“As we’ve established,” said Whelan, “the full story is not one we want becoming public knowledge. And he still has comrades out there, don’t forget. If we . . . wrap a black ribbon round his file—”
“Or put a bullet in his head.”
“—we can be sure it’ll come back to haunt us.”
“And having him alive means it won’t?”
“We do what we can,” Whelan said. “But we’re at the mercy of events. This is one huge mess we’re dealing with. It’s not possible to clean it up. The best we can hope for is to . . . minimise the repercussions.”
“So he creates fucking havoc trying to keep his story secret, and we end up doing his job for him? He’ll be wanting a sponsorship deal next time. Where is he now?”
“He slipped the leash about ten minutes after hitting the street.”
“There’s absolutely no part of this in which we come out looking good, is there?”
“Not really, no.”
“Plus ça bloody change. I swear to God I’d defect, if there was anywhere worth defecting to these days.” He emptied his glass.
Whelan took another sip from his own, then set it down, still mostly full, on Lamb’s desk. “Other business,” he said. “I’ve set the wheels in motion for Longridge’s death-in-service payment. Five years of salary, tax free. It should come through by the end of the week. Beginning of next at the latest. You might want to let his wife know.”
“Five years,” said Lamb.
“Standard terms.”
“Except Longridge was operational.”
“He was what?”
“What I just said. Operational. As in, on an op.”
Whelan said, “As I understand it, Slough House is deskbound.”
“But I have managerial discretion. Says so somewhere, I can’t be arsed to find the paperwork. Anyway, I sent Longridge and Guy out on the streets yesterday afternoon, and until such time as I sign off on his field report, his status remains operational. Doesn’t look like he’s going to be doing any typing anytime soon. Therefore . . . ”
“Seriously?”
“He qualifies for the active agent increment. Ten years, not five. Or his family does. Money won’t work where he’s gone.”
Whelan shook his head. “That’ll never get through Legal. I barely accept it as English myself.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not going through Legal. Sign off on it in the morning, and pass it on to Finance. Lady Di’s still letting you sign things, right?”
“Lamb, I have every sympathy. You lost an agent. But the active increment only applies to joes in the field, and with the best will in the world—”
“See, the thing is, shut the fuck up. Let me explain why. Moira Tregorian—remember her? She’s the superannuated dinnerlady you sent over here, day one of your reign—she spent a lot of time with old man Cartwright yesterday, and gave me what I assure you was a very thorough debriefing. I’ve got pissed in less time than it takes her to finish a sentence. Anyway, one of the details she shared was his recitation of the names of the knights of the round table, which he launched himself upon on account of having lost his marbles, and this got her worrying about where she’d heard the name Galahad lately.” Lamb leaned back. “Ever heard Moira Tregorian trying to remember where she first heard something? It’s like, you can fuck off and read
Whelan found that he was holding his whisky tumbler once more; had frozen in the act of delivering it to his mouth. He said something which didn’t work, so cleared his throat and said it again. “There’s no need.”
“Ah, what the hell. We’re both men of the world. You were Galahad when you were over the river, right? She didn’t know that, but it took me thirty seconds to find out. And took my boy Ho not much longer to trawl through the duty-books for the nights Tregorian was duty officer. And guess what? There you are. Galahad, calling in a Collect request.”
“I’ve heard enough, Lamb.”
“Word is, you’re a happily married man. Making a Hollywood musical of the fact, let alone a song and dance. So how come you needed rescuing from the clutches of the Met, Claude? After they’d picked you up for kerb-crawling way out in London Fields? Quite the regular, apparently, trawling for tarts every night. Watching but not buying—always worries the working girls, that. Thought they might have a headcase on their hands.” Lamb leered. “So. Things not so rosy in the bedroom? Lovely wife a little icy where it matters?”
Whelan said, “Claire—she—it’s been some years since—look, none of this is your business, none of it. We have a very special marriage.”
“Just not a particularly active one.”
“Shut up! How dare you! What could you
