Al put a hand on her shoulder briefly. “Anyone follows us in, call.”
Daisy watched as they crossed the road, and was still standing there when they disappeared down the alley.
Devon was right behind the young Dog when they reached the scene: five people, two of them one side of a broken window and three the other, one having arrived there quite recently, judging by the way he was covered in glass. He looked posed for a photograph: Don’t Try This at Home.
“You guys are so dead,” young Dog said.
Inside the toilet, the old Dog groaned.
“How is he?”
Lech knelt to check. “It’s just as I suspected,” he said. “He’s been thrown through a window.”
“. . . You think you’re funny?”
Lech shrugged. “I’m not a medic.”
Shirley looked at young Dog. “He was like that when we got here.”
“Yeah, right, and who did it to him?”
Ash said, “Don’t look at me. I was standing here? On the inside?”
“Maybe someone should call an ambulance?” Devon suggested. “I mean, I’d do it myself, but I don’t plan on getting involved.”
“I have, like, an alibi, because I was talking to my mum? She heard it happen?”
“Who is he, anyway?” Lech asked.
Devon said to the young Dog, “He’s with you?”
“My partner.”
“And you’re standing chatting while he’s getting thrown through a toilet window? I don’t fancy your chances of making the glory wall.”
“Fuck you.” Young Dog looked at Roddy. “You do this?”
Roddy was simultaneously trying to look like he could have if he’d wanted to, but hadn’t wanted to so didn’t. “Why me?”
“Because there’s just you and the dyke-looking midget this side. So yeah, I’m looking at you.” He glanced at Shirley. “Martial arts shit, was it?”
“Seriously? He breaks into a sweat opening a carton of milk.”
Devon said, “Hang on a minute. Are you Shirley Dander?”
“What’s it to you?”
“That’d be a yes.” He glanced at the damage, then back at her. “I’ve heard about you. Love your work.”
Young Dog said, “Shirley Dander?”
“Yeah, but call me ‘dyke-looking midget’ again if you want.”
He stepped back. “You’re all fucking crazy.”
“Now he gets it.”
Old Dog groaned again.
Devon said, “Someone call an ambulance.”
CC’s gun arm twitched. “What was that?”
“A window,” said Sid. “Careful.”
Judd backed away, his confident sheen dulled.
River said, “Stam? Let’s call it a day.”
“He’s right, CC. Let’s go home.”
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”
“Yes you can. Easiest thing in the world.”
“Will one of you idiots take that fucking gun off this maniac?”
“Still not helping,” said River.
CC’s hand steadied, and he levelled the gun at Judd.
River stepped between them. “Stam? It’s over. There’s no way you’re getting away with this.”
“That was never the plan.”
“Yes, no, good. But let’s just put the gun away—”
“Please, CC. Think of the others. Avril. Daisy. Would they want this?”
“They had their moment. This is mine.”
Judd had fumbled his phone into his hand. “I have an armed response team on call, twenty-four seven.”
CC said, “And I have a gun. Can you count to three?” River reached out and CC aimed the gun at his face. “No. No. Get out of the way. Let me do this.”
Sid, steady as a rock, moved closer. “We can’t, CC.”
Judd’s voice was a squeak, a dribble. “Take his fucking gun away!”
“I need the pair of you to step aside.”
His gun hand twitched again.
Behind him, someone said, “CC? Fun’s over.”
. . . and what struck her as she headed down the stairs was how suddenly these moments happened—even for a slow horse—the trigger points of a career, like the one in a clothes shop when her target sprouted half a dozen decoys, causing Louisa to lose him, which led to Slough House, and all that followed: the soul-shrivelling inertia, the fog of failure, the blistering effects of being close to Jackson Lamb, so that some nights she had to shower for twenty minutes on getting home; and worst of all, that brief period during which she and Min found happiness to cultivate, which lasted months but was over in a heartbeat, after which she took to blurring her boundaries with drink and strangers, and who knows how long she might have spent exploring that purgatory if not for the diamond she stole on that rooftop, with which she bought herself some peace and quiet, at least for a while, but trigger moments always come round, regular as ogres in storybooks, and here was another one, waiting on the dance floor . . .
Avril watched as Al walked round CC, because only an amateur strikes up conversation with an armed man while standing behind him. Which was precisely what CC was now, because that’s what a gun does: turns a loved one into an armed man. Except when it does the other thing it does, which is turn a loved one into a draught excluder. She followed Al and the pair flanked CC. The Brains Trust against the world.
Sid Baker was on the world’s team, along with a young man Avril guessed was Service. The pair were shielding Peter Judd, whom she recognised from TV, newspapers, the internet and occasional nightmares. The look on his face suggested he was currently having a nightmare of his own.
“You’re here,” CC said, without averting his gaze from the trio in front of him.
His hand, Avril saw, was unsteady. “You imagined we’d go home?”
“Hope springs eternal.”
Al said, “This is what Taverner wanted? You’re a Manchurian candidate?”
Avril said, “She told you, didn’t she? About what we did.”
“She shouldn’t have had to. You should have told me yourselves.”
“We didn’t think you’d approve.”
“But I would have understood.”
CC’s hand tremored. His colour was high. He spoke to the Service pair. “River, Sid, I need you to move aside.”
“Can’t do that, Stam.”
“Please put the gun down.”
“When I’m done with it.”
“Don’t you cretins carry weapons?” Judd said. “One of you deal with him. Now.”
River gave Sid a sideways glance. “Having second thoughts?”
“Take his gun away!” Judd shouted.
“Now,” said Al, “the first problem with that is, taking a loaded gun from anyone is a dangerous business.”
“Just out of interest,” River said.
“The second problem? I don’t take orders from pricks.”
“CC, love?” said Avril. “If you’re doing this to protect us, it doesn’t matter any more. Really doesn’t. The whole world can know about it.”
“But this way you’ll be safe,” CC said.
His hand tremored again.
Once her friends had entered the building, Daisy had followed—they know I’m going to. Probably part of their plan. Anyway, it was happening.
The door gave onto a corridor, at the far end of which was another door they must have gone through. Approaching it, she peered round: there they were, in a large dark space, along with CC and the young woman they’d left at the service station. Two other men, at one of whom CC was aiming a gun. He doubtless had good reason, but Avril and Al weren’t keen.
Backing away, she peered along the corridor. It followed a curve, presumably hugging the dance floor, which meant there’d be access to the far side, allowing her to enter behind the opposing forces—which was what the other men were. Pitchfork had coded this into her system: Anyone not on her team was an enemy.