And if you were ever in danger of forgetting this, Jackson Lamb was usually there to see you right.
But Lamb had left the office on some mission of his own before Catherine, and she herself had left early. The evening was chill, the start of British Summer Time having been marked by hailstorms and grey skies, and she wore her winter coat as she waited at a bus stop: not her own, nor anywhere near her route. Several buses passed, and she hailed none, but when a wheelchair rounded the nearest corner and trundled past the stop, she fell into step behind it. The wheelchair’s occupant gave no indication of having noticed, but continued as far as the next junction, where the chair’s electric humming ceased for a moment at the pedestrian crossing. Catherine remained out of its occupant’s range of vision, but the woman in the chair spoke anyway.
‘Do I know you?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Give me a minute.’
This was as long as the traffic lights required. But once they’d done their job, the wheelchair was on the move again. As they crossed the road, to the impotent fury of London’s traffic, its occupant spoke again.
‘Catherine Standish,’ she said. ‘One-time PA to Charles Partner, late and unlamented. And now – what shall we call it? Amanuensis? Chatelaine? Dogsbody? – to the not-yet-late but lamentable Jackson Lamb.’
‘Who sends his regards.’
‘Does he?’
‘Not really.’
‘No, that didn’t sound like him. You’re not going to pretend this is a chance encounter, then?’
‘I’d been waiting ten minutes.’
‘Surprised you weren’t scooped up. Sensitive to hangers-around, this neighbourhood.’
This being Regent’s Park, the immediate catchment area of the Secret Service.
‘One of the advantages of being a middle-aged woman,’ Catherine said, ‘is the cloak of invisibility that comes with it.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
Which was a fair rejoinder. Molly Doran had many attributes, but invisibility wasn’t among them.
‘I normally take a cab,’ she continued. ‘You’re lucky you caught me.’ She halted abruptly. ‘I was sorry to hear about your colleague.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Jackson hates losing joes.’
‘I don’t suppose the joes are that thrilled either.’
‘Ah. She bites.’ The wheelchair resumed its progress. ‘The reason I’m not in a taxi heading home, Ms Standish, is that I have things to do in town. So you have two minutes to explain whatever it is you’re after, and then we can both get about our business.’
Catherine said, ‘We have concerns.’
‘How borderline tragic for you.’
‘And we were wondering if you could help.’
‘And how are we defining “we” in this context?’
‘Just me, really.’
‘I see.’ Molly wore mockery-defying make-up, her face lifelessly white, her cheeks absurdly red. She might have been auditioning for a role in a different manner of circus, as a clown or perhaps an acrobat, though she was more than usually challenged if the latter. Her legs, for instance, ended at the knee.
She said, ‘So Lamb has no idea you’re talking to me?’
Catherine was aware that it could be an error to categorically state what Lamb was and was not aware of at any given time, including when he was asleep. But it was simplest to stick to supposition. ‘No.’
‘That’s a pity. When Lamb wants a favour, I charge him through the nose.’
‘… Really?’
‘Information. Not money.’ She smiled, not in a pleasant way. ‘Spook currency. I’m something of a hoarder.’
‘Which is the reason I wanted to see you.’
‘It’s the only reason anyone wants to see me. That’s my USP. My
‘Yes, I’d heard.’
‘So tell me about these concerns of yours. Has someone been shaking your foundations? Slough House tumbling around your ears?’
Before Catherine could reply there was a howling in the near distance, from the direction of the zoo.
‘Did you hear that?’ she said.
‘Ah,’ said Molly. ‘The big bad wolf. Coming to blow your house down, is he?’
‘I think someone already has,’ said Catherine.
