Bad shit was Shirley’s favourite kind.
Before he reached them, Shirley adopted what she thought of as her nonconfrontational stance, and others recognised as her pre-confrontational stance: legs apart, hands on hips; cheerily welcoming, with a hint of fuck-with-me-at-your-peril. Which covered all the bases in most social encounters she was likely to be involved in, with the possible exception of a job interview.
“Brilliant,” she said. “Just what we needed.”
“. . . You what?”
“My friend needs a bunk-up. Would you mind kneeling there for a minute?”
And she gave him her best smile, with the same care she might have shown applying a match to a fuse.
Once inside, Lech and Ash found themselves in a wide corridor where dim strip lighting hummed overhead, remembering better times. Open doors revealed an office so resembling Slough House someone might have been taking notes, another room in which boxes containing paper towels, plastic beakers and cleaning fluids had been stacked in a shape roughly approximating a bed, and a staff toilet whose narrow sash window above a larger fuzzy pane was propped open an inch, not enough to dispel the smell of mould. Muffled squabbling could be heard outside: Shirley and Roddy were discussing the window’s potential as a means of ingress. Lech shook his head wearily.
Ash said, “And we think Peter Judd’s here somewhere?”
“That’s what Louisa’s mate reckoned.”
“This the guy who’s offering her a job?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
Ash rolled her eyes.
The final door gave onto a staircase leading up. Lech led the way; he was on the third step when Ash said, “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
She pointed back the way they’d come. “Wee break?”
“Are you kidding?”
By way of answer, Ash slipped into the staff toilet, leaving Lech wondering at what point Slough House had become a nursery, and how come he was in charge?
When Sid’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she made out an open space, a bar, tables and stools. A human shape was visible, too big to be CC. Peter Judd—because you had to have lived the past decade in a cornflakes box not to know who this was—eased himself upright. “If you’re looking for somewhere to dance, remove yourselves. The club is shut.”
River whispered, for Sid’s benefit, “That, right there, is why they say never meet your heroes.”
“Shut up,” she said. Then, to Judd, “We’re not here to dance.”
“Who are you?” Judd came closer. “Have we met?”
“We think someone’s been sent to harm you.” Then: “We’re not them. We’re the cavalry.”
“Well you don’t bloody look like cavalry.”
“Thanks,” said River.
“You look more like stable hands, to be honest.”
“Yeah. Just out of interest, who did Taverner say was coming to meet you?”
“Taverner’s sent someone to harm me?” For a moment, Judd’s tone sat on a knife’s edge; he might have been about to slip into scorn. But then he said, “Oh. I see. Right. Yes. Fuck.”
“It’s simply dealt with,” Sid said. “Just leave.”
“I’m quite capable of planning my next move.” He was squinting at River now. “I do know you. You’re one of Jackson Lamb’s squad.” Something passed across his face. “Is that what this is about? Is this Lamb’s doing?” He looked towards the door.
Which opened.
The taxi stop/started, stop/started, and each jerk scribbled a memo on Avril’s bones: Being old was a pain. She glanced at her phone. CC wasn’t moving either. Had Taverner really wound him up and pointed him? It wasn’t a comfort to know he’d stolen Al’s gun.
Its owner, former owner, sat next to her; Daisy opposite, in a pull-down seat. She could sense tension in his rigid posture. Daisy, on the other hand, might have been on her way to a spa afternoon. This was a worry. When Daisy seemed calm, it was best to lock the doors.
When Avril flexed her hands, shaking stiffness away, her knuckles felt sore.
They were getting closer though. If they avoided more hold-ups, they’d reach CC’s location in minutes.
CC could hear voices, which wasn’t right. The whole point was, Judd would be on his own. Or what was he supposed to do, mow down a room full of strangers?
And Christ, look at him: A killer in elbow patches . . . You could take James Bond, turn him inside out, doodle silly features where his face used to be, and still be nowhere near how wrong CC was for the role. This wasn’t who he’d always been—this shabby duffer who spent his days pottering in a library—but it was who he was now, and even in his quiet hours he couldn’t recall the man who’d known horror and fear, who’d lived with the possibility of being turfed from his bed by balaclavaed strangers keen to put a bullet in his head. That had been his life, but its only lasting value lay in the bonds he’d forged. He’d betray the Park in a heartbeat for his comrades: like flapping a duster in the wind. And if they’d sought justice for Pitchfork’s victims by murdering the man himself, his only regret was that they hadn’t allowed him to help. Slaying a monster was a forgivable thing; protecting one’s loved ones a duty. Enough. His heart skipped a beat, and the gun slapped his hip. Laying a hand across his pocket to steady it, he walked through the door.
“I don’t know what you’re on about, but would you mind shifting out the way?” His eyes flickered upwards, then back at Shirley. “I’ve somewhere to be.”
She nodded. “That’s what they say about old dogs, isn’t it? Always in a hurry.”
“Ah.” He reappraised her. “You’re Park?”
“Service,” said Shirley.
“Slough House,” Roddy added. “. . . What?”
But the Dog was grinning widely. “You’re slow horses?”
For fuck’s sake, thought Shirley. “A little respect? We’re Service. Why are you here?”
But any hope of respect had gone. “Yeah, see, we had a report that a couple of Einsteins were eating yellow snow back here. So I came to take pictures for our WhatsApp group.”
“It’s not snowing,” said Roddy.
“He means we’re stupid.”
“Now we’re clicking,” the Dog said. “Let’s see your cards, then. I mean, you do have cards, don’t you? Or do they just stick labels round your neck?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I could listen to you rubbing yourself off all day. But we’re busy, so here.” Shirley fished in her pocket and produced a tube of hand cream. “That’ll speed you up.”
“Funny funny.” He took the tube from her hand. “You comedians part of Cartwright’s posse, are you?”
“He’s part of ours, more like,” said Roddy.
“Shut up,” Shirley said. “What’s Cartwright got to do with anything?”
“Yeah, the other reason I’m here is to explain myself to you. So why don’t the pair of you fuck off back to Slough House, where you can get on with your colouring books and sniffing plasticine, and leave me to do my job.”
“Except if you were doing your job you’d have pulled some weight by now,” said Shirley. “Instead of just throwing it around.”
“You want me to throw things around? I can do that. Here.” He tossed the tube of hand cream in Shirley’s face.
“Oh shit,” said Roddy.
. . . and when Louisa looked over the edge to the dance floor below, there was Judd, and also River and Sid, and nothing worse than a conversation was happening, River saying, Out of interest, who did Taverner say was coming to meet you? and just like that it was over; all this charging about, and either nothing was happening or whatever was happening hadn’t happened yet, they’d got here first, which was a new experience for the slow horses, who generally turned up after the cannons had fired and all that was left for them was to go round picking up litter like the sad lonely clowns they were, so yes, she was ready to leave all this behind her, because life was about forward motion, and next time she took stock—next time she sat by her little flat’s window, gazing at the greenery—she’d be on a calmer plane, no longer weighed down by work, or at least, not for the same reasons; she’d have a job that didn’t remind her she was a failure, where the next desk along wasn’t occupied by a ghost, and she was just relaxing into that thought, and wondering whether HR would make her work out her notice, when an old man with a gun came through the door downstairs, and Louisa thought shit, no more ghosts, not now, and headed for the stairwell as quickly as near silence would allow . . .