“If you were good at reading futures, you’d have had a long hard look at your own by now and done something about it. Weaning yourself off takeaways and a sixty-a-day habit would be a start. So forgive me if I look elsewhere for career guidance. Besides, are you seriously taking Judd’s side? He tried to have you killed once. Or had you forgotten that?”
“Trust me, I hadn’t. And nor has it slipped my mind that your own hands weren’t clean on that occasion.”
“You think you can do this job with clean hands? You know better. You of all people.” The look she gave him might almost have held pity. “Because nine times out of ten, you and your kind are the rubber gloves we wear when a dirty job needs doing. And there will always be dirty jobs need doing, no matter who’s hosting parties in Number Ten. But let me remind you, nobody made you pick up sticks and play soldiers, and the small print’s always been there, right in front of your eyes. You see many spooks going on to careers in the City? Noticed any former joes in line when they’re dishing out directorships? No, they don’t put up statues to spies and they don’t save them seats in the Lords.” She waved a hand. “This is the best you can hope for. A tidy grave in a sheltered spot. And you knew that when you started, and if your crew didn’t that’s on you, because you should have told them. So don’t come bleating to me about one dead and one at death’s door, because that’s not a bullet point on my CV, it’s a footnote in an appendix. One for the historians. I’ll read it when I’m dead.”
“Too long, didn’t listen. You finished?”
“Nowhere near. You’re a street fighter, and that must have come in handy in your day, but don’t confuse the corridors I walk with your Berlin alleys of yesteryear. The shit shovelled over fancy linen in Whitehall is a lot more fucking toxic than anything your KGB oppos dipped their umbrellas in, and I’ve survived that for longer than you’ve been past it. So don’t think all you need do is issue a few vague threats and I’ll crumple like last week’s lettuce. Because I’m the one who’ll say when I’m ready to go.” As Taverner stood, her arm brushed a low-slung branch, unfurling a curtain of raindrops. “A lettuce is an edible plant. You get them in salads. Standish’ll fill you in.”
“I saw one in a burger once.” He sniffed. “How long do you think you’ve got before Judd spills his wagonload of shit? And how do you think the new-broom PM’ll react? Stand by you proudly? Or throw you under the first passing train?”
“Judd has a credibility problem, and I’ll solve him long before he solves that. Having him blacken my name would be like having Truss call someone unpopular, or Farage call them a cunt. I’ll take my chances.” She surveyed the graveyard, perhaps mentally assigning plots to colleagues. “Because there is nobody I will not flay alive to stay in charge, and you know why? Because I’m not only the best person for the job, I’m the only one who knows how to do it. Who understands that there’s no need to justify myself to anyone, because there are times when what I have to do is unjustifiable. That’s always been First Desk’s lot. No rules, no guidelines, simply objectives. Whether it’s Pitchfork way back when or whatever I have to do tomorrow, all that matters is the objective, and the objective is always the same. To stop buses being bombed.” She looked him in the eye. “Which is what I do, Jackson. And if I have to trample the occasional warm body to do that, so be it. Your people were unlucky, but if they weren’t unlucky to start with, they wouldn’t have been your people. So let’s write this off as a no-score draw, shall we?” She gave a faint smile. “I run a shop for serious people. You’re in charge of a bunch of clowns. So you hurry back to Slough House and pull the blinds down and do your mourning, but don’t worry about winding your clocks any more. I think you’ll find that’s an unnecessary effort, if you catch my drift.”
She was halfway down the path when Lamb called.
“Diana?”
She stopped and waited without turning.
“You were half right. Arranging to meet in a graveyard was a hint.” Once more he flicked a dying cigarette off a headstone. “Just not the kind you think.”
That was all, and without responding Taverner continued on her way. Once she’d vanished round the side, and the sound of environmental damage had again disturbed the quiet close, Lamb stood, shook himself like an untidy dog and headed into St. Leonard’s by the side door. Inside, the rainfall seemed more pointed, pattering on the roof like anxious cats. Two candles burned beneath a stained glass window depicting St. Len at his typewriter, a mild blasphemy concerning which there were two schools of thought, neither of which interested Lamb. The candles, though. These were clearly the work of Catherine Standish, who sat on the bench nearest. She was facing the altar, and continued to do so as he made his way down the uneven slabs of the aisle and lowered himself onto the bench with a noise like a dying air mattress.
For a while there was only the rain’s mild percussion and a faint hissing which might have been the candles. Lamb started tapping his fingers against the bench in what was possibly, in his head, a rhythm, but Catherine remained focused on the altar, or whatever lay behind it, or above. He paused. She didn’t react. He started again. Same difference.
“Broadsword calling Danny Boy.”
A faint sigh.
“Can you hear the pipes a-calling?”
She said, “I was thinking, we should spend more time in churches. They’re quiet, and you can’t smoke.”
He glanced heavenward. “They have sprinklers?”
“Just don’t, that’s all.” She raised her gaze towards the rose window. “We could do with a little stillness. Some mindfulness. You’ve heard of mindfulness?”
“Didn’t that get popular during lockdown, like wild swimming and going mental?” Lamb looked at his hands, clasped on his lap. One was holding a cigarette, which it hadn’t been until just then. “On the other hand, I don’t suppose it takes long. Emptying Ho’s head’d be the work of a moment.”
Catherine said, “I wouldn’t worry. It doesn’t seem likely that any better-living practices will catch on in Slough House. Not if this morning’s anything to go by.”
“You called by the shop?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“They’re a mess, what do you think?” She leaned back, closed her eyes. Opened them again. “Roddy was playing . . . music, I suppose you’d call it. Very loud, very angry music. And Shirley and Lech had had a fight, and I mean an actual fight. There’s been damage to office equipment.”
“Who won?”
“Who do you think?”
“Silly me. What about Cartwright?”
“River wasn’t there. Not fit for work, remember? And not about to be, either.”
Lamb examined his cigarette, then said, “Joke’s on me. I was planning on putting together a five-a-side squad this year.”
“That’s very funny. It’s lightened the mood. And I hate to be a wet blanket, but I was looking at the regs. You know, the Service regulations? The book of rules that governs our existence?”
“You want to keep it down a little? You’ll offend God.”
“In present company? He won’t notice I’m here. And there’s a regulation about departmental sizes, about when a section ceases to be deemed large enough to qualify as an independent unit. Do you want to hear how the rest of it goes?”
“No, don’t spoil it. I imagine it’s something along the lines of forthwith, and cease, and then, ooh, either absorbed into existing departmental structure or something something something triggering mandatory redundancy protocols.”
“Anyone would think you’d studied it recently.”
“It was forced upon my attention. Which reminds me, we’re out of bog roll.” He stood, abruptly enough that she flinched. With the cigarette between his lips, he placed himself in front of the metal stand of candleholders, which was as spattered with wax as Nelson was with pigeon shit, but held just the two lone sentries burning bright. “For Christ’s sake, the Park’s not going to close us down because we’re low on people power. The Park’s going to close us down because Taverner’s circling her wagons, and anyone not inside pissing out is a legitimate target who, in her words, needn’t bother winding their clocks.”