‘Calls?’ said Diana. ‘You’re supposed to be dark. In fact …’ She made a show of looking round the room. ‘Where’s the awkward squad?’
Lamb snorted. ‘Trust me, awkward would be an improvement.’
‘What are you up to, Jackson?’
‘You might have declared an amnesty, but I haven’t. That file Cantor passed behind the curtain was stamped “Slough House”, remember?’
‘“Curtain”? Really?’
He blew smoke. ‘A good metaphor never goes stale.’
Diana Taverner shook her head wearily. ‘I can’t stress this enough. The last thing I need is help from you.’ She looked at Catherine. ‘Haven’t you learned to control him yet?’
‘I’m taking notes.’
Diana returned to Lamb. ‘Cantor’s up shit creek. Rasnokov has footage of him handing that file to his contacts. Sound and vision. Good for five years at least. So listen, I’m sorry about the dead, I really am. But there’s a greater good at stake here, so whatever you’re up to, pack it in. Rasnokov is looking to build bridges.’
‘He’s got a funny way of showing it.’
‘We all have political masters to work around.’
‘Speak for yourself.’ Ash fell into Lamb’s lap. He appeared not to notice. ‘But what the hell, you’ve won me over. You want safe passage for the hit crew, I won’t get in your way. In fact’ – he paused to stub his cigarette out on the floor – ‘I’ve probably got a box somewhere you could pack them in. That’ll save on costs.’
Diana stared. ‘What have you done?’
‘Exactly what you should have done. Taken them off the board.’
Catherine cleared her throat.
‘Well,’ said Lamb, ‘delegation. It’s the art of good management. So it’s possible Rasnokov’ll call your deal off, but don’t worry about Cantor. That’s in hand.’
‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’
‘Again, a good manager would call it initiative.’
‘Initiative … I’m First Desk, you stupid fat bastard! You answer to me!’
‘I’ll do that when you do your job. Which means not selling out your joes.’
‘Joes? Did you forget what Slough House is? It’s a punishment posting. No, screw that. It’s not even a punishment, it’s what we do when we don’t care any more. It’s where we send those we can’t be bothered to deal with, because that’ll just mess up the system. Your job’s to keep them from seeing daylight again, and that is all. End of story.’
‘Not quite,’ said Lamb. ‘You missed a bit out.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘It’s a department of the Security Service. Whose team, like it or not, work for you. Past or present. And when they die, that’s on your watch.’
‘Jackson—’
‘And mine.’
Catherine was clutching Lamb’s phone so tightly, it hurt her hand.
Diana opened her mouth to continue. Closed it again.
Lamb said, ‘You wanted Cantor’s wheels removed. Consider it done. And now you don’t have to deal with Rasnokov, either. Just tell him the next wet team he sends’ll come home the same way. Because you don’t build bridges over the corpses of your own crew.’
For a while, nobody spoke. The only sound was Lamb clicking his lighter again. But he didn’t have a cigarette to hand; he was simply making flames.
At last Diana said, ‘You plan to kill him too? Cantor?’
‘No,’ said Catherine.
‘Buzzkill,’ said Lamb.
‘We’re not going to kill him,’ said Catherine.
‘But he won’t come sniffing round the Park again,’ said Lamb. ‘You can take that as read.’
‘You’d better be right.’ Diana’s voice was taut as a cheese wire. ‘Now give me the keys to this place. And get back where you belong.’
‘Sure. And I’ll be taking my team with me.’
‘Now.’
‘Including Wicinski and Dander.’
‘Just give me the fucking keys.’
Lamb tossed her the fucking keys.
‘And close the fucking door on your way out.’
‘Forgive her bad manners,’ said Lamb, once they were on the street. ‘She still has those pirates to worry about.’
‘That little outburst, bad manners? She should take professional advice.’
Lamb had found a cigarette, but his lighter had disappeared again. He patted his pockets and said, ‘What does Sid being back in the picture have to do with it?’
‘I’d explain, Jackson,’ Catherine said, raising her arm for a taxi. ‘But I genuinely think I’d be wasting my time.’
The second conversation had worried him more than the first.
‘I’m calling from Regent’s Park, Mr Cantor. I presume you’re aware of the significance of that locale?’
‘The significance of … Yes. Yes, I’m aware.’
‘Good. Ms Taverner would like to see you here this morning.’
‘… This morning?’
‘Immediately. And in case you have difficulty finding us, there’s a team on its way to escort you.’
‘I—’
‘Oh, and Mr Cantor? Bring your passport.’
And the woman had disconnected.
(‘Passport?’ Lech had said.
Louisa said, ‘That’ll freak him, don’t you think?’
‘It would me,’ Lech admitted.)
Cantor was back in his apartment, having left the studio in a hurry. Call Peter Judd was his first thought. Judd was an ally – except he was Taverner’s ally too, or rather, he was an ally of whoever seemed most useful at any given moment, and as likely to offer succour to those in need as a poisonous snake. So no, don’t call Peter Judd. Pack a bag and think things through.
The marital home was a no-go; the first place they’d come looking.
