That might have been the dope, of course. It was a lot stronger now than when Louisa had last drawn a toke.
He’d been thinking about America, he told them. He wanted to go to America. A road trip. See for real what he’d seen in the movies. But it took money. Everything took money, even uni. And it wasn’t like dope was free.
In the telling he’d forgotten they were there, and had slipped into the cadence of the stoned.
From his vantage point, Lucas had had a clear view of the cobbled yard below. There was a gleaming new Land Rover at one end, its mud splashes looking like decals: an expensive bit of rough. That had been the weekend’s theme, all these rich men pretending they were handy, and even as he’d had the thought he heard voices. A lot of voices.
“So I killed the spliff and moved back. Didn’t want them to see me.”
Because nobody was supposed to be there after dinner. The staff had cleared the dishes; the bottles were lined up on the sideboard. The rich had the run of the property. Whatever games they played, that was their business.
Or pleasure. Whispers in the kitchen suggested girls were bused in after dark.
He said, “I couldn’t see what was going on, but there was a lot of laughing and talking. And then it got lighter. There was a spotlight on the Land Rover roof, and they’d turned it on.”
There’d been the sound of something being dragged across cobbles.
Someone whistled the Lone Ranger tune, and everybody laughed.
“And then it went quiet.”
A tense quiet. The crowd had become an audience.
“And then a whirring noise, and a thunk. And everyone cheered.”
Good shot, sir!
Lucas had crawled to the edge, and looked down. There were maybe ten of them below, all men. And they’d set a target on a tripod at one end of the yard, and someone had fired what looked like a crossbow, and the thunk had been the bolt biting its mark: not a bullseye—anything but—but a solid pounding into the outer red ring.
“Good shot?” Emma wondered aloud.
So Lucas told them who had fired it.
“Oh, sweet Jesus . . .”
Not just a bunch of rich businessmen fooling with dangerous toys when drunk, but a bunch of rich businessmen with a royal playmate. Even this late in history, it changed the settings.
Lucas had said, “They carried on for half an hour or so, and then it got too cold so they went inside.”
“And that was it?”
No. That wasn’t it.
When it was quiet he’d fired up again and lay a while longer. He was on a Greyhound bus in his mind, zipping past endless fields of wheat. Middle of nowhere.
That was when they’d come back with the girl.
There was nothing you could do, Catherine had thought, to make these offices worse. The threadbare carpets, worn in patches, revealed a floor which did not inspire confidence, and the walls bulged inwards in places, as if planning to obliterate all they contained. Paintwork blurred into various stains daubed in accident or anger—coffee splashes, curry sauces—and corners were black with mould. Even the air: even the air felt like it had come in here to hide. No, this was as bad as things got. A flamethrower would only improve matters.
But it turned out she’d been wrong. You could make things worse. You could dump a damaged body between two desks, and have it lie on the floor, its head on a lifeless cushion. You could look down on a man whose face had been used to sharpen a blade.
PAEDO.
There’d been no charge, no trial. Just punishment. And now this.
Hard to refute the statement your own face made.
She said, “You need medical attention.”
“No.”
“I’ll get you a cab. I’ll come with you. If you don’t get those cuts seen to—”
“No.”
“—they’ll scar.”
He looked at her, his dark face darker than ever.
“You can’t live with that carved into your cheeks.”
“I’m not going to a hospital. Not looking like this.”
“Not a hospital then,” she said. “Lamb will know someone.”
“No.”
Two different kinds of pain, meeting head-on. A crash no part of him was going to walk away from.
“I’ll leave you to think about it. But think hard. If you’ve a chance of getting those cuts to heal, you have to act soon.”
And how had this come to pass, she wondered, leaving him. At what point had she become Slough House’s conscience? Guiding the slow horses towards their better choices, when her own lately had been courting disaster?
The morning was wearing on. The only word from Wales was an occasional call from River: no sign of Louisa, though her car had turned up. Lamb had relayed this without comment. Louisa’s car, abandoned, meant nothing. Perhaps she’d just grown sick of it, and left it by the side of the road.
We’re spies, Standish. All kinds of outlandish shit goes on.
Lamb was drinking, which was early even for him. The only other concession he’d made to being indoors was taking his shoes off. His feet were on his desk and he was scowling at the wall so hard Catherine felt sorry for it. Imagine absorbing Lamb’s moods, day after day. Then again, where did that leave her?
She said, “He won’t get it seen to.”
“Surprise me again.”
“He’ll carry those marks forever if he doesn’t do something.”
Without looking at her Lamb said, “He’s not gunna let anyone see them. It’d be like turning up at a christening holding a dildo. Everyone’ll assume the worst.”
“So what’s his alternative?”
Lamb said, “Nothing you want to dwell on.”
“You think he really did it?”
“Not anymore.”
“What’s made you change your mind?”
“I haven’t.”
She said, “Someone should record you for training purposes. How not to have a conversation.” She sat. “The words ‘not anymore’ suggest a change of attitude.”
“Yeah, well, in this case they mean I hadn’t given it any thought till now.”
“He arrives with paperwork saying he’s been viewing child pornography, and you hadn’t given it a thought?”
“You’re all fuck-ups, Standish. The manner of your fuck-uppery’s irrelevant.” He was holding a lit cigarette. How did that happen? “Far as Wicinski was concerned, the bit that worried me was him using his office laptop. I mean, I work with idiots. But that’s Olympic standard.”
“So you weren’t bothered what he was here for,” she said. “Didn’t stop you goading him.”
He looked offended. “Course not. You think I’m made of stone?”
“And now you’ve decided he’s innocent.”
“Because anytime anybody really, really wants me to believe something, I turn it upside down and rattle it hard.” He raised his teacup to his lips. Talisker, Catherine knew. And give him credit, he wasn’t hiding the fact. He simply hadn’t been bothered to hunt down a glass. “The only people who know about Mr. Solidarnosc’s supposed tastes in wank-matter are here or at the Park. Or they’re a third party who fitted him up. And given Coe’s not on the premises, I’m focusing on options two and three.”
“Why would the Park crucify an innocent man?”
“Why would the Park ever do anything? But I’ll tell you what last night’s carve-a-Pole was all about. Someone’s sending a message.”
“What message?”
“Oh, do keep up,” said Lamb. “The message was ‘paedo.’ What do you want, pictures?”