“But you did mean to follow me.”
“I’m sorry. No harm was intended. But I need to talk to you, outside your office.”
“Is this a work issue, Mr. Whelan?”
“It’s connected.”
“Because I’ve finished for the day. And unless I missed something, you’ve finished for your career.”
He acknowledged this with a nod. “It’s something I’ve been asked to look into. Unofficial, but . . .”
“But official all the same.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want to encounter Jackson Lamb while pursuing it.”
He paused, and then said, “Not quite yet, no.”
She wondered if this were where it began, the inevitable unravelling. Not her own, but Lamb’s—sooner or later, it was bound to happen; there’d be a panel of inquiry, or a lynch mob. But it didn’t seem likely that Claude Whelan would be first in line with a pitchfork. It had been said of him, she remembered, that he was too meek to hang onto First Desk long; that the alligators were circling before his feet were on the floor.
“I’m on my way home,” she told him.
“It won’t take long.”
“And it’s turning cold.”
“There’s a place up ahead. Please. It won’t take long, and it is important.”
“And if I’d rather not?”
But he simply smiled, and said again, “Please.”
The place up ahead, which she’d already known about, was a bar. Big glass windows; socially distanced tables. The sign on the door declared a thirty-patron maximum, but that was wishful thinking; the room was all but empty. Whelan held the door, and she walked in. How long since she had been in a bar? If she put her mind to it, she could perform the mathematics. All those years and months, all those days. They stretched a huge distance in one direction; in the other, they might crash into a wall any moment.
A waitress, wearing a visor, was hovering before they were seated.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a G&T,” Whelan said.
If I ever drink again, it will be like this. No special reason, no special occasion. Someone will offer me a drink, and I will ask for a glass of wine. When I drink again, it will be like this.
Not right now, though.
“Just water.”
“Still or sparkling?” The waitress asked.
“Sparkling. Thank you.”
“Ice and a—”
“Yes.”
Whelan gave the waitress his full attention while placing his order, and Catherine remembered what else had been said about him: that while he had made much of his happy marriage, he’d had a roving eye. Something of a wandering car, too. A close encounter with an anti-kerb crawling initiative might have derailed him before those alligators had their boots on if he hadn’t managed to quash the police report, or mostly quash it. Lamb had scraped what was left together and used the information to ensure that, whatever else he did while First Desk, Whelan never messed with Slough House.
At least some of that was presumably on Whelan’s mind as they waited for their drinks, but he kept a tight lid on it, and in place of any more obvious conversational gambit recited a phone number.
When it became clear that he expected a response, she said, “That’s Lamb’s phone.”
“I know. On his own desk?”
“Where else?” she said, though it was a reasonable question. Had the phone annoyed Lamb, which it could easily have done by, say, ringing, there was no telling where it might have ended up.
“What I mean is,” he said, “if that phone rings, he’ll be the one who answers it, yes? Not you.”
“In general.”
“Why only in general?”
“It’s not complicated. The phone is on his desk. Sometimes it rings. He’ll either answer it or not, depending on what mood he’s in, and whether he’s even there. If he’s out and it rings and I hear it, I’ll answer it. If I get there in time.” It felt a little like explaining how stairs work. “I think that covers everything.”
“There was a call on Monday afternoon,” Whelan said. “To that number. At five forty-six. Did Lamb answer it himself?”
Catherine’s mind fed off static for a moment, as anyone’s would. “I imagine so,” she said. “I didn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“The call was from a Dr. Sophie de Greer.”
“Am I supposed to recognise the name?”
“She’s a government adviser, a Downing Street, ah . . .”
“Flunkey?”
Whelan blinked. He said, “That’s the last phone call she’s known to have made. Dr. de Greer hasn’t been seen since.”
Catherine lifted her glass to her mouth, felt the slice of lemon brush her upper lip. The sensation didn’t take her back, exactly, but it suggested that the door was always open. She looked around. Bars had not changed since they’d been her daily backdrop; or, more likely, they had changed and changed back again. The theme of this particular establishment was industrial chic, or possibly warehouse glamour. The furniture was solid and blocky, bulbs hung from the ceiling in metal bowls, and the visible pipework followed a schematic no sane plumber would have devised. The walls these pipes hung on were distressed, or that was the word whoever was responsible no doubt used. Call that distressed? she wanted to ask. I work between walls that make these look ecstatic. The glass in her hand felt heavy, but held only water. If she was ever going to fall, when the day came that she fell, it wouldn’t be with a Claude Whelan. Nor even with the Claude Whelan.
“I’m wondering if there’s any light you can cast on this for me.”
“You’d have to speak to Lamb.”
“I intend to. But not before I’ve done a little background.”
“I’m afraid I can’t offer any. I didn’t answer her call, and I’ve no idea what it was about.” She put the glass down. “Sorry not to be of more help. But if we’re finished . . .”
“Not quite.” He also placed his glass on the table, and spent a moment adjusting its position according to some quiet whimsy of his own. He’d started his career over the river, she reminded herself, among the weasels, who dealt in data rather than human intelligence, and as a result were considered tricky when it came to social interaction. Whelan had been an exception: on his first day at the Park he’d set the Queens of the Database all atizzy by wearing open-necked shirt and chinos. But it was as well to remember that you could deck a weasel out in tennis whites, he’d still be a weasel.
He said, “You were Charles Partner’s PA before transferring to Slough House, am I right?”
People didn’t ask if they were right without knowing they were. She gave a single nod, and he went on:
“While Partner was in office he instigated a protocol. An illegal one.”
“I wasn’t privy to all that went on behind Charles’s door.”
“I thought you were close.”
“So did I.”
He waited, but Catherine had nothing to add.
“The protocol was called Waterproof. Does that ring bells?”
“Well, it’s not an unfamiliar word. But I don’t recall encountering it professionally.”
“It involved disappearances.”
That made sense. Much of her Service career had involved disappearances of one sort or another.
“There’s been a suggestion that the protocol is still in use,” said Whelan.
“I see,” Catherine said. “So you think this—de Greer?”
“De Greer.”
“You think this de Greer woman has been the subject of an historic, not to mention illegal, Service protocol? Based on a phone call she apparently made to Slough House?”
“It’s a line of enquiry.”
“For her sake, I hope you have others. Because anything on the scale you’re suggesting requires organisation and resources. We have a fridge whose door won’t close properly. Does that sound like we fit the bill?”