Tonight, she was more aware than ever. Partly because Lamb was in her home, smelling of cigarettes, and yesterday’s alcohol, and last night’s takeaway; wearing clothes that looked like they were melting; taking her measure with his eyes. But there was more to it. Tonight, he gave the impression that someone was riding his coat-tails. He was always secretive, but she’d never seen him look worried before. As if his paranoia was paying off. As if it had found an enemy that wasn’t only his past, lurking in a shadow his own bulk threw.
Scooping her keys from a bowl, unhooking her coat from its peg, she grabbed her bag, which was heavier than expected, double-locked the door behind her, and headed downstairs.
He was in the lobby, unlit cigarette in his mouth.
She said, ‘What sort of trouble? And how come I’m in it?’
‘Because you’re Slough House. And Slough House is officially in the shit, as of tonight.’
Catherine cast her mind briefly through the last few days’ activity; found nothing in her memory but the usual list-assembly, the data-sift. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘Cartwright’s blown a fuse, and we all get to burn down with him.’
‘Not a million miles off,’ Lamb admitted. He pushed open the door, and went through it first, scanning the parking area. ‘These the usual cars?’
‘Like I notice?’ she said. Then said, ‘Yes. They’re the usual cars.’
This earned her a swift glance. He said, ‘Baker’s been hurt. Moody’s dead. There’s probably a C&C out on all of us, and I’d rather not spend the next couple of days answering stupid questions underneath Regent’s Park.’
‘Sid’s hurt?’
‘And Moody’s dead.’
‘How badly hurt?’
‘Not as badly hurt as he’s dead. Did you hear that bit?’
‘Jed Moody was always going to end badly. But I like Sid.’
Lamb said, ‘You’re full of surprises, you know that?’ and led her out of the building forecourt, with its resident parking and low wall surround and tall green anonymous bushes, and saw the SUV parked on the pavement opposite.
Nick Duffy, noting Lamb’s reaction, said, ‘I hope he’s not going to take this the hard way.’
‘How hard could that be?’ asked Webb. James ‘Spider’ Webb: and there was something as inevitable about his comment as there was about the nickname he’d been saddled with. Webb was under thirty, and married to the notion that anyone twenty years older was lucky to have made it through the flood.
Duffy suppressed a sigh. He’d been scratching the bottom of the barrel all night; had been forced to send Dan Hobbs to collect the Slough House geek solo. That had ended well, with Hobbs lamping a citizen. So Ho was missing, and the other slow horses had either dumped their mobiles or were congregating in a sewer under Roupell Street. Meanwhile, Duffy was forced to commandeer non-Dogs like Spider Webb, to make up the numbers.
On the upside, Lady Di had been right. Here was Lamb, come to collect Standish himself. So provided he didn’t do anything remarkable, Duffy would chalk at least one success on his side of the ledger.
Answering Webb, he said, ‘You’d be surprised.’
They got out of the SUV, and crossed the road.
Lamb and the woman watched them come. Not a lot of options, Duffy knew: they could have gone back inside, which wouldn’t have helped, or they could have made a run for it. But if Lamb had skills underneath his slobbish exterior, speed wasn’t among them. Duffy doubted he’d be running anywhere.
Two yards short of the waiting pair, Duffy said, ‘Busy night.’
‘Angling for overtime?’ Lamb said. ‘You’re talking to the wrong man.’
Spider Webb said, ‘I need to know if either of you are carrying a weapon.’
‘No,’ Lamb said, without bothering to look at him.
‘I need to check that for myself.’
Lamb, still not looking at Webb, said, ‘Nick, I’m not holding. Not a gun, not a knife, not even an exploding toothbrush. But if your lapdog fancies frisking me, he’d better frisk my colleague first. Because he’s not gunna be able to do her with two broken wrists.’
‘Jesus,’ Duffy said. ‘Nobody’s frisking anyone. Webb, get in the car. Ms Standish, you’re in the front. Jackson, we’re in the back.’
‘And supposing we object?’
‘If you were going to object, you’d not have asked the question. Come on. We’ve all been doing this far too long. Let’s get to the Park, shall we?’
It occurred to him later that Lamb had been playing him. Calling him Nick? They’d met, sure, but were hardly buddies. And Duffy was Head Dog, and not easily flattered. But Lamb, unlike Duffy, had seen undercover service, and it was impossible to ignore that. Kids like Webb might see only a burn-out; an older generation remembered what it was that caused the burn-out … Jesus Christ, Duffy thought. He must have found it as tricky as winding his watch. But those thoughts came later, back in Regent’s Park, by which time Lamb and Standish were long gone.
The four of them got in, and Webb started the car.
