“It sounds like that’s the way someone wants you to look. Slough House may be a damp and draughty teardown, but it’s outlasted sturdier institutions. Not to mention my career, as you’re well aware.” He rested a finger on the rim of his glass. “Lamb and Taverner saw to that between them. In fact, any time Taverner wants a dirty deed done, it seems to me it’s Lamb she turns to. And you know what they say about old spooks like Lamb. The past’s their playbook. Partner was his mentor, don’t forget. So yes, adapting one of his historical—illegal—schemes, that sounds right up his alley.”
Or his passage even, was Catherine’s involuntary thought, as a street sign not far from here came to mind. That “Lamb’s Passage” seemed a vulgarity was an occupational hazard, one she wondered if the other slow horses suffered from: a Lamb-style Tourette’s, brought on by proximity. Face masks no protection.
She said, “I won’t pretend to have full knowledge of everything he’s up to at any given time, but I can tell you Lamb wouldn’t implement anything Charles Partner ever dreamed up. Or cooperate with Taverner, unless there was something in it for him.”
“Taverner controls a large budget.”
“He’s not interested in money.”
“Really?”
“Well, I wouldn’t leave the petty cash where he could find it. But if I had a Swiss bank account, I wouldn’t need to hide the number from him.”
Whelan nodded, as if this confirmed something he suspected. Which irritated Catherine, who was pretty sure it was an act. She said, “Does that give you enough background? Because when you’re ready to talk to Lamb, please let me know. I might bring popcorn.”
“The call was Monday afternoon. Has anything out of the ordinary happened since?”
Well, this could go either way. What was ordinary for Slough House was everything but in most places. So it was tempting to tell him no, that the even tenor of slow-horse life had continued uninterrupted for months, but there was a point of principle here, one Lamb himself would endorse. Don’t try to hide something from someone who might already know about it.
Catherine wasn’t the world’s best liar, anyway.
She said, “We’ve had an employee issue.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of my colleagues had an . . . episode.” Catherine reached for her glass, and took a sip. Water tasted wrong. “A rather violent one. She was arrested.”
“When did this happen?”
“Monday evening.”
“So it might have been related to the phone call.”
“I don’t see how.”
“It’s a matter of patterns, though, isn’t it?” As if to underline the thought, he mirrored Catherine’s recent action: reaching for his drink, tasting it. “What was the nature of this, ah, episode?”
She gave him the bullet points: the iron, the bus, the traffic jam of witnesses.
“Were the Dogs called in?”
The Dogs being the Park’s internal police force, generally first on the scene when Service-related shit was hitting taxpayers’ fans.
“And she’s now, what? On bail? In a cell? Unemployed?”
“She’s receiving treatment.”
“So I’d imagine. Whereabouts?”
“In the San.”
Whelan raised an eyebrow. “The place in Dorset?”
She nodded.
“That’s a pretty exclusive, not to say expensive, form of rehab.”
“She’s a valued employee.”
“No, she isn’t. She’s Slough House. Any public meltdown involving the police, she’d be cut adrift, you know that. So what happened?”
Catherine said, “I asked Diana Taverner for a favour.”
Whelan stared.
“She owed me one. I gave her my lasagne recipe, she’d been pestering me about it for ages.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Whelan finished his drink. Then asked, “How long have you worked for Lamb?”
“I try not to think about it.”
“No, I can see why. Because he’s rubbing off on you.”
“If that were the case,” she said, “I’d definitely make hay with that delightful image. Now, to the best of my recollection, Shirley’s episode apart, nothing out of the ordinary happened on Monday or since. That being so, I think we’ve finished, don’t you?”
“For the time being.” The waitress approached and he shook his head, warning her off. Then said, “But not for good. Because I’m going to need to find out more about this phone call.”
“I’m sure you’ll do whatever you think best.”
“Even if that means annoying Lamb.”
“I’m not sure he’ll notice, to be honest. But if I might offer advice?” Catherine stood, buttoning her coat. “Don’t take him at face value. There’s a reason Lamb acts the way he does.”
“And why is that?”
“He’s a joe. Always has been. Always will be.”
“And you admire that.”
“Admiration would be beside the point.”
“But you’re on his side.”
“As opposed to whose?” Catherine wondered, but not until later; not until she was out on the street again, noticing how, even to her sober view, the colours had deepened with the hour’s darkening, the washed-out reds and faded blues looking richer than before, the greys and browns an earthier, muddier soup.
Security at the embassy was of the fuck-you variety: suits, shades and visible earpieces, as if someone had rung Heavies-’R’-Us. Diana Taverner’s invitation to enter was a hip-height hand-waggle, and once through the front door she had to surrender her phone to a woman who scanned the barcode on her e-mailed invite with an expression suggesting that a better time awaited her elsewhere. The only bright note was offered by the youngster who subsequently waved a wand over her, still fresh-faced enough to look like he might be channelling Harry Potter rather than checking her for tech. She nodded pleasantly, offering a smile that would pass for the real thing, and was swooped on by a functionary who ushered her through to a well-clad drawing room, all the while maintaining a polite distance. “Our apologies for the security, Ms. Taverner. But you know how it is.”
“Of course. There are always chickens out there, looking to come home to roost.”
“Forgive me. I’m told my English is good, but some idioms remain opaque.”
The room was large enough not to appear crowded but there must have been fifty people present, not including those bearing trays. These were, as usual, far younger and more beautiful than the guests, and on this occasion too, since the guest list leaned heavily towards the arts, better dressed. Diana had a glass in her hand before she’d taken three steps.
“Thank you.”
“We’re very glad you could make it this evening, Ms. Taverner.” Not the server, but her welcoming functionary. “You have an admirer among us.”
“Oh really?”
“Indeed. One of our guest speakers is most eager to meet you.”
“How intriguing.”
This dance, she thought, was as formalised as anything Jane Austen might have imagined; the polite lies offered; the half-truths exchanged, hoping to pass unnoticed. The spook world was its own quadrille. In recognition of this the company had arranged itself in small groupings, each distinct from the other, as if there were circles painted on the floor. But then, this had become the norm at formal gatherings, before the drinks had taken hold; everyone conscious of the clouds others walked in; of the area round a warm, working body that’s full of sweat and spittle, and leaving traces in its wake. Diana remembered being told, when young, that the way to apply perfume was to spritz a dash into the air and walk through the mist. Not an image today’s advertisers would reach for, the lingering nature of airborne particles being a tough sell.