‘Funny thing. When I hear the words “trust me”, I get the feeling someone’s pissing in my shoe. So like we were saying, you made a mistake. This have anything to do with that club on Wigmore Street? Run by Maggie Lessiter?’
Diana said, ‘She tries to keep that quiet.’
‘Yeah, and I tried to keep this quiet.’ He farted, a three-note trumpet solo, then eased his buttock back onto the bench. ‘But somehow word got round.’
‘God. Don’t you ever consider impersonating a human being?’
‘Never met one worth pretending to be.’ He put a cigarette in his mouth, but didn’t light it. Possibly for fear of igniting the atmosphere. ‘Public schoolboy hang-out, isn’t it? Spotted dick for pudding, and matron rapping knuckles with a wooden spoon. Drawing lots to see who gets to be prime minister.’
‘So I enjoy the occasional lunch off the premises,’ Diana said. ‘What’s your point?’
‘My point is, you’ve taken a dip in the money pit. Because nobody pulls off a hit on a foreign holiday, especially not a Russian one, without serious brass in their pocket. And everyone knows there’s no spare cash for Service jollies, what with You-Know-What costing the earth. So when you greenlit that Kazan op, you did it with a suitcase full of used banknotes. And where better to find one of those than Lessiter’s club?’
‘This is pure fantasy.’
‘Nothing pure about it. You’ve been there all right. Ho ran your Uber records.’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, seriously. You’re supposed to be Head Spook. You’re about as under the radar as a Goodyear blimp. But anyway, yeah, I wanted to know where you were when you starting using Slough House as a dartboard. And who you might have been hanging out with.’
Diana looked away, towards the deeper darkness of the tunnel the canal headed into, or out of. Like most things, it was a matter of perspective. She said, ‘You’re confusing separate issues. What happened to White and Loy had nothing to do with any of this.’
Lamb had found a lighter somewhere, and lit his cigarette at last. ‘So I got Ho – and I have to tell you, he might be a twat, but he’s a talented twat. I keep expecting him to start firing ping-pong balls – so anyway, I got Ho to look at who else might have been having lunch there same days as you, and guess whose credit card he found?’ He exhaled smoke, making sure it blew in her direction. ‘Bullingdon Fopp. Bespoke PR services to rich tossers everywhere, in the shape of one Peter Judd. Now, why was I not surprised at his name cropping up? UK politics’ hardy perineum.’
Taverner winced. ‘I assume you mean perennial.’
‘You can assume all you like. I’m saying he’s somewhere between an arsehole and a—’
‘Jesus, Lamb!’ She shook her head. ‘He’s a member of the club. Him being there means nothing.’
‘Yeah, shut up. So here’s what I’m thinking. Peter Judd bankrolled the Kazan operation, presumably for reasons of his own. Nothing to do with the hit itself. More to do with the power and influence that come with buying First Desk.’
‘He hasn’t bought me.’
‘Oh believe me, Diana, he owns every last fucking inch of you.’
There was a waterborne scuffle a hundred yards down the canal: some ducks seeing to business. She let the noise distract her, as if its very irrelevance were an escape hatch; as if this reminder that the world contained a million other moments, all of them happening right this second, rendered her own situation no more meaningful than anyone else’s. But it was difficult to maintain that illusion with Jackson Lamb next to her. More than bones might soon be broken. And she recognised, out of nowhere, that looping prayer that had earlier leaked from a houseboat. ‘Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me Yet’. It was music, that was all. Music folded so carefully into the dark that it might have been just another city noise; the misplaced optimism of a terminal case.
Lamb said, ‘You invited him in and now he’ll sell everything that’s not nailed down, the way his kind always do. And Slough House isn’t nailed down. So do you want to forget about those fucking ducks for a minute and concentrate on the big issue? You pissed off the GRU when you took out one of their agents, and they’re looking to even the blood count. And thanks to Peter Judd, or someone like him, they’ve decided Slough House fits the bill.’ He flicked his cigarette in the direction of the canal, and for a moment it was a tiny rocket, leaving stars in its wake. Then it was only a hiss. ‘So this is where we are. And because I’m a people person, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you one chance to decide whose side you’re on. And before you do that, here’s a tip. Whatever rules this wet-job crew are playing by? So am I.’
Firing that cigarette into the dark might have been a mistake; he hadn’t anywhere near finished it. But another had appeared in his fist already, and he aimed it at her as if staring down its barrel.
‘Start talking.’
And Diana did just that.
