“Are you okay?” Lech asked.
“I’ll have a mineral water. Thank you.”
There was hubbub, though they were the only group there. Sid was with them. She’d been abandoned by the Brains Trust in a motorway service station, without her phone—the contemporary equivalent of sensory deprivation—but she was resourceful, and a functioning adult, so it shouldn’t be that surprising she’d found her way home. Her reunion with River had been brief and low key, and Catherine had found herself having to turn away, though none of the others did.
It had gone 5:30. They were on their own time, which didn’t mean Lamb wouldn’t find a way to make them suffer. But anyway: There was hubbub as Sid went over details of the story she’d already told.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I lost my phone, that’s all.”
“You should have seen wonder boy. Crowbarred that door like it was a jam jar.”
“He usually has trouble with jam jars.”
“What was in the envelope?”
“Money. A burner.”
“Had some ink done.”
“That’s nice.”
“What are they like? This Brains Trust crew?”
“Old. Not ancient. But sprung chickens.”
“I met Stam.”
“He’s their boss. But actually, I think Avril’s their leader.”
“This Daisy chick flattened you?”
“The way a startled animal might.”
“Do people come here for fun?”
“I expect only sad people.”
“‘I’ll shoot you dead’? Did he even have a gun?”
“It was a threat. He didn’t have it notarised.”
“And you think Taverner’s primed them for an op?”
“She’s up to something. That’s for sure.”
“Doesn’t sound like they’re dangerous.”
Catherine joined in. “There’s a story about them. Molly reminded me.”
“Share?”
“Daisy had a breakdown. She walked out on her life, didn’t tell anyone where she went. The others spent a year looking for her. The Park didn’t help because she’d quit the Service by then. Anyway, she was living in an encampment beneath a motorway flyover with a group of whatever the PC term is. Not the kind of people who call the police.”
“Why would they call the police?”
“Because when the Brains Trust fetched Daisy away, it was an enemy action.” Catherine sipped her mineral water. It tasted like exactly what it was. “They might be old,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean they’re safe.”
Everyone was quiet for a while. Then Lech said, “Who is Taverner aiming them at?”
“Could be anyone,” Shirley said.
“Except Lamb seemed to think he knew.”
“Lamb thinks he knows everything.”
“Yes, but if Lamb thinks it’s obvious, then it’s someone we all know,” Louisa said. “And not, I dunno, her postman or someone.”
“Why would First Desk set a hit crew on her postman?” Ash asked.
“You’ve not known her as long as we have.”
River said, “Either way, she shouldn’t have used us as her . . . Allen key.”
“‘Us’?” said Ash.
“Sid and me.”
“Us,” said Shirley.
Sid said, “Taverner’s out of control. If she’s using this crew as expendables, she should be stopped.”
“We don’t know that’s what she’s doing.”
“We can take a fair guess.”
“They’re pensioners.”
“They ran ops in Northern Ireland, during the Troubles. If she’s got a hold on them, it’s because they know how to get things done.”
“Creepy things.”
“Peter Judd,” said Louisa.
“We’re playing word association?”
“No.” She set her empty wineglass down. “He’s Taverner’s bête noire, not Lamb. That whole firefight thing with the tiger team, remember? That was down to him. And more grubby stuff since. He’s got something on her, or she’d have dealt with him by now. So maybe this is her way of sorting him out. Using a crew of deniables.”
“If so,” Lech said, “she’ll make sure the deniables are dealt with too. Afterwards.”
They all thought about that for a bit.
River said, “CC worked with my grandfather.”
“Everyone worked with your—”
“They were friends. I don’t want these guys hurt. Not as expendables in Taverner’s war with Judd.”
“Might not be Judd she’s setting them on,” Shirley said.
“Might not even be a hit.”
“It might not be Judd, and Taverner might be assembling a squad for a crack at Eurovision,” said River. “But I don’t plan to sit back and hope for the best. Taverner’s never played nice, and I doubt she’s starting now.”
“And we’ve been told to do nothing,” Shirley said, her tone suggesting this was a persuasive argument in favour of the opposite.
“Taverner should be stopped,” Sid said again.
“Should have been stopped long ago,” Louisa said.
“So we’re going live on this?” River asked.
“On what exactly?”
“Preventing this crew from doing something dangerous. Which will result in their getting hurt.”
“I’m not a hundred per cent sure I want to protect Judd.”
Catherine said, “Preventing harm is always a good move. But let’s nobody get hurt, right? Including all of you.”
“We don’t even know where Stamoran and his crew are.”
“But if it’s Judd they’re after,” Louisa said, “I know someone who’ll know his movements.”
“Can we agree first that that’s a priority? None of you getting hurt?”
River said, “This is about talking people down from doing something stupid. Nobody’s going to be jumping in front of bullets.”
“Well, I’m in,” said Shirley.
“Me too.”
“And me.”
River looked at Ash and Roddy, neither of whom had spoken.
Roddy said to Sid, “It’s a hummingbird, by the way.”
“That’s nice,” she said again.
He nodded importantly. “I’m in.”
Ash said, “Whatever.”
Avril watched from a distance as CC fumbled for his car keys, found them, slipped them into the lock on his fourth attempt. That he’d been with First Desk was apparent from his flustered state. It didn’t take a genius to guess what she’d told him. Which meant a reckoning was due.
Overdue, even. Avril had no belief in a life after this one, but that didn’t mean sins didn’t need paying for, and that murdering Dougie Malone had been a sin brooked no argument. The act of killing him had been a minor infraction, on the level of stamping out a cockroach, but their method had been unforgivable—a necessary means of disguising their involvement, but unforgivable. And in the end, this was what had done for Daisy; its stain propelling her onto the streets, a punishment she’d had no right to endure on her own.
Being in London was a reminder of bad times. The streets were full of homeless soldiers. We wind them up and point them, but we don’t always bring them back afterwards—Christ, even Kipling recognised this. It’s not a new problem, it’s an old story. They had come home after Belfast, the four of them, accustoming themselves to a new existence; one in which danger was less overt, but car ignitions couldn’t be fired without the engines being checked first. As for their memories—of what they’d done, whose evil they’d helped facilitate—these had seethed unchecked. Pitchfork had been a nightmare made flesh; raping, murdering, but protected from justice by virtue of being a Service asset. The Troubles might be over, and the operation put to bed, but that didn’t mean sleep came easily. So in the end they’d made new vows, leaving CC out of it because he was too straight, too narrow, too good, to be included, and she and Al and Daisy had hunted down the beast in his Cumbrian fastness. As the previous evening’s events had reminded her, this was not something she would ever raise a toast to. But nor was it something she’d regret, or if she did, that would only be on account of what Daisy went through as a result, years afterwards, when she dropped off all their maps.