Slough House полностью

Lamb glared at everyone. ‘Don’t imagine I’m letting this slide. I start letting you comedians take the piss, you’d lose all respect.’

‘And then where would we be?’ said Catherine quietly.

Lech said, ‘We’ve talked our way round several houses. Are we closer to knowing what to do next?’

‘What we do is, we go live,’ said Lamb. ‘Because as we’ve just established, the GRU have more than one hit team.’

‘… There’s another one out there?’

‘Bound to be,’ said Lamb. ‘And closer than you’d think.’

Out in Tonbridge, still groggy with sleep, River staggered for a piss about 6 a.m., and was jolted awake by his reflection in the mirror. He looked like windfall, and his hands were scabbed and torn. He washed them until they tingled with cold, while deep in the bones, the knuckles, the joints, the memory of what they’d done last night tingled too: holding the woman’s head in the lake until she died.

Then he walked through the house. It had grown smaller as he’d reached adulthood; was bigger again now, partly because it was empty; partly because property, anyway, looked huge now he was renting a one-bed in the capital. And partly because his past grew larger every day, and this was where most of it was. Even the absences told stories. Constellations of tiny holes in the walls were all that was left of the art that had hung here. He remembered finding Rose on the landing once, gazing at an etching, a few pencil lines summing up a doorway trailing ivy, and he hadn’t asked her what she was looking at – he could see what she was looking at – but wished now he’d thought to ask her what she saw.

As for what the O.B. had seen, and thought, River had his own memories to draw on. Some had faded. It had become popular to record the older generation’s words while they were around to deliver them, and it had occurred to River to tape his grandfather’s reminiscences, but only for as long as it took the notion to form. David Cartwright would never have allowed it, and to do so surreptitiously would have been tantamount to treason. So all River had was the old man’s library. If the O.B. had ever consigned his recollections to paper, the results would be hidden there somewhere. It was a memory palace made solid.

To which River now added his own memories, as if daubing a new picture on a used stretch of canvas. Sid was still asleep, curled in the armchair. It was good to see her peaceful, after last night’s alarms. He thought about chasing after her in the car; almost headbutting an oncoming vehicle. When someone you loved was in danger. That’s what he’d been thinking: someone he loved was in danger. And now she was sleeping in the room he’d grown up in.

His phone was on the table, reassembled, though nobody had taken advantage of this: no texts, no messages. He picked it up, looked at Sid, and wondered about taking her photo, before deciding this would be creepy beyond belief. But while the phone was in his hand he scanned the room anyway: the O.B.’s shelves, his books and mementos, the print of The Night Watch above the fire; a six-second video that ended with Sid’s sleeping form. Okay, still creepy, but he could always delete it. He checked for messages again, but there weren’t any. Then remembered there were two bodies in the car outside, and wondered what he was playing at: mooning about like a lovestruck kid. He pocketed the phone, retreated from the room, and left the house.

The car was round back, where they’d left it. He’d thrown a blanket over the corpse in the seat well, a cunning ploy, and as he peered through the window could only make out a shapeless lump: all that was left of a would-be murderer. Well, seasoned assassin. Just not in River’s case. He didn’t open the boot. It was clear no one had come looking. He flexed his fingers, felt the tingle again; remembered the texture of the woman’s wet head. But he’d be better off right now putting together some breakfast.

Before going back in, he surveyed his surroundings. The garden his grandfather had loved had returned to the wilderness nature prefers; the weeds outnumbering the cultivated shrubs; the lawn peppered with dandelions and daisies. Somewhere underneath lay the canvas David Cartwright had painted, and maybe it would see the light again one day. Unlikely to be River’s doing. He walked round to the front. Is this yours? Wicinski had asked. And in answering – Yes, yes, it’s mine – River had felt the truth of it for the first time. It was his house. It had always been the house he’d grown up in – always been home – but until now it had been his grandfather’s property, and River had simply lived in it. But now it was his. Was he really going to sell? It was the obvious, sensible thing to do. But standing here, knowing Sid was sleeping inside, obvious and sensible took on different shades. Most of his life was here. Assuming the rest of it lay elsewhere suddenly seemed presumptuous.