Free morning, more like. Post offices. “Of course.” He put it in his pocket. “Got to move now, Avril. Safe journey.”
“We love you, CC.”
He was still fumbling for a reply when Avril ended the call.
Old Dog, young Dog. Big Dog, little Dog. The latter had a bruise blooming around his left eye: In days to come it would navigate the gloomier end of the spectrum, concentrating on purples, dark blues, blacks. His mood would roughly match it, his scowl deepening every time he caught someone throwing him a second look.
His partner had a more clinical attitude towards injuries received. You didn’t clench your fist, you marked a card. Then shuffled the deck and dealt yourself the hand you wanted.
Which, in this case, meant running a number-plate through Service software and finding out where its vehicle was.
He glanced at the dashboard. “We’re off the clock.”
“Huh.”
“Want a drink?”
“Suppose.”
“Or would you rather sort out unfinished business?”
It took a moment for that penny to drop, as if it were finding its way through a slot machine. But when it did, lights pulsed and buzzers hummed: If he’d had a handle to pull, young Dog’s eyes would have flashed bells and lemons.
“Skills,” he said.
Old Dog suppressed a sigh. Different language. On the other hand, the language they had in common—the kind most people could be made to understand—was the one they’d be relying on once they caught up with River Cartwright, so he simply nodded, and looked for the best place to turn around.
Avril said, “He’s moving. Slowly.”
“This is London. He might be in his car.”
Daisy said, “Also. Also, he might be doing what he said he was doing. Finding somewhere to lie low.”
“With my gun.”
Daisy looked like she was about to argue a case for having a gun with you most times, just in case, but in the event didn’t.
“How accurate is that thing?”
Al meant the tracker. “It’s Park tech. It works. Just don’t rely on it for a moral compass.”
“We really think First Desk has sent CC to kill someone?”
Avril repeated his point: “He took your gun. And if Taverner simply wanted someone threatened, leaned upon . . .”
She wouldn’t have co-opted someone in their seventies.
They were on Farringdon Road. CC was in Shoreditch. “We need another cab.”
“Well, if we don’t stop someone dying,” Al said, “at least we’re breathing life into the economy.”
But he stepped off the kerb and raised an arm, and only four taxis went by before one stopped.
Judd texted Diana: Side door unlocked. She’d pass this on to Belwether, who would let himself in. This felt satisfyingly covert, and engorged him somewhat, as most things did. Later, he’d allow himself an indulgence. One of Xanthippe’s sunbathing chums had asked about interning with his PR firm. I feel I need more . . . experience before entering the job market. Her number was on his phone, waiting to be unravelled.
He walked the steep incline of the shabby backstage corridor, which was harshly lit and uncarpeted, towards a bucket and mop standing sentry by a door, a reminder of how easily an evening of indulgence might tilt. Through that door, in the club proper, the only lights were a dim glow behind the bar, which stretched the full length of the farthest wall and was bordered by a row of tables, currently burdened by upside-down stools. Beyond the bar, a pair of swing doors led to the lobby, through which, in the building’s wildest dreams, young people would rush to buy overpriced drinks. On the other side was a staircase that went both directions, downstairs to the toilets; upstairs to the balcony. Another staircase, leading up, came to a halt by the door he’d just come through.
Right now, the building’s emptiness felt like a long-nursed grievance. The dim light didn’t reach the dance floor’s corners, which squatted out of sight as if covering up some misfeasance requiring that mop and bucket. There was a smell of bleach, with undernotes of stale beer. Best to stay by the bar for his encounter with Belwether. Just the two of them—I’ll be on hand, Diana had said, but she was unlikely to make an appearance. Not wanting to turn lights on, feeling shadow the better backdrop, he propped open the door to the corridor, allowing its single bulb to illuminate the space. Belwether would arrive soon. Propping himself on a stool, he settled in to wait.
. . . each with different ideas about what to do next, no wonder Slough House was a mess—anyway, yes, here Louisa was outside Nob-Nobs, and there was nothing doing with the front doors, which were locked, so River took charge, trying to impress Sid, because men always think the way to impress women is to be slightly more of a dick than they actually are, suggesting they pair off and circle the building, and after pointing out that seven didn’t divide into pairs Louisa stepped off on her own before she could be partnered with Roddy, heading down an alley by the side of the club the same way you’d enter Slough House, wondering if this was how her story was doomed to play out, forever re-enacting spaces she was familiar with, and then stopped wondering that and wondered instead if this was another colossal waste of time, and if the slow horses, as usual, were just looking to fill the void where their jobs used to be, back when they felt useful . . .
CC’s heart was beating irregularly, skipping, then banging hard. He told himself this was normal, then adjusted: normal for me. The gun in his pocket, swinging heavily against his ribs, was a more reliable measure. Age might be paddling in his wake, but he was rowing the boat.
But if he were his own handler, the instruction he’d give would be Abort. He was leaving a trail an infant could follow; his car on a meter, his reluctant steps passing, don’t even count them, cameras. This was London. You could not move without becoming an extra—one of those stray characters exiting a Chinese restaurant, or leaving a hotel and hailing a taxi—until you became a star. And then the footage would be recut, and your movements tracked from where you ended to where you began—the only journey left to him after this.
“Afterwards . . .” he had said to her.
“No harm will come to your friends,” Taverner said.
There were lines you could read between, and others whose gap swallowed you whole.
“And it’s not as if you’re being robbed of years.”
He had thanked her for her certainty.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve been told you might wobble on for another decade. But your medical history indicates otherwise. And this way, your comrades enjoy a happy ending. Or avoid an unhappy one. Hardly a win-win, but in the circumstances, the best you can expect.”
The irregular beat, then, needn’t be a concern.
The nightclub, Nob-Nobs, was where he’d been told it would be, and even as he determined that, his new phone buzzed. The side door has been left unlocked. He deleted the message and dropped the phone in a bin. Then paused, removed the remaining bills from his wallet, and dropped them in too. A shame to deprive the needy, and the needy looked in bins. The fact that he was no longer among their number should have cheered him, but unaccountably failed to do so as he crossed the road.
They found Cartwright’s car on a side street, where it was a toss-up as to whether it would be ticketed for a parking offence or towed away for being fly-tipped, and walked from there to the main road, where there was a garage on a corner, a nightclub on another, and a row of bars and retail premises on the facing pavement. Then Big Dog went one way and Little Dog the other. Seven times out of ten such uncoordinated canvassing got you nowhere, but the other three times you got lucky. That had been Big Dog’s experience, and he’d been doing this longer than Little Dog. They’d give it ten minutes; after that, well, no way would Cartwright remain unfucked-up for long. The odds on that went so far past maths, they became religion. Ten minutes. They went their separate ways.