He’d said to Welles, “I’ll talk to her. But you come with me.”
Welles had hesitated. “I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“It’s to be just the principals. You and Taverner. With Jackson Lamb as your referee.”
Lamb. Whom he had sent Seb to quieten, once, and had never seen Seb again.
Nor had anyone else.
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Welles said, “Who would you prefer, the Lord Chancellor? You’re holding a stick of dynamite you keep threatening to shove up First Desk’s arse. She’s fresh off blackmailing a former spook to put a bullet in your brain. It’s not like there are legal niceties to be observed.”
“I’d prefer a neutral party to be there.”
“It’s a backstreet deal. I’d have thought you were used to those.”
“Remind me whose side you’re on?”
“There’s an invoice in the post.”
He’d nearly ended the call. But Welles was right: He was used to backstreet deals. And even when he hadn’t held the strongest hand at the table, he’d always acted like he had, which made the difference. Taverner’s crude attempt on him had given him a sleepless, frightened night, but in the end it had been both those things: crude, and an attempt. Of them both, she had most to fear. Which meant that what he needed to do now was brush his hair, shine his shoes and wear his wickedest smile. This was politics; it was the art of the deal. You showed up with your game face on, or you packed your bags.
To River, now, he said, “Where precisely are we going?”
“Notting Hill.”
“God. I should have brought the crossword.”
They were idling at a junction; judging by the traffic they’d be thirty minutes in the car yet, easy. The camera above the lights wasn’t trained on them, not exactly, but it was watching nonetheless. River noted it without comment. Before they reached their destination, they’d have passed from the monitored world to the unmonitored, courtesy of Roderick Ho. Provided Ho had done his job, that is, though River wasn’t too worried. He’d be the last man alive to offer praise to Roddy Ho, who was a prick.
But he was at least a prick who knew what he was doing.
What am I doing?
Dude, I am taking inventory.
(He checked his watch. It was 7:45.)
Taking inventory, because the Rodster needs his tools.
So: phone, wallet, keys: check. Laptop—obviously. (When did the Rodmeister go anywhere without his magic carpet? Be like Thor without his hammer, Captain A without his shield.) And then there was the stuff that lived in his car, because having a car was like having an extra cupboard, with wheels, and you never knew when lightning would strike, and you needed a wardrobe change. So there was freshish clothing, plus necessities—shaving gear, hair gel, toothpaste and brush—and let’s not forget the old condoms, which were in fact pretty old condoms. He should check the use-by. But anyway, all of that close to hand, plus a certain amount of collateral wastage—pizza boxes, empty crisp packets, energy drink bottles awaiting recyclage, because the Rodster was all about the recyclage; show him a planet, he’d be first in line to save it.
All good so far, but lacking a certain something. Let’s move on to the boot.
Blanket, because you never knew when a picnic might be called for, plus a few spare pairs of trainers, because you need the right footwear for the mood. Carrier bag with some other carrier bags tucked inside it, in case he ever needed a carrier bag. Seven forty-six. An old raincoat he wasn’t sure where it had come from and a framed photograph of Scarlett Johansson he’d bought at a street market: forgotten that was there, he should really hang it up. That stuff the Highway Code says you should have, including a hazard triangle and a high-vis jacket.
Spare tyre.
Jack for changing tyre with.
Bingo.
Hustling his manly frame into the jacket, snatching up the jack, Roddy left the HoMobile and took to the streets.
Catherine said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It was a reasonable—”
“Have you any idea what it’s like? Day after day? Resisting the temptation?”
“Well, some—”
“Because if I ever slip, it won’t be in a pub on Whitecross Street. I’ll—I’ll fly to the Caribbean. I’ll sit on a beach and watch the sun sink into the sea. Drinking something with an umbrella in it.”
Which she wouldn’t. If she ever fell, she would splash into a local puddle, drinking whatever was nearest. And then whatever was nearest to that.
But Lech said, “Catherine, if you ever fly to the Caribbean to fall off the wagon I’ll come with you.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Shirley said, “Yeah, well, I won’t.”
“No one asked you to.”
“Too fucking expensive.”
Lech said, “Were you looking for us?”
She sipped her tonic water: ice and lemon? Please. “Yes. I thought the nearest pub was a good starting point.”
Though she couldn’t deny, it might have been an equally promising finish line. Ice and lemon, please, and a shot of gin to give it heft. There were days and days and days when she never thought of taking a drink. And there were other days when people died, and you were left to carry the weight of that: It would help to be floating when you shouldered it. It would ease the burden.
This is my fault.
Her fault because it was always her fault, whatever it was on any given occasion. But her fault, too, because it was actually her fault; her fault for having encouraged the debacle at the nightclub, or at any rate, not having discouraged it. Had she made an objection, enthusiasm would have dwindled, Lech or Shirley or someone pointing out that shielding Peter Judd from possible harm was not just outside their remit, it was antithetical to the common good. They could all have been sitting here now—Louisa and Ash too—drinking in the news of Judd’s death. And how would Catherine have felt about that? Causing—not hindering—being complicit in—the death of a notorious public figure, versus having Louisa and Ash on either side, warm and breathing? Maybe that would pass for a conundrum to a moral philosopher. To Catherine, it was no choice at all.
But here’s a harder question, the alcoholic asked herself. Given the choice, who would you rather had lived; Louisa, whom you’ve known for years, or Ash, with her whole life ahead of her? Whose mother would you rather write the letter to? The incomplete letter, sitting on her desk at Slough House?
It was not true that she had no answer to this. But it was true that the answer tasted like poison, and when she raised her glass to her mouth, her dull tonic water burned her lip.
Shirley was talking to her. “Does Lamb want us? Is that why you’re here?”
Said with a flicker of hope.
Catherine said, “No. He doesn’t. And let’s keep it that way.”
Lech and Shirley exchanged a look. “What?”
“I know what you’re like. What you’ve always been like, all of you. You’re going to be looking for a way to join in.”
“And?” said Shirley.
“And don’t. That’s all. I don’t know what Lamb’s got in mind, but whatever it is, you need to keep well clear.”
“He told us what he was doing,” Lech said. “He’s calling a truce.”
“He said he was going to burn her . . . flipping house down. Does that sound like a truce to you?”
“It’s a start,” said Shirley.
“One that ends with the neighbourhood in flames.”
“We’re here, we’re having a drink, we’re surplus already,” Lech said. “We don’t need you telling us to keep our heads down.”