With this on her mind, she almost didn’t see the turn-off until too late. The usual markers had been obliterated, but the fenceposts whose tips punctuated the snow broke rhythm abruptly, leaving a gap, so she swung Ho’s newly branded ATV ninety degrees onto an upward-inclined lane which hadn’t been used since the first snow fell, judging by the lack of tracks. Or that was the plan. Fucking Ho’s car, though: as reliable as its owner. Instead of following the lane upwards it basically ploughed into a snowdrift, and if it hadn’t been for the airbag she’d have cracked her head on the windscreen.
There was a possibility, too, that she’d just driven into a ditch.
She sat for five minutes then wrestled her way free, which was an adventure in itself. The snow came past her knees, and the air was biting cold. Her footwear was sturdy—Shirley was a Doc Martens girl—and her jeans were actual proper jeans, without stupid designer rips, but her anorak’s skin was plucked and pitted from a recent encounter outside a nightclub, when a stuccoed wall had been used as a vertical mattress . . . She wondered about going through Ho’s boot, maybe hoisting an accident triangle on the road, or planting it on the car roof like a birthday candle, but in the end settled for sending the Metal for Muthas cd flying across the snow-covered field like a frisbee, before slamming the door shut.
This might not be the right lane, or even a lane at all, but she was on it now. Might as well follow the incline to the crest, and see if she could spot Coe’s farm buildings from up there.
So off she plodded, a short dark figure on a big white canvas, leaving a trail behind her that was slowly swallowed as snow continued to fall.
J.K. Coe was cold, but preferred it that way. Warm was sleepy; warm was soft. Warm lost you focus, then bad things happened. He still remembered the person he’d once been, who had returned home after a normal day to find himself a sudden prisoner, fastened to a chair in a plastic-clad room, while a naked man threatened to unzip him with a carving knife. His worst moment, one that hadn’t actually happened, was hearing the wet slap of his organs hitting the floor. That’s what you could expect when warm and comfortable. In the cold, he was sharp as a blade. And his hand dropped to his pocket with the word, reminding him of the short sweet knife it carried.
He checked the map on his phone. Dotted lines and blank white spaces: for once, the diagram matched the reality, which was open spaces with a faint grid laid over it; wire strung between fence posts, marking boundaries. Leafless trees like holocaust sculptures. Behind him, on the main road and coastward-bound, a small figure that was River Cartwright. Cartwright, Coe thought, had twofold motivation today. Find his friend, and find Frank Harkness. Well, “find.” He wanted to kill Harkness. He didn’t know whether Cartwright realised that himself yet, but it was clear as daylight to Coe.
Not that he cared. There’d been a time when he’d have resisted leaving Slough House. Would have clung to his desk: staring at a screen, out of a window—didn’t matter. Time was what you were up against, and J.K. Coe had a strategy: you just coasted through it—ignored its bumps, all the wayward topography it hurled at you in the shape of other people, random events, bad memory. You kept your gaze blank, paid as little attention as was compatible with functioning, and the world moved on. Sooner or later, you got to the end of the day. Then you could manage the dark for a while, breathe slowly, and prepare for it all to start again.
But he’d come to realise that surrender was also an option. If you went along with whatever was expected—got in the car; marched where you were pointed—time passed just as quickly. It didn’t matter, in the end, whether Coe was at his desk in Slough House or on an all-but-invisible track leading to a barn on a snowy Welsh hillside. Just so long as he wasn’t strapped to a kitchen chair, waiting for the splash as his innards met a plastic-wrapped surface.
He stopped, shook his head. The image cleared.
Then he stamped his feet. Cold was good; cold kept you sharp. But his feet weren’t getting the message.
Next time he looked back, Cartwright had disappeared.
Snow was drifting down; not a blizzard, but one of those unstoppable forces that would end up carrying off walls and bridges. In time, its cold began to feel like a different kind of warmth. That couldn’t be a good thing, he decided, as he cut through a copse to find, when he emerged on the other side, a barn.
It sat in the corner of a field, as its skeleton outline on his phone suggested. Its reality was more solid than that empty box, but there wasn’t much in it: even from a distance, J.K. Coe could see holes in its roof. It was a fundamental rule of construction: left to itself, any building will strive to become its base elements once more; in this case, wood and nails. Slow horses knew this. Slough House was a constant reminder that neglect was one of the few things you didn’t have to work at to achieve an impeccably high standard.
He had all those thoughts, and this one too: that there was a man leaning against the barn’s outer wall, watching his approach.
A mile to the coast? Call it a mile.
A mile then, but it felt like three.
River’s legs were aching long before he saw the first sign, Coastal Path, and an arrow indicating he should keep right on. And if he walked far enough, he might hit cartoon gravity; the kind where you don’t start falling until you notice you’ve run out of ground. He wondered how high the path was, how far the drop to the sea, and whether the landing would be onto rocks or water. And if the latter, how long you could be expected to last after impact, in temperatures like this. So many different ways to die arising from the same mistake. That could almost be a mission statement. If not for the Service as a whole, at least for Slough House.
The only vehicle he’d seen had been a car lumbering past in the opposite direction. Its driver, an elderly female, had stared at him but maintained her lumpy pace. The dog peering out of her rear window had laughed at River walking in the snow.
He wondered where Louisa was. The slashed tyres were a good sign. They’d not have disabled her car if they’d already disabled Louisa. So at some point, at least, she’d been active and evading the enemy.
Somewhat unexpectedly he had a signal, so he called Lamb.
“Found her yet?”
“Wales is quite big, it turns out.”
Lamb said, “Yeah, I’ve problems of my own. Are you still in a layby or have you got off your collective arses yet?”
“We found where she dumped her phone.”
“But not the phone itself.”
“We didn’t pack a JCB. It looks like she tossed it. That or . . .” He trailed off.
Lamb said, “I’m not a fucking infant. If she’s lying dead in a field, she’s been there a while, that’s what you’re saying?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s hope not. If I’ve lost a joe while she’s on leave, I’ll never hear the end of it.” River heard the clicking of a lighter, and the sandpaper rasp of a cigarette being lit. Then Lamb said, “You’ve mentioned the snow. Any signs of wolves?”
“Wolves? It’s Wales, not . . . Mongolia.”
“’Cause I’m wondering if that’s what you’ve been chucked to. If Guy went dark, she’d have called it in first, and the Park would have responded. In which case you should be knee-deep in back-up by now. Alpha-types, unlike you and your loser colleagues.”
River said, “I’ve only had a signal about half the time. And if she rang the distress number, she wouldn’t get a human response. It goes to a recording.”