I must have dropped it somewhere, she thought, and closed her eyes.
St. Leonard’s, as has been noted before, puts on a lovely funeral. Then again, it’s had practice. Funerals are its speciality, or at any rate, occur with more frequency than other services, which are advertised at distant intervals and cancelled at near notice; and while the doors of this discreet brick building in a quiet corner of Hampstead are always open in the figurative sense—or so the flyers decorating its porch assert—they are, in a more literal manner, generally locked, though directions to less inaccessible places of worship are included among the ephemera on its noticeboards. To the majority of local residents this is simply the way things are, and while it is cheerfully acknowledged that St. Len’s is the Spooks’ Chapel, the name rarely triggers more than a knowing look and the occasional titbit, delivered as tradecraft—for example, that the plaques on the east wall, memorialising the unflamboyant dead, are tributes to fallen spies. Legend and rumour, of course, and if these particular legends and rumours are true, this barely matters in an age where the difference between the true and the false is held by many to be a matter of opinion.
That afternoon, the day after the rumpus at Nob-Nobs, there was no funeral. The doors were closed. Behind the church, where a small, immaculately tended graveyard could be found, trees were dripping. Unexpected clouds had gathered early over London, calling time on the heatwave, and rain had fallen in its least attractive manner, forswearing squalls and bluster and settling for the mediocrity of the time-server everywhere: steady, uninspired, looking only to get through the next half hour. And each half hour followed the last, and in turn gave way to another.
In the graveyard, on a bench near a matching pair of headstones, sat a bulky man in a raincoat that might have been recycled from a chimp’s hammock. He was smoking, or at any rate holding a cigarette, though his thoughts seemed elsewhere. A hat which looked as if it had been buried with a fisherman then dug up by a tramp was keeping his head dry, but his shoes were failing to do the same for his feet: The upper of the left was peeling from the sole, leaving a piece of duct tape poking out. A picture of desolation, in fact, or would have been, had its subject given the impression that he cared.
Sitting there, the man had no way of seeing the car arriving at the front. This was a big black SUV, which, if its eco-fucking swagger didn’t get the message across, its motorbike outriders surely did: Here came government, and it didn’t care who knew it. Diana Taverner didn’t always travel with full metal kit, but when she did, she wore it large—this was London Rules: When vulnerable, act like a gorilla with a cluster headache. And if anyone shows concern, take them off at the knees.
Stepping out, wielding an umbrella, she walked alone through St. Len’s gate and round the side to the back. Lamb was visible immediately, and it struck her that there were probably places on the globe where he might be taken for a figure of worship, like a giant toad in its grotto. Peasants would leave pebbles at his feet, in return for his pearls of wisdom. As she drew nearer, she heard him fart.
Lowering her umbrella, she joined him on the bench without speaking.
After a while, he raised the cigarette to his lips, drained it in a single inhalation, and flicked the stub away. It bounced off David Cartwright’s headstone with a scattering of sparks. As he breathed out smoke, he stared at her feet, shod in black leather, and drier than his own. “Nice boots.”
“All these years, and I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you comment on anything I’ve been wearing. Are you developing a footwear fetish?”
“Is that when you get a shoehorn?”
“Yes, that’s more you.” She looked around. The tree offered shelter, but there was a steady dripping to her left. Edging away from it would have meant moving closer to Lamb. “Why risk letting a compliment stand when you can turn it into an off-colour joke?”
He nodded thoughtfully, as if she’d offered an unexpected insight. “You know,” he said, “I’m going to miss our little chats.”
“You’re leaving us, Jackson? Hanging up your spyglass and code book?” She brushed at her hair, where water had landed. “Well, that is a nice surprise. But I hope you’re planning a swisher farewell do than this. You should get Standish to organise something. Have a whip-round, I’ll personally double the takings. That should get you most of half of a packet of ten.”
“Which is about what you ponce off me every time we meet. But no, I’m not going anywhere.” He turned to look her in the face. “You are.”
“If you’re going gnomic on me, I’ll take one of those cigarettes now.” She waited a beat. “No? Have it your way. I’ll bring my own next time.”
“One of my joes was killed, Diana. And one’s at death’s door. You think I’ll let that slide?”
“Oh, that’s why we’re here? Yes, of course it is.” She looked around again, confirming they were alone, then said, “I’m sorry about your losses, they’re appalling, but you know what? Shit happens. Sometimes for a reason. The reason here was, I had an outcome in mind, and your crew, not for the first time, stepped in front of it. I’m not accountable for that. But I understand your anger, and trust me, I’ll do what I can for the families involved. A death in service payment, for example. We won’t make difficulties there, despite the, ah, non-curricular nature of your agents’ activities. And I’m taking your hint about meeting here, too. St. Leonard’s.” She nodded towards the headstones. Here was where the Service dead lay, provided they’d died in good standing. Slough House was not good standing. “I’ll pull strings. Have the burial here.”
“You’re the reason she needs burying at all, Diana. And creative accounting isn’t going to cut it this time. No, you’ll pay this bill in full.”
“Do tell.”
“I want you gone.”
She barked a laugh. His gaze didn’t falter. Her own broke away, then returned. “Me, gone? You’re forgetting who you’re talking to. There’s a reason I’m First Desk while you’re still working the bins. You’re clever, I get that, and you were a legend once. But you did all your fighting in back alleys, while I got my black belt playing chess with menaces in Whitehall dining rooms. So I’ll give you a couple of minutes while you get your righteous anger off your chest, and you have my permission to use the biggest swears in your toolbox, but once we’re finished I’ve a meeting with the PM, and what we’ll talk about is above your pay grade, but I’ll tell you this much. I’ll be coming out of that meeting stronger than I went in. So me going, no. That’s not on anyone’s agenda.”
While she’d been talking Lamb had finagled a cigarette from some recess or other, and he lit it now with a plastic lighter. For a moment it looked as if he might toss this over his shoulder, but he changed his mind. Wreathed in smoke, he said, “Bold talk from a woman whose idea of a master plan was to use the Thursday Murder Club as a hit squad. So here’s a hint from a street fighter. The mad shit never works. That’s the reason it’s called mad shit. No, what you should have done, once you decided to take a crack at Judd, is arranged to meet him at night by a river, then put a bullet in his head and his body in the water. Instead you went all—what did you call it?—chess with menaces and here we are.” He took the cigarette from his mouth, studied it, then put it back. “You had a go at Judd not because he’s at his weakest, but because you are. And you fucked up, so guess what? Not only does he still have your dick in his pocket, he’s also pissed off at you. So I’d say your future’s very much in doubt. Even without me.”