‘Think of it as bringing communities together,’ Taverner said. ‘When we rescue Hassan, we make a friend. You think we can’t use one? In Pakistan’s secret service?’
‘And have you given the flipside any thought? If this goes wrong, and Christ knows it’s not gone right yet, you’ve assassinated his nephew.’
‘It’s not going to go wrong.’
‘Your faith would be touching if your stupidity didn’t make me retch. Pull the plug. Now.’
Another strain of laughter wafted over the canal, but sounded less than genuine; driven by alcohol rather than wit.
She said, ‘Okay, suppose we do that. Finish it. Tonight.’ Her eyes momentarily focused on something beyond Lamb’s shoulder, then returned to his face. ‘A day early. Doesn’t mean it can’t still work.’
‘When I hear anyone say that,’ Lamb began, but she spoke over him.
‘In fact, it’ll work better. Not a last-minute rescue. We get to the kid twenty-four hours before he’s due for the chop, and why’s that? Because we’re good. Because we know what we’re doing. Because
Lamb appeared to choke. ‘You’re out of your mind,’ he said, once he could talk.
‘It works. Why wouldn’t it?’
‘Well, for a start, there’s no papertrail. No investigation. How’m I supposed to have found him, divine inspiration? He was taken in bloody Leeds.’
‘They brought him here. They’re not far away.’
‘They’re in London?’
‘They’re not far away,’ she repeated. ‘As for the papertrail, we’ll work up a legend. Hell, we’re halfway there already. Hobden’s our point of entry. It was your team burned him, took his files.’
‘Which were a pile of cack,’ he reminded her.
‘Not necessarily. Not once we’ve decided what they really say.’
Enough light fell on Taverner’s face for Lamb to see she meant every word. She was probably mad. It wouldn’t be the first time the job had done that, and being a woman couldn’t help. If she was thinking straight, she’d have noticed the flaw in her reasoning, which was that he, Jackson Lamb, couldn’t give a flying fart for whatever she was offering.
Or maybe she had. ‘Think a minute. About what it could mean.’
‘I’m thinking there’s a body on my staircase.’
‘He fell on the stairs. An empty bottle’s the only prop you’ll need.’ Her whispers were urgent now; they were talking of death, of other people’s death. They were also talking of career-ending moments, and maybe of something else. ‘Redemption.’
‘Excuse the fuck out of me?’
‘Rehabilitation.’
‘I don’t need rehab. I’m happy where I am.’
‘Then you’re the only one. Christ, Jed Moody would have given his left bollock to be let back inside.’
‘And look where that got him.’
‘So he proved he was a slow horse. Are the others as bad?’
Lamb pretended to think about it. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Probably.’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way. Do this, and you get to be a hero. Again. So do the boys and girls. Just think, the slow horses back among the thoroughbreds. You don’t want to give them that chance?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Okay, so what about the downside? Was Moody really on his lonesome when he broke his neck?’ She put her head on one side. ‘Or did he have company?’
Lamb showed his teeth. ‘We’ve covered this. Call in the Dogs. When they’ve finished tearing you apart, they’ll maybe have strength to pick at the rest of us.’ He yawned a cavernous yawn he didn’t bother to conceal. ‘I’m not bothered either way.’
‘No matter who gets swatted.’
‘You said it.’
‘What if it’s Standish?’
Lamb shook his head. ‘You’re tossing darts, seeing what you might hit. Standish isn’t involved. She’s at home, asleep. I guarantee it.’
‘I’m not talking about tonight.’ And this time she had the sense that a dart had landed close. She could tell by Lamb’s body language; a relaxation of the muscles around his mouth, a signal designed to indicate absence of care. ‘Catherine Standish? She came this close to a treason charge. You think that went away?’
His eyes were black in the moonlight. ‘That’s not a can of worms you want to open.’
‘Do I look like I’m keen? You’re right, this evening’s out of control. I want it over, quickly and quietly. With someone I trust at the reins. And like it or not, Slough House is part of this now. You’ll all get turned over. And poor Catherine … Well, she doesn’t even know the trouble she was nearly in, does she?’
Lamb surveyed the canal. Lights swayed on its surface, reflections from stray sources. A few houseboats were shrouded in darkness, their cabin roofs home to potted plants, some trailing green fingers as far as the water, and carefully stacked piles of bicycles. Evidence of an alternative lifestyle, or a hidey-hole for alternative weekends. Who cared?
He said, ‘It was before your time. But you know why I’m at Slough House.’
It wasn’t a question.
Diana Taverner said, ‘I’ve heard three versions.’
‘The bad one? That’s the truth.’
‘I guessed as much.’
He leant forward. ‘You’ve been using Slough House as your personal toybox, and that pisses me off. Are we clear on that?’
She gave the dart another push. ‘You care about them, don’t you?’
