“So if I hadn’t sought clearance, I wouldn’t have needed it?”
He seemed pleased she’d grasped the basic idea.
This wasn’t a conversation to be relayed to Jackson Lamb, though he was also on the morning’s agenda—whether or not Lamb liked things, in the normal human sense, was a matter for philosophers or possibly zoologists, but what was certain was that there were things he insisted happen, among them team meetings. Not that he went out of his way to prepare. When she crossed the landing to his room five minutes before today’s gathering was due to start, carrying a small wooden stool and a bottle of hand sanitiser, he was slumped in his chair like a bean bag on top of a clothes horse; a cigarette burning in one fist, the other inside his trousers. Both his eyes were closed. The smell of tobacco almost overpowered a recent bout of flatulence.
She put the stool by the door; placed the sanitiser on top of it.
Lamb opened one eye. “Lubricant? Pretty optimistic for a staff meeting.” He closed it again. “But I suppose it’ll be a chance to swap these gender fluids I keep hearing about.”
“As I believe I’ve mentioned already,” she said, “it might be an idea to curb your boyish humour in front of Ashley. Give her half the chance, she’ll bring a harassment charge.”
Lamb adopted a wounded pout. “What did I ever do to her?”
“Broke her arm?”
“She’s still on about that? Bloody snowflake.”
This too was familiar territory. When Ashley Khan—a fledgling spook—had been despatched by Diana Taverner to tail a slow horse, and Lamb had sent her back to the Park bent out of shape, Taverner’s response had been: You broke her, she’s yours. Which, as far as Lamb was concerned, was tantamount to being made to suffer consequences for his actions, precisely the kind of moralistic bullshit he’d joined the Service to avoid. What was this, the Church?
A recitation he spared her today, perhaps because he was too busy scratching his crotch.
He was wearing a new shirt, she noticed; or a shirt new to her. It was only actually new if they came pre-frayed. Outside of a sixth-form college staffroom, Lamb was always going to come off worst when fashion statements were being made, but this was particularly ill-judged: a pale shade of lilac, it had the effect of making his skin look waxier than usual. On the other hand, it was of a piece with the rest of his ensemble: the grey woollen trousers, shiny at the knees; the lumpy, shapeless jacket, which just might, on second thoughts, have been made-to-measure. This had originally been either light blue and was now more-or-less evenly soiled, or dark blue and had faded. A yellowing stain she didn’t want to think about adorned the left shoulder.
Still by the door, she said, “Are you going to tell me what happened in Wimbledon the other night?”
“Doesn’t seem likely.”
“Because Shirley’s in the San. And Lech’s lucky not to be in hospital.”
“Which one’s Lech again?”
“You’ve barely enough staff left to run an ice cream van.”
“Getting through them nicely, aren’t we?” said Lamb. “If the bloody Park didn’t keep sending replacements, we’d have this place to ourselves by now.”
“And if I hadn’t twisted Taverner’s arm, Shirley would be out on her ear. I know the phrase ‘duty of care’ means nothing to you, but casualties and rehab-placements go down on the end-of-year audit. Sooner or later, someone’s going to ask what you’re doing to your agents.”
Lamb had adopted a glazed expression, unless she just had glaziers on her mind. “I’d have paid money to see you twisting Diana’s arm. Did you oil up beforehand or just get sweaty in the act?”
“Would you mind removing your hand from your trousers?”
He did so, sniffed it, and wiped it on his jacket.
“It’s like a chimps’ tea party round here,” she said.
“If you’re offering.”
“We’re out of milk.”
“I’ll take it black,” Lamb said. “As a concession to your miserable failures of housekeeping.”
“This place is falling apart,” she said. “And I don’t just mean the plasterwork. If you expect me to keep on holding the fort for you, I deserve to know what’s happening.”
“If landing me in the shit with Taverner’s what you call holding my fort, then don’t start bashing my bishop. Or the plasterwork’s not the only thing’ll be falling apart.”
“. . . How did I land you in it with Taverner?”
“Because anything you can twist her arm with pretty obviously came from me. And she’s not one to shy away from getting her own back. In fact she usually does that first, to save time.”
“Oh,” said Catherine. Then: “I may have mentioned her entanglement with Peter Judd.”
“Yeah, that would do it.” This entanglement, involving Diana’s accepting funding for Service ops from a cabal led by a notorious power-seeker, was not something she wanted public light shed on. Lamb looked at the cigarette he was holding, then stubbed it out in a tinfoil container squatting among the papers on his desk. “I’d be careful crossing roads if I were you. In fact, I’d be careful sitting quietly in your room. She’s got a long reach.”
“I think she’s got more to worry about right now.”
“If she can’t protect the Service from a Number Ten land grab, she doesn’t deserve to be in the job.”
It had been Judd Catherine was thinking about, not Downing Street. “You think the PM’s got an eye on the Park?”
“I think the PM keeps both eyes on the nearest pair of tits,” said Lamb. “But that garden gnome that makes his decisions for him seems pretty keen on taking back control. And that would involve sidelining Taverner, yeah.”
“I didn’t realise you kept track of the Westminster bubble.”
He put a hand down his trousers again. When it reappeared, it was holding another cigarette. “Only in case it causes me grief. Like that butterfly effect. Some arsehole flaps his wings in SW1, next thing you know there’s a storm in my teacup. Speaking of which.” He reached for the mug on his desk, and tossed it at her. About half an ounce of cold tea containing at least two cigarette ends scattered around the room, much of it spattering Catherine’s dress.
“For heaven’s sake!”
“That’s for lying about the milk.”
“Are you ever going to—oh, forget it!” She left the mug where it had landed and returned to her own room, where she did damage limitation with a box of tissues. While she was there, she heard the others coming up the stairs: Louisa, Lech, Roderick, Ashley.
It hadn’t escaped her that he’d said nothing about what happened in Wimbledon. That had been the point of throwing the mug, she realised. He was always one for creating a distraction messier than whatever he was covering up. Which was either a very good attribute for a spook, or a very bad one. So he either did it deliberately, to give the wrong impression, or it came as naturally to him as smoking and farting, always supposing he wasn’t faking them too.
She spent far too much time trying to understand him. She should just accept that he was what he was, and get on with life.
When she returned to his office, the others were filing in, Louisa, Lech and Roddy helping themselves to hand sanitiser as they passed. Ashley didn’t. Catherine raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll use it on the way out,” Ashley said.
“Are they all here?” Lamb asked Catherine. “I lose count.”
“It’s not like it’s a huge number,” Louisa said.
“And why are two of them wearing masks?”
“Only one of them’s wearing a mask,” Catherine said. “And that’s her right.”
Lech made jazz hands. “Same face as yesterday,” he said. “But I appreciate being noticed.”
“Yeah, enjoy it. With your looks, it’s the closest you’ll get to consensual sex.” Lamb looked at Ashley. “That’s a funny hijab. What’s it decorated with, germs?”