“We’re working?” said Lamb. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m off the clock. Apart from anything else, I had a drink five minutes ago. I’m not a slave to the rulebook or anything, but drinking during working hours, that’s my personal line in the sand.”
“We’re working our way towards a positive outcome,” Judd said smoothly. “One that suits both of us. It’s quite simply this. You don’t have to be a slave to your pension arrangements. Whatever ceiling you’ve been looking at, we can raise it. I have contacts who can make that happen. Like you, they’re not slaves to the rulebook, and they can be very imaginative when it comes to loopholes and tax breaks.” A smile twerked his lips, as if those words conjured up some effective pornography. “Goodbye Slough House, hello—where? Somewhere sunny? Nice Greek island, with pretty girls—or boys, no judgement—sunning themselves on your balcony? Or would you prefer to head back to Berlin? I’m sure it has corners you’d still feel at home in. And you don’t need me to tell you, that city’s a cash-in-hand playground.”
Lamb said, “Well, that’s me sorted. What have you got in mind for Diana?”
“Nothing. She took her shot, it didn’t work, and she’s smart enough to cut her losses. There’s a thing about doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results? It’s the definition of madness, apparently. Or democracy.” He laughed. “Diana can keep right on doing what she does, and that’ll please people on my side of the fence. It’s not like they’ll be using her to subvert our sovereignty, if that worries you. Just a little nudge here, a little squeeze there, adjusting our position where necessary. Nothing to threaten the security of the nation. Strengthening our position, in fact. As the great world turns, and the power balance slips eastward, it’ll be no small thing to enjoy favoured-nation status. That’s not going to be a position enjoyed by many. Don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Lamb. “Most of the positions I’ve enjoyed are the normal ones. But aren’t you jumping the gun? Pardon the expression.” They both glanced towards what he was holding. “Diana’s hardly top dolly with the new kids on the block. She’ll be lucky to last the month, the way she’s going.”
“You’re assuming the PM’s in charge of anything. But all he’s managed so far is to piss away the honeymoon. Diana will run so many rings round him, he’ll feel like a racetrack. She’ll still be First Desk when he’s wondering where his majority went, and how come no one gives him free stuff any more. So. Handshake moment. Diana stays in place, which is where my, ah, my backers want her to be, we sort out something a little more comfortable for you, and then, well, life goes on. Yes?”
Lamb placed the gun in his lap, scratched his nose, then transferred his cigarette from his ear to his lips, where he sucked on it unlit for a second before removing it and tucking it back where it started. He thought for a moment, and said, “Not for my joes.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Not for my joes, it doesn’t.” Picking up the gun, Lamb shot Judd once, through the chest. Then he produced a surprisingly clean cloth from an inside pocket and wiped the gun with it as he went upstairs. The safe, which was in a wardrobe in the spare bedroom, sat with its door wide open. He put the gun inside, shut the door with his elbow, stuffed the cloth in his pocket, then left the house without touching much.
Before reaching the underground he passed several traffic cameras, their little red lights—their evil eyes—all grey and shuttered.
He had to wait ten minutes for a tube, but other than that, his journey was a smooth one.
At the other end, he dropped the cloth in the first litter bin he passed.
When River found Roddy, tracing the pin Roddy had dropped, he was crouched between two cars, clutching his phone. Either no one had come across him or no one had cared. River, double-parked, said his name twice through the open window, but Roddy didn’t respond. There was nothing for it but to get out and kneel. “Roddy? It’s okay. It’s me. River.”
Roddy stared blankly, then nodded.
“Are you okay? There’s blood on your face.”
“Fell over.”
“Can you stand?”
Roddy shook his head.
“Well, you’re going to have to. Come on.”
A car pulled up behind River’s, and sounded its horn.
“Yeah, all right, mate. Bit of an emergency here.”
“Put the fucking drunk in a bag and shift him.”
River rose, walked to the driver’s window and bent down. “He’s having a bad day. If you want one too, keep talking.”
The driver wound his window up.
River returned to Roddy and helped him to his feet.
Roddy, shivering, said, “I was fine. Just laying low for a bit.”
“I know.”
“Thirty-five,” he said. “I got thirty-five of them.”
“Cameras?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” said River.
Roddy climbed into the passenger seat, and River walked round, got behind the wheel and set the car in motion.
“Where we going?”
“Pub. Whitecross Street. It’s where the others are. Okay?”
Roddy nodded.
They drove for a while, and were crossing Holborn Viaduct before Roddy spoke again. He said, “We keep getting killed.”
River opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. They paused at the lights near the old Post Office buildings, and he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Roddy was staring straight ahead, the smear of blood on his forehead still wet, so River opened the glove box, found a packet of tissues and passed it to him. Roddy took it without a word.
The lights changed, and they started moving again, heading towards the others.
. . . and becoming herself again is what’s starting to happen, a long slow process, like looking for a car in an enormous car park, no idea of its make or colour, but sure it must be somewhere, and what she needs is a key fob, something she can point and hear a responding beep, and maybe it’s the power of suggestion or maybe she actually is holding a fob, but anyway beep is what she’s hearing now, a recurring beep, and this must be her car in front of her, its beep beep a note of welcome, and she opens its door, she opens its door, she opens her eyes.
When the figure on the bed twitched, there was someone there to see it happen. A nurse, approaching her thirteenth hour on shift. She bent over the bed, close but not too close, and waited to see if the eyes would open. They did.
“And here you are. We’ve been expecting you back, and here you are.”
“Mum?” said the waking woman.
In the gathered dark Slough House is less visible than its neighbours, its façade a shade or two greyer, its windows twice as blank. Or that’s how it seems to Catherine, who had left the pub once it became good and loud. Roddy and River had arrived, Sid too, and nobody noticed when Catherine slipped off to the bar and kept walking: into the night, along the gummed and littered pavements, across the stressful road, and round the back and through Slough House’s door, which, as always, required heavy pushing. Already she can smell Lamb’s presence, the damp-dog-in-a-dumpster odour of his coat wafting down the stairs. He’s behind his desk, unshod, a drink in front of him, and instead of smoking is shredding an empty cigarette packet, his equivalent of a health kick. He doesn’t look at Catherine when she enters.
She says, “Do I want to know what you’ve done?”
“No.”
“But you’ve . . . burned Taverner’s house down.”
“I’ve done what she wanted doing in the first place. But that’s the first rule of fairy tales, right? Be careful what you wish for.”