Spook Street полностью

When Moira Tregorian arrived, he was on his back in River’s room, fiddling around with cables. She tried to go past but the sight of a pair of legs protruding from beneath a desk defeated her, and she was back fifteen seconds later, coat still on.

“Is everything all right?”

He didn’t reply.

“Is the network down?”

Because if the Secret Service’s network was down, things were potentially serious. Maybe she ought to hide under a desk too.

But he still didn’t reply, and it only then occurred to her she was looking at Roderick Ho’s legs, not River Cartwright’s—Cartwright a lot less likely to be wearing jeans with purple embroidery on the thighs—so chances were their owner’s head was plugged into a Walkman, or whatever they were called. There was a strong argument that such devices should not be countenanced in the office, but it gave her the excuse to do what she did next, which was kick Ho on the soles of his feet.

Which didn’t hurt, but at least made him bang his head on the desk.

“Ow! Christ!”

“Yes, well, there’s no need for that.”

Ho pushed himself out and scowled up at her. “What you do that for?” he shouted.

She tugged at her earlobe.

Ho pulled his buds out and said, “What you do that for?” with equal petulance but less volume.

“Because you weren’t responding to me.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t hear you.”

“Precisely.”

Ho rubbed his head. Talking to women frequently left him bruised. It would be easy to start thinking they were all mad and violent.

“So—what are you doing?”

“Swapping PCs. This one’s better than the spare in my room.”

“But isn’t it Cartwright’s?”

“Oh, yeah, you haven’t heard. He’s dead.”

“He’s what?”

“Lamb texted me. I’m kind of his right-hand,” Ho said. “The others, well. Not exactly your high-fliers. Let’s face it, Shirley’s a nutjob, and—”

“He’s dead?”

Ho said, “Lamb just identified his body.”

“Dear dear me,” Moira said faintly.

There was movement behind her as Louisa arrived. “What’s going on?”

“I’m just swapping—”

“Young Cartwright’s dead,” Moira told her.

“No.”

“Mr. Lamb just texted—”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“No.”

Louisa left the room and entered her own office, closing the door behind her as softly as a breeze.

“Oh dear. I didn’t handle that very well.”

“Handle what?” said Ho.

JK Coe arrived, half-invisible in his hoodie. If he registered the presence of intruders, he didn’t say; just slumped at his desk and booted up. Already his fingers were tapping away, caressing invisible keys.

“Did you hear?” Moira Tregorian said.

She had as much luck with him as she’d had with Ho.

“Is everyone deaf?”

Something about her body language, the warning vibes, got through to Coe. He pulled his earbuds out and looked her way from the safety of his hood.

“It’s Cartwright. River. Lamb’s texted to say he’s . . . ”

It occurred to her she wasn’t making the best job of breaking the news, but on the other hand, there were only so many ways of finishing this particular sentence.

“. . . dead.”

Coe stared for a moment or two, then looked at Ho, who had temporarily abandoned his plan of cannibalising River’s kit.

“It was me Lamb texted,” he said, to underline who was whose right hand.

Coe stared a bit longer, then said, “Uh-huh.”

This was the longest speech either had heard him deliver.

More noise from downstairs: Shirley and Marcus, arriving together. And noise from the hallway too, as Louisa re-emerged from her office and came back into River’s room, her eyes the colour of burnt matches. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Ho said, “I was just swapping—”

“Not you, dickhead. Her.”

“Who’s a dickhead? Oh, him,” Shirley said from the doorway.

“Not a fucking word. Anyone.” This included everyone in Louisa’s orbit: Marcus too, on the landing with Shirley. “Except you.” This to Moira. “What. The fuck. Are you talking about?”

“I really don’t appreciate—”

“You have to understand this. You really have to understand this. I am this close to wringing your fucking—”

“Louisa.”

It was Marcus, his hand on her elbow.

“Louisa, you need to cool it. Just sit down, yeah?”

And she wanted to scream that she’d sit down when she was good and ready and what the hell did he know about it, anyway? Because he hadn’t been there when this bitch had said what she’d said, that River was dead—how could he be dead? But she didn’t say any of that because she was shaking too hard. It was as if she’d fallen from a tree into cold, cold water, and would never be warm again.

A chair was being scraped across a floor, and that was Shirley. Two arms were lowering her into it, and that was Marcus.

Who said, “And now I really need to know what the hell is going down.”

There are only so many ways of ringing a doorbell: the brief dash delivered by the confident; the short dot of those who don’t want to disturb you; and the gunna-lean-on-this-thing-till-it-opens approach favoured by bailiffs, ex-husbands, and anyone else unused to a friendly welcome.

“Jackson,” Catherine Standish said. “What a surprise.”

This without a flicker of emotion.