“The HE element, the high explosive, we already knew was Semtex,” Whelan said. “We’ve since determined it came from a batch stolen during a raid on a police armoury in Wakefield.”
“The police have Semtex now? When did that start?”
There was a slight ripple of laughter: not as much as if it had been the PM’s quip.
Whelan said, “It was part of a haul seized by HMRC, along with a quantity of firearms, off the Cumbrian coast in ’92. Believed at the time to be intended for an IRA splinter group. But there was no proof of that, and no arrests made.”
“Ninety-
Whelan suspected he was trying to remember who’d been in government then; whether this was something that could be passed off on the other party. He said, “The raid on the armoury took place three years later.”
“But it’s so
And then lapsed into silence as it struck everyone present that worries about the explosive’s efficacy were misplaced, to say the least.
The meeting had carried on for a further two hours, and had dissolved into rhetoric long before it came to a close. It was as if all those present felt the need to go on the record, even a sealed record, as to their personal disgust at the Westacres event, as if worried that it would otherwise be assumed that they approved. Well, in the internet age, that was probably true. On the other hand, the lengthy discussion of property damage, insurance hikes and likely impact on tourist spending wouldn’t have endeared the assembled company to grieving parents, so it was, Whelan supposed, swings and roundabouts.
Meanwhile, he had work to do. By nightfall there’d be a dossier on Robert Winters this thick; they’d have every contact he’d ever made under a microscope, squirming like cancer cells. Walking back the cat, it was called: they’d walk this cat back to Robert Winters’s cradle, and scorch the earth it trod on. By nightfall—and his phone rang, interrupting his reverie.
Taverner, the screen read.
The car gave a tumbril-like shudder.
“Diana.”
“Claude,” she said. “Meeting go well?”
“Fine, yes, I—”
“Good. But we need to talk.”
And something in her tone made Whelan understand that by nightfall, he’d have more problems than he had now.
Louisa had made coffee an hour previously, and still it sat, a film developing on its surface. Soon she would pour it away, and maybe refill the cup, and either drink it or not. Life was full of choices.
Predictably, Marcus had become cross.
“Just so we’re clear. If you’ve chosen now to speak just so you can mess with our heads, there’ll be repercussions. Emphasis on the percussion.”
And Shirley had added: “And take your bloody hood off. Or I’ll do it for you.”
A short acquaintance informed the intelligent that Shirley’s threats never stayed empty for long. Slowly, Coe had pulled his hood back, wincing at the light. His face was washed out, his stubble messy; his eyes pale and watery, as if he were staring from the bottom of a pool.
“Jesus. Do you eat? Or exercise? Or anything?”
“Can we stick to the point?” Louisa snapped. “What did you mean, you don’t think River’s dead?”
Coe started to speak, but his voice was too thick. He cleared his throat and began again. “Same as you. Lamb didn’t say he is.”
“I just read Lamb’s text, fool,” Shirley said. “Identified his body? Duh?”
“I’ve met Lamb.”
“So?”
“So he doesn’t mince words.”
Louisa said, “He’s right.”
“You want him to be right,” Marcus said. “There’s a difference.”
And maybe that’s all it was, she thought now: she wanted Coe to be right because otherwise River was dead, same as Min, and she wasn’t sure what she would do in that case—oddly, she found herself thinking of Catherine, wishing Catherine were here. There wouldn’t be anything Catherine could do either, but it would make a difference all the same. Right this moment, Louisa was the only woman in Slough House, if you didn’t count Shirley and Moira. Company would have been nice.
But Lamb hadn’t said River was dead. He’d said he’d identified his body.
And this was exactly the kind of thing Lamb would do, Louisa reflected, just to fuck with them. Let them all think River was dead. Exactly the stupid bastard kind of thing he’d do, though it did leave other questions open, like where River was now, and whose body Lamb had identified.
She stood abruptly, took her cold coffee to the kitchen, poured it down the sink, then went into River’s room. JK Coe was at his desk, apparently focused on his monitor, though she couldn’t see his eyes for his hood. He was stroking the desk in front of him. He didn’t look up at her entrance, or when she spoke.
“You were Psych Eval, weren’t you?”
He didn’t reply.
“Before whatever fuck-up brought you here.”
