. She returned her gaze to the two men. ‘“We only saw one”,’ she said. ‘I’m quoting here.’
‘Quoting who?’ River asked.
‘Mr Coe. That’s what he said when you got here.’
‘Well, he counted right.’
‘It’s not his arithmetic that bothers me. It’s more that he was so keen to volunteer information. It usually requires strong persuasion before he opens his mouth in company. Doesn’t it, Mr Coe?’
Coe shrugged.
‘And like Lamb said, he appeared a little more bushy-tailed than usual. And I think we all remember the last time that happened.’
‘You don’t seriously think,’ River began, then stopped.
‘We don’t seriously think what?’ Catherine asked.
For half a moment, maybe less, the only sound in the room was a fly banging against the dust-tracked windowpane; just one more futile attempt to escape from Slough House.
And then a penny dropped.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Louisa. ‘You didn’t!’
‘It was an accident.’
Louisa, mouth wide, looked at Catherine, who was staring into whatever abyss had just opened inside her own mind. Shirley had frozen mid chew, and her face had the blurred rubbery look that comes from being caught between two expressions. The men exchanged a glance, then resumed their defensive postures. And the fly hurled itself at the glass once more, and vomited invisibly on contact.
It was Catherine who spoke first. ‘You killed him?’
It was Coe she was talking to, and Coe didn’t answer.
‘Mr Coe? Pull your hood down and answer the question.’
Unexpectedly, Coe did as he was told. ‘… Not exactly.’
‘But imprecisely, right? In some vague, non-specific, possibly even daydreamy fashion, you killed him? Please say you didn’t.’
‘He was hit by a tin of paint.’
‘How?’
‘… It got knocked off some scaffolding.’
‘By who?’
‘Whom.’
‘Don’t even—’
‘It was an accident,’ said Coe.
‘Yeah, I think we’ve established that,’ Louisa put in. ‘But whose fucking accident was it?’
‘His,’ said River.
Everyone in the room turned to River.
‘Well it was! I was fighting the tattooed guy!’
‘So you didn’t invent him?’
‘Christ, no,’ said River. ‘He attacked Gimball.’
Catherine said, ‘I feel faint. You know? I actually, seriously feel faint.’
‘I told you they were in the van,’ said Shirley.
‘What?’
