Their conversation had been focused at first (Jackson Lamb is a bastard), then becoming speculative (what makes Jackson Lamb such a bastard?) before drifting into the sentimental (wouldn’t it be sweet if Jackson Lamb fell under a threshing machine?). Crossing back to the tube afterwards, there’d been an awkward parting—what had that been about? Just a drink after work, except no one in Slough House went for a drink after work—but they’d muddled through by pretending they’d not actually been together, and found their separate platforms without words. But since then they’d not positively avoided each other, which was unusual. In Slough House, there was almost never more than one person in the kitchen at a time.
Mugs were rinsed. The kettle switched on.
‘Is it me, or is there a strange smell somewhere?’
Upstairs, a door slammed. Downstairs, one opened.
‘If I said it was you, how upset would you be?’
And they exchanged glances and smiles both turned off at exactly the same moment.
It took no effort for River to remember the most significant conversation he’d had with Jackson Lamb. It had happened eight months ago, and had started with River asking when he was going to get something proper to do.
‘When the dust settles.’
‘Which will be when?’
Lamb had sighed, grieving his role as answerer of stupid questions. ‘The only reason there’s dust is your connections, Cartwright. If not for grandad, we wouldn’t be discussing dust. We’d be talking glaciers. We’d be talking about when glaciers melt. Except we wouldn’t be talking at all, because you’d be a distant memory. Someone to reminisce about occasionally, to take Moody’s mind off his fuck-ups, or Standish’s off the bottle.’
River had measured the distance between Lamb’s chair and the window. That blind wasn’t going to offer resistance. If River got the leverage right, Lamb would be a pizza-shaped stain on the pavement instead of drawing another breath; saying:
‘But no, you’ve got a grandfather. Congratufucking-lations. You’ve still got a job. But the downside is, it’s not one you’re going to enjoy. Now or ever.’ He beat out a tattoo on his desk with two fingers. ‘Orders from above, Cartwright. Sorry, they’re not my rules.’
The yellow-toothed smile accompanying this held nothing of sorrow at all.
River said, ‘This is bullshit.’
‘No, I’ll tell you what’s bullshit. One hundred and twenty people dead or maimed. Thirty million pounds’ worth of actual damage. Two point five billion quid in tourist revenue down the drain. And all of it your fault. Now
River Cartwright said, ‘It didn’t happen.’
‘You think? There’s CC footage of the kid pulling the cord. They’re still playing it over at Regent’s Park. You know, to remind themselves how messy things get if they don’t do their jobs properly.’
‘It was a training exercise.’
‘Which you turned into a circus. You crashed King’s Cross.’
‘Twenty minutes. It was up and running again in twenty minutes.’
‘You crashed King’s Cross, Cartwright. In rush hour. You turned your upgrade assessment into a circus.’
River had the distinct impression Lamb found this amusing.
‘No one was killed,’ he said.
‘One stroke. One broken leg. Three—’
‘He’d have stroked anyway. He was an old man.’
‘He was sixty-two.’
‘I’m glad we agree.’
‘The mayor wanted your head on a plate.’
‘The mayor was delighted. He gets to talk about oversight committees and the need for airtight security processes. Makes him look like a serious politician.’
‘And that’s a good idea?’
‘Can’t hurt. Given he’s an idiot.’
Lamb said, ‘Let’s try for a little focus. You think it’s a good idea you turned the Service into a political football by being, what would you call it? Colour-deaf?’
River said, ‘I heard what I heard.’
‘I don’t give a ferret’s arse what you heard. You screwed up. So now you’re here instead of Regent’s Park, and what might have been a glittering career is—guess what? A miserable clerk’s job, specifically tailored to make you save everyone a lot of grief and jack it in. And you only got that much courtesy of grandpa.’ Another flash of yellow teeth. ‘You know why they call this Slough House?’ Lamb went on.
‘Yes.’
‘Because it might as well be in—’
‘In Slough. Yes. And I know what they call us, too.’
‘They call us slow horses,’ Lamb said, exactly as if River had kept his mouth shut. ‘Slough House. Slow horse. Clever?’
‘I suppose it depends on your definition of—’
‘You asked when you were going to get something proper to do.’
River shut up.
‘Well, that would be when everyone’s forgotten you crashed King’s Cross.’
River didn’t reply.
‘It would be when everyone’s forgotten you’ve joined the slow horses.’
River didn’t reply.
‘Which is going to be a very fucking long time from now,’ Lamb said, as if this might somehow have gone misunderstood.
River turned to leave. But there was something he had to know first. ‘Three what?’ he asked.
‘Three what what?’
