She thought about pouring another drink, then decided to turn the TV off and get to bed instead. It would bring the morning sooner, but at least there’d be oblivion between now and then.
It was a while coming, though. For at least an hour she lay in the dark, stray thoughts nipping and nagging at her.
She wondered what Min Harper was doing.
Jed Moody edged his way past the crowd by the door and bagged a pavement table where he smoked three cigarettes with his first pint. The shops opposite were a High Street palindrome—Korean grocery, courier service, letting agents, courier service, Korean grocery—and buses passed with noisy frequency. When he’d finished his pint he went back in for a second, but this time carried it upstairs, where tables lined along an internal balcony allowed a view of the stewing masses below. He was halfway through it when Nick Duffy joined him. ‘Jed.’
‘Nick.’
Duffy sat.
Nick Duffy, late forties, had been an exact contemporary of Moody’s: they’d finished training at the same time, both winding up in the Service’s internal security system—the Dogs—a dozen years later. The Dogs were kennelled at Regent’s Park, but had licence to roam. The furthest Moody had ranged was Marseilles—a junior operative had been knifed to death by a transsexual prostitute in what turned out to be a case of mistaken identity—but Duffy had made it as far as DC. He had close-cropped grey hair these days and, like Moody, wore a jacket but no tie. They must have resembled a pair of off-duty whatever, Moody thought. Accountants, estate agents, bookies; perhaps, to the more astute observer, cops. Maybe one in a million would have guessed Five. And Moody would want a background check on that particular bastard.
‘Keeping busy?’ he asked.
‘You know.’
Meaning he didn’t. And wasn’t allowed to.
‘I’m not after classified, Nick. I’m asking how things are.’
Duffy tilted his head to the bar below. ‘Far end. Check it out.’
He’d been followed, was Moody’s first thought. His second was: Oh. Okay. At the far end of the bar sat two women whose skirts, combined, would have made a decent lens cloth.
One was wearing red underwear.
Duffy was waiting.
He said, ‘Jesus, you’re kidding, aren’t you?’
‘Feeling old?’
‘I didn’t ask you out on the pull.’
‘Why is that not a surprise?’
‘And if I had, I wouldn’t trawl this place. Not without penicillin.’
‘You’re a laugh a minute, Jed.’ As if testing this assertion, Duffy checked his watch, then took a long steady pull on his pint.
So Moody cut to the chase. ‘You have much to do with Taverner?’
Duffy realigned his beer mat, and set his glass upon it.
‘Is she approachable?’
Duffy said, ‘You want to talk approachable? That blonde’s sending out smoke signals.’
‘Nick.’
‘You really want to do this?’
And that was it, before they’d even started. Six words, and Duffy had told him he might as well shut up now.
‘I just need a chance, Nick. One small chance. I won’t screw up again.’
‘I hardly ever see her, Jed.’
‘You get ten times as close as I do.’
‘Whatever you want from her—’
‘I don’t want
‘—it’s not going to happen.’
Moody stopped flat.
Duffy went on: ‘After that mess last year, they needed someone to throw to the wolves. Sam Chapman handed his hat in, and that was a start, but they wanted an unwilling victim. That would be you.’
‘But they didn’t kick me out.’
‘You reckon you’re in?’
Moody didn’t reply.
Duffy, because it was his job, put the boot in. ‘Slough House is not
Throughout this, he kept his voice light and breezy. Anyone watching would think he was telling a joke.
‘Whereas over at Slough House, you get to—what is it you get to do again, Jed? You get to frighten people if they lurk at the bus stop too long. You make sure nobody steals any paper clips. You hang around the coffee machine listening to the other screw-ups. And that. Is. It.’
Moody said nothing.
Duffy said, ‘Nobody followed me. I know that, because I’m the one says who follows who. And nobody followed you, because nobody cares. Trust me. Nobody’s keeping an eye on you, Jed. The boss made a mark on a piece of paper, and forgot you ever lived. End of story.’
Moody said nothing.
‘And if that’s still bothering you, try another line of work. When cops get the boot, they pick up security jobs. Given that any thought, Jed? You’d get a uniform and everything. Nice view of a car park. Move on with your life.’
‘I wasn’t given the boot.’
‘No, but they figured you’d quit. Have you not worked that out yet?’
