She finished up, washed her hands, collected Emma on her way out the door.
“Where are we going?”
“Embankment.” Her car was boxed in, but with a little nudge to the vehicle in front, she got loose.
Best to think about stuff like that, and about how it was still raining, and the best route to the Embankment, rather than anything more serious.
Like: who just got hurt, or worse.
Given Lamb’s failure to make any loo-based jokes, it was probably worse.
River said, “Westacres. Oh, you crazy fucker. Westacres is what happened. That’s what started this off.”
“Son—”
River punched him. It felt so good, for so many reasons, that he did it again: on the nose, then on the right cheek. Frank fell back against the railings and rainwater poured onto him. He shook his head, spraying water, then touched his nose, which was bleeding. He found a handkerchief, dabbed at the blood, and said, “Seriously, two free shots, and that’s the best you can do? Maybe Slough House is what you deserve.”
He put the handkerchief back in his pocket.
Three cars went past in succession, heading west, towards where the earlier action had been.
Frank said, “It wasn’t meant to happen. It was an exercise, an exercise in what’s possible. What can happen when the state doesn’t protect its people, when—”
“You fucking madman, you sent one of your boys—”
“No. Not sent. Not to do what he did. He was—he went over the edge. Maybe I should have seen it coming. Maybe nobody could have. I don’t know. But it happened, and it’s a damn tragedy, but you know what? Some good might yet come of it. And wouldn’t you want to be part of that?”
River couldn’t reply. Didn’t have the language.
Frank’s nose was still bleeding, and he pinched it with his fingers. Then shook his head. “We’re running out of time, son. I need to know what you plan to do.”
“You seriously think I might join you?”
“I hoped so. Or maybe I knew you wouldn’t. Maybe I just wanted to see you, talk to you. We could have been something, you know that? It gives me a kick, you going into the Service. A chip off the old block, and you didn’t even know it.”
“My grandfather raised me,” River said. “Everything I am’s because of him. You’re just a fucking lunatic. If you are my father, that’s an accident of birth. But you were the accident, not me.” He did something he didn’t remember ever doing before, and spat at Frank’s feet. “And you’re right, you’re running out of time. You’ve seen me, talked to me. Now I’m taking you in.”
“Oh hell,” said Frank. “I really didn’t want to hear that. Because I don’t want to hurt you, son, but I really don’t need the security services on my heels just yet.”
“Too bad,” said River.
“And I’m guessing you don’t have a phone with you, or you’d have used it by now. So tell you what. Give me ten minutes, okay? All I’ll need. Ten minutes. Then raise all the alarms you want.” He reached out suddenly, grabbed River by the elbow, and pulled him into an embrace. Into his ear he said, “Your place is with me, son. Not with that pack of losers. Think about it. We’ll talk again.”
River tried to pull away, but the older man’s grip was iron. “I’m not giving you ten minutes,” he said. “I’m not giving you one.”
“That’s my boy. But you don’t have a choice.” He kissed River hard, on the lips; a brief and violent contact.
And then lifted him off the ground and threw him over the low wall into the Thames.
The gun in Shirley’s hand grew heavier.
It was odd, but all she wanted to do was sleep. Earlier that day, she’d been pissed off at missing the action—even seeing Louisa’s chain-gang bruises hadn’t mollified her: she’d have liked to have been there in that Southwark garage, see if she’d have fared better. But now Patrice was tied to a radiator, wearing half a pint of blood on his jaw, and Marcus—Marcus was still downstairs. And she felt so damn tired, so very very tired. She wanted to put the gun down, crawl under the nearest duvet and sleep for a week. Wouldn’t need medication. Just let her head hit a pillow, and please don’t let her dream.
Especially not about Marcus, and the mess on the wall behind his head.
JK Coe was looking at her with his usual absence of expression.
“What?” she snarled.
Funny how she could still do that, go from nought to sixty on the pissed-off-ometer in the time it took Coe to blink.
And then it returned, crashed in like a wave: a weary tsunami threatening to lift her up and toss her away like a broken puppet.
Lamb was talking to Louisa again. “No, I don’t know what he looks like. He’s an American, that any help? And maybe he’s got Cartwright with him.”
There was that tinny sussuration you get when the other part of the conversation’s happening somewhere else.
“Why? What possible use is talking to her gunna be?”
There was another squawk of static from his mobile, following which he handed it to Catherine.
“For some reason she wants to talk to you.”
