‘Well, of course. I mean, I’ve nothing better to do.’
‘That crew who shot up Abbotsfield? They’re using this thing as a blueprint.’
‘Oh dear,’ Molly said.
‘So, you know. A bit of legwork’d be appreciated.’
She sucked in breath, but after a moment in which detonation seemed possible she exhaled again, blinked slowly, and shook her head. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you, Jackson?’
‘Well, be fair,’ he said. ‘You’re a sitting target.’
Someone appeared in the doorway, and they both turned, expecting Welles.
But it was Emma Flyte.
‘You are seriously starting to piss me off,’ she told Lamb.
Nobody was going anywhere, but that didn’t mean they had to stay where they were. Louisa, Shirley and Catherine departed to their own offices while awaiting Lamb’s return, each contemplating the possible blowback that might be – would be – was definitely heading Slough House’s way. For Shirley this meant taking the twist of coke from her pocket, picturing the rush she’d get were she to take it, and trying to find a compelling reason for not doing so. The only one she could summon was that if she took it now she couldn’t take it later, when she might have greater need. As for Louisa, she’d gone online; at first dipping into various dodgy forums, looking for Abbotsfield chatter, but ultimately giving this up and shopping for boots instead. She found a promising pair, maybe a little pointy-toed – she’d heard it said boots can’t be too pointy, but never by anyone she completely trusted – but hovered over the Buy Now button so long it started to feel like she’d contracted retail paralysis, a condition she’d always thought gender-specific. Christ, it was only money. She clicked, and enjoyed a brief endorphin release. Upstairs, Catherine was tidying places that were already tidy. Her office was like a chamber of her own mind: everything was where it ought to be, but keeping it so required constant vigilance. Across the landing was Lamb’s room, its door lazily ajar; in Lamb’s desk drawer was a bottle of whisky, and with no conscious effort – as if it were marked with a pencil – Catherine could recall exactly the level at which its contents stood. It was as if she were perpetually geared up for departure, and always knew where her nearest exit was. In case of emergency, grab glass. Or no, forget the glass; go straight for the bottle.
Still in their own room, River and Coe were picking at the evening’s scab.
‘I thought you dumped your phone out the car window.’
Coe said, ‘You only have one phone? Seriously?’
‘You keep the spare for dramatic gestures, right?’
River was remembering Coe tossing the phone at Louisa:
He said, ‘The entire country is focused on an alleyway in Slough. Do you really think they’re not going to work out what happened there? Someone will have seen us. Even if there’s no CCTV, someone will have seen us. Ho’s car’ll be on camera entering and leaving town.’
‘Along with hundreds of others,’ said Coe. ‘Besides, there was a genuine bad guy there, remember? We were trying to protect Gimball.’
‘And a damn fine job we did.’
‘Stop bitching. He’ll be on camera too, and he won’t have the advantage of being a member of the Service. We were there to protect Gimball. He was there to hurt him.’
‘He might have his own story to tell though, mightn’t he?’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Coe. ‘That depends on whether he gets to tell it.’
‘… Are you serious?’
‘He looked like a player. Let’s face it, he was giving you trouble. So when a SWAT team comes through his door, what are the odds he’ll put up a fight?’ Coe made a facial shrug, mostly using his eyebrows. It was as much expression as River had ever seen him wearing, and meant, in this instance, Game Over.
‘There’ll be an investigation,’ he said. ‘Even if they arrest tattoo guy’s corpse, they won’t just leave it at that. They’ll piece things together.’
‘How long have you been doing this? There’ll be an official version of events. That’s what happens. And what really went down, if it’s inconvenient, will be buried.’
‘Yeah, but we’re not inconvenient,’ said River. ‘We’re Slough House. We’re pretty much made to measure, if they’re looking to hang someone. Not to mention,’ he added, ‘that you really did kill him. You know? So it’s not even a fit-up.’
‘We’re Service,’ said Coe. ‘Slough House or not. This gets public, it’ll go global in a heartbeat. Half the world will believe we were following orders. The other half’ll know it for a fact.’
‘You keep saying “we”,’ said River.
‘There’s a reason for that.’
