“Is this to do with Westacres?”
“I’m pretty sure I can issue orders without needing to explain my reasons,” Diana said. “Unless you’re about to tell me that’s not so?”
“I’ll have to check my terms and conditions,” Flyte said, without the faintest suggestion of a smile. “But just out of curiosity, why are we here? And not in your office?”
“Not everything we do should be behind closed doors,” Diana said. “All part of the new openness.”
“And nothing to do with keeping this particular order secret?”
“If you have something to say, Emma, why not say it? We’ll both feel much better, I’m sure.”
“The Dogs aren’t a private army,” Flyte said. “Forgetting that brought Mr. Whelan’s predecessor grief.”
“Dame Ingrid retired with honours.”
“Only because the Tower’s just for tourists these days.”
“Yes, well. I’m not saying there weren’t those who felt she deserved a bullet in the head more than a whip-round when she left, but you can’t read too much into that. She didn’t have my gift for getting on with people.” This didn’t produce a smile either. Diana sighed. “All right, if it makes you feel more comfortable.” She produced the warrant she’d had Claude Whelan sign; the third sheet of a supposed triplicate. “Good enough?”
Emma Flyte read it before responding. “More than,” she said, and made to tuck it into her jacket pocket, but Diana extended a hand.
“This stays under wraps. You report only to me, and I report to Claude in confidence. That’s the chain of command. Are we clear?”
“We are.”
“I do hope we’re going to get along, Emma. You came to us with impeccable credentials.”
Flyte relinquished her grip on the warrant, and Diana made it disappear.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll get onto it now,” Flyte said.
Diana Taverner watched her walk away, noticing the number of men, women too, who glanced her way as she passed. Not the greatest asset for a member of the Service, but it cut both ways. Who was going to believe that’s what she was?
The seagulls’ cries were ever more distant. You moved the rubbish somewhere else, and the racket followed it. It all seemed so simple, put like that. Complications only set in once you moved away from the metaphorical.
Free from observation she awarded herself a cigarette, willing her mind into a blank: no plots, no plans, no corkscrew machinations. Around her, the world carried on: business as usual on a January morning, and London recovering from the seismic shock of violence. In front of her, only the river; grey, and endlessly travelling elsewhere.
When the kettle boiled its switch flipped up to turn itself off. When she was a child, electric kettles hadn’t been invented, or not in her house – kettles back then had sat on the stovetop, and when they boiled they whistled, so you’d come and turn the gas off. Nothing about the process had been automatic. Catherine was thinking these thoughts largely to stop herself thinking any others: it was dangerous having thoughts with Jackson Lamb standing behind you. He might not be able to read the contents of your head, but he could make you think he could. Sometimes, that was enough.
“If you want to grieve, go right ahead,” he told her. “I’m here for you.”
“I can’t begin to describe how that makes me feel.”
“You’re welcome.”
She threw a teabag into a mug, and poured boiling water on top of it.
“Not having one yourself?”
“I’ve things to do, Jackson. When you’ve drunk that, you might want to leave.”
She left it on the counter and leaned against the wall, arms folded. Lamb studied the mug as if he’d never encountered one in quite this state before, and sniffed suspiciously. “Got a spoon?”
Catherine slammed a drawer open and shut again, and all but threw one at him.
He said, “It was his grandfather shot him.”
“I’m sure it was an accident.”
“You should be a lawyer. I’m halfway convinced already.” He mushed the teabag against the side of the mug with the spoon, then fished it out and dumped it on the counter. “Milk in the fridge?”
“You don’t take milk.”
“Maybe I’ve changed.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” She tore a sheet of kitchen roll from a holder on the wall, and used it to scoop up the teabag. “His grandfather wouldn’t have shot him on purpose.”
“Twice?”
“Whatever.”
“You just lost the jury, Standish. Once could be an accident, I’ll grant you. The second shot, right in the face? That takes carelessness to a whole new level.”
“He’s an old man.” She dumped her little parcel in the bin. “Confused, frightened. He probably thought River was an intruder.”
“That why he lured him up to the bathroom?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Just walking you through the stages. You seem to have put denial behind you quite swiftly.”
“Well, you have a way of hustling people straight on to anger. Are you going to drink that?”
“It’s still hot. Don’t want to scald myself. Any biscuits?”
“No.”
He said, “It’s almost like you don’t want me here. But what kind of boss would I be if I abandoned you when you’ve just had a shock? Anything might happen.”
