On a more prosaic level, the Extraordinary Meeting of the Limitations Committee called to inquire into Diana Taverner’s suitability as First Desk is an unexpectedly meek affair, there being no one to present a prosecution case. Mention is made of whispers on Westminster Corridors—that old chimera Waterproof has been bandied about—but since the supposed victim of the Park’s machinations, one Sophie de Greer, makes a brief online appearance apologising for her failure to follow the procedure for taking sick leave, such mention is swiftly dismissed as groundless gossip. Following a short address by Taverner herself, in which she recommends that any future such sessions be preceded by the Park’s own assessment of the evidence, the Committee, under the careful stewardship of Oliver Nash, bemoans the unexplained absence of the meeting’s instigator, one Anthony Sparrow, before declaring the proceedings, in effect, a waste of time. The company deconvenes, the firing squad remains unassembled, and when Diana re-enters the hub that morning, it is to a standing ovation from supporters and detractors alike, who can at least find common ground in their appreciation of a skilled operator. Diana herself doesn’t mind why anyone applauds, so long as they do so on their feet. Not that she is unaware of how differently things might have gone. “For a moment there, I thought we were in trouble,” she murmurs in passing, but only Josie hears, and, since she isn’t sure she’s meant to, that young woman makes no reply. For the rest of that day, Diana fulfils promises made on her behalf by Jackson Lamb: resettlement arrangements for Sophie de Greer; the ironing out of administrative wrinkles for the multifarious friends of Alessandro Botigliani; and while this is small enough recompense for how things have turned out, finds such busywork irksome all the same.
As to Sparrow’s whereabouts, these will not become clear for another day or two, but at the moment of Diana’s triumph he is cowering under a hastily assembled pyramid of earth and leaves, simultaneously straining to hear every creak and whistle in the surrounding wood—the same wood in which he made first contact with Benito, an encounter he now quite seriously regrets—and striving to deny that he’s hearing anything at all, a reframing of the narrative which for some reason is less effective than usual. On one level he is certain that those hunting him down, after allowing him a sporting four minutes’ start, intend no more than to scare and humiliate him, while on another he is confident that they will beat him to a soup with sticks and stones. He is correct about one of these outcomes, but it will be some while before he reaches the stage of not caring which it is, so long as it happens without further delay.
Also involved in assembling piles of leaves is Claude Whelan, who is doing a little tidying in the garden—nothing complicated, nothing ambitious; a man’s got to know his limitations—while he thinks back over his recall to arms, in particular dwelling on the surprising discovery that the things he’d have expected to be good at, such as ferreting out the whereabouts of Sophie de Greer, he failed to achieve, while the moments of heroism he has always quite genuinely thought beyond him proved to be his finest, well, not hour. But minutes. He spent some minutes being heroic. And when the dust has settled, he decides, and after he’s been debriefed by Oliver Nash—a process whose conclusion will leave one of the two in possession of more information than when it started—he might contact Shirley Dander, who, though never having been Sophie de Greer, and indeed having no clue as to why anyone might think otherwise, proved an interesting companion: a Robin to his Batman, say. Not that he has thoughts of anything untoward—no, he currently believes that, until Claire has concluded her negotiations with God, and decided whether or not she is coming home, his own behaviour will remain irreproachable on that front; besides, Shirley has neither the shape nor appearance that he generally finds beguiling—but still, there was a moment when she took leave of him, climbing out of the car while a London sunrise struggled to be born, during which he felt they’d made a connection he’d seldom found anywhere else. He suspects she felt this too. “So long,” she’d said to him, “partner.” Then she was gone. He wonders if she’s thinking about him now.
She isn’t, and not only because Catherine has just stepped into her office, the look on her face an unwelcoming welcome. Shirley is about to be reminded that she has no business being in Slough House today; she’s so certain of this that it’s barely worth Catherine opening her mouth to speak.
“You’re supposed to be at the San.”
“Yeah, there was a thing happened? I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”
“It’s still operational. And you’ve not been discharged.”
It figures, thinks Shirley, that Catherine has already established this fact. Catherine was probably on the phone to the San before dawn, checking on Shirley’s whereabouts; adding unscheduled departure to her tally of crimes and misdemeanours, and waiting to pounce as soon as Shirley reappeared.
“What did you imagine you were doing?” Catherine goes on. “Taking on what sounds like a battalion of thugs?”
At a loss for an accurate answer, Shirley says, “Yeah, it’s what Thelma and Louise would have done.”
“Well, I’ve no idea who those people are. But if Thelma and Louise drove off a cliff, would you do that too?”
Shirley doesn’t know where to start.
“Don’t you understand? I’m worried about you.”
“I’m—”
And Shirley is about to say what she always says, I’m fine, but instead remembers the feelings she had on waking, could it be only yesterday? She’s not fine; she just hasn’t hit the ground yet. And she doesn’t want to tell Catherine this, but suspects that Catherine knows; suspects, in fact, that Catherine has experienced something similar in her long-ago past.
Catherine is now standing in front of Shirley’s desk. “I don’t want you in danger, can you not get your head round that? We’ve had too much grief already. People keep getting hurt. People keep dying. We have to look out for one another.”
“You’ve already told me that.”
Catherine, who doesn’t remember having done so, looks puzzled, but decides not to pursue it. “You need to go back. Today. While everything’s still a confused mess, and you’ll be able to get away with it.”
“Why do you care?”
That one, Catherine finds easier. “What’s the alternative?” she asks, and now it’s Shirley’s turn to be puzzled, while out in the corridor Lech Wicinski is leaving another voicemail.
It’s John Bachelor whom Lech is trying to contact. Lech has only the haziest notion of what’s been going on these past twenty-four hours, but he’s aware that the safe house is no longer occupied: he called in on his way to work that morning—a lengthy detour, justified on the ground that he had his fingertips, at least, on a live operation—but it was deserted. Recalling the crusty array of takeaway cartons, sticky glasses, and the furry atmosphere that smoking leaves, he at least has the satisfaction of knowing who has been in occupation, but since he is also aware that Lamb’s practice is to keep his horses in the dark unless he has absolute reason not to, this knowledge is accompanied by the depressing awareness that whatever happened, he is unlikely to be made privy to the details. Unless Bachelor can share these with him, but so far, all Bachelor has shared is frequent half-minutes or so of voicemail emptiness, into which Lech has poured requests for contact.