He said, “I knew I wasn’t. Cartwright responded like it was news he’d been waiting to hear, straightforward confirmation. And where the rest of us saw blood and teeth, he saw opportunity. If Partner was dirty, that could be put to use. And that’s what happened for the next year. He made Partner work for us again, without Partner knowing it.”
“He fed him misinformation,” said Catherine.
“Oh yes. But nothing you could put a pin in and stick to a board. Whispers, just. That a goldmine had opened up in joe country. That we had a new asset in the enemy camp. He couldn’t tell Partner who it was, and Partner couldn’t ask, but let’s just say that when the next round of promotions hit the Kremlin, we’d have a top-shelf source of a quality we’d never had before.”
“Cartwright was targeting someone. Destroying them with a rumour.”
“Someone bound for greatness.” The cigarette was tap-dancing across his digits, but that aside, she’d never seen Jackson Lamb stiller. Even his breathing seemed silent. “You wouldn’t remember the name. A one-time bright spark who Cartwright thought too bright, too sparky. You don’t want the opposition fielding their best players. And any leg you break in the dressing room, that’s time saved on the pitch.”
The last time she’d seen David Cartwright he’d been a scared old man, nervy of shadows. Perhaps it was true what they said about age: that in its darker corners lurk the monsters of our own making.
“The following year I was called back to London. And that’s when it happened.”
When you shot Charles Partner in his bathtub, she thought again. Where I found him.
“Cartwright’s timing was immaculate, I’ll give him that. Moscow wouldn’t believe for an instant that Partner killed himself. The way they saw it, it was proof positive he was onto something, and we whacked him before he could sell it.”
“Did it work?”
Lamb looked away, at the makeshift glass wall. He must have been able to see his reflection shining back at him; a fly’s-eye view of his own gross shape.
“Well, the bright spark was fucked right enough. Molly Doran could probably tell you where he is now, and it’s probably the Russian equivalent of Slough House, but he hasn’t bothered the world since. He must still be wondering what hit him.”
“Quite the little triumph for the Park, then.” Catherine closed her eyes and saw it again: Partner’s body in the bathtub; the contents of his head a red mess on the porcelain. A pulpy mixture, like trodden grapes. Some memories seared themselves on your mind, like a shadow on a wall after a nuclear flash.
“Yeah, that depends, doesn’t it? Because the role he’d been lined up for, that was a biggie. Director of the FSB, which is what they called the KGB after the makeover. Only with boyo shafted, Yeltsin had to turn to his second choice. Care to hazard a guess who that was?”
Her vision shimmered, unless it was the light faltering. “. . . No. No, that can’t be true.”
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” He sneered. “Maybe David Cartwright wasn’t the mastermind he pretended to be. Unless he had his own reasons for giving Vladimir Putin a leg-up. On Spook Street, it’s hard to know what to believe.”
Catherine stared at him in horror.
“But me, I think it’s the law of unintended consequences. For other examples, see the history of the fucking world.”
Lamb put the unlit cigarette in his mouth again.
“They gave me Slough House once the shitstorm died down, and you know what they say. My gaff, my rules. And you know what rule one is. Nobody messes with my stuff. I don’t know what Frank Harkness is up to, and I don’t care. He left bodies in my yard, and he’ll pay for that. And if the Park’s pulling his strings, they’d better have another puppet ready. Whatever game they’re playing, he’s off the board.”
He stood so suddenly she thought the world had shifted; that the building was tumbling, and he’d been thrown loose. With the wave of an arm, he took in her treasures. “So all of this, Standish, all this dancing about with your personal demons, nobody cares. Least of all me. Drink or don’t, but make your fucking mind up and do it quick. Because I have better things to worry about than how far you’re gunna fall, and what kind of splash you’ll make when you hit the bottom.”
She found a voice somewhere, and used it. “Always a comfort to have you around.”
“Just doing my job.”
She sat while he forced his feet back into his shoes and clumped from her flat. All around her the bottles whispered, their rose-blood colouring staining the air. When all was quiet again she stood and walked to the window. Lamb was down there, on the street, but he disappeared into shadow as she watched. Where he belonged, she thought.
It occurred to her that he’d neither opened a bottle, nor taken one with him. But there were other things to think about, and she didn’t dwell on it long.
Louisa was on her third glass of wine, taking it slowly. On the TV, a rather camp chef was constructing a masterpiece involving squid ink and shredded kale. In Louisa’s sink was the pan she’d boiled pasta in, and an empty tub of pesto.
She muted the sound when her phone rang.
“You work with that guy?” Emma Flyte asked. “I mean, spend time with him on a daily basis?”
“He’s not that bad when you get to know him.”
“Seriously?”
“No, of course not seriously. He’s a dick. You just notice less after a while, that’s all.”
Emma said, “That’s not an experiment I plan to undergo.”
“Still time to change your mind. Always an opening at Slough House.”
She could hear Emma shudder and it almost made her smile. Almost.
“But you got what you were after, right?”
“What you were after,” Emma corrected her. “And it’s going to cost you. I haven’t decided yet, but it might involve a spa day. I need some kind of corrosive cleaning process after that.”
“But he traced the Fitbit.”
“He traced the Fitbit.”
This time Louisa did smile. Day one—not even day one: she’d been at work today. Tomorrow was day one. And already she’d found Lucas. How cool was she?
“So where is it?” she asked.
Emma said, “I’ll text you the actual coordinates. But big picture, it’s in a town called Pegsea, in Pembrokeshire.”
“Okay,” said Louisa.
“That’s in Wales,” Emma added.
“I know. Somebody told me.”
Afterwards, she zapped the TV off and considered her options, but not for long. Bottom line was, she was due a stupid idea. Her lifestyle choices of the past six months had been reassuringly sober, and mostly couched as a series of negatives: I will not go to bars by myself; I will not hook up with strangers. I will not spend four hundred quid on a pair of boots. Okay, that last one she’d reneged on, but if you were going to backslide, you might as well do it in killer footwear. And she hadn’t hooked up with any strangers lately.
Looked like she was going to Wales, then.
She checked her weather app, and confirmed what she suspected: that it had been snowing in Pembrokeshire, with more on the way.
Good job she had a new winter jacket.
Finishing her wine, she went to pack.
Something in his bones had always sung of doom. But nothing in the lyrics had ever suggested this: that he’d be sleeping in his clothes in his office, while his life fell apart around him.
Child porn? You were looking at child porn?
He hadn’t been. He had tried to tell her that. Whatever was happening, it was something he’d been thrown into, not something he’d dug for himself.
So why didn’t you say? Why hide it from me, we’re going to be married, Lech, why did you hide this from me if you’re innocent, if it’s not true?