‘Who’s talking to him?’
‘Nobody, sir. We were told to leave him to sweat.’
A good, if obvious, ploy. Sooner or later, if you were in one of the downstairs rooms, with its single plastic chair whose legs weren’t quite of equal length, you would start to wonder why the floor was ever so slightly off-level, and what the tap in the corner was for, when there wasn’t a basin there. Just an open drain, to allow for run-off.
After a few hours’ contemplation, this could start to seem a pressing matter.
There was, as yet, no certainty that the attack on Roderick Ho was part and parcel of the Abbotsfield massacre. ‘Guns are currency,’ Whelan had said to Lady Di earlier. ‘It’s possible the Abbotsfield killers ditched theirs as soon as they were able. And other bad actors picked them up. In which case what we have is a coincidence.’
‘I don’t like those.’
‘No, well, neither do I. But if it’s the same crew, it’s a very different plan. Murdering random strangers is one thing. This was an attempted hit on Service personnel. Chalk and cheese, no?’
‘Yes. Or …’
‘Or what?’
‘Or someone was tying up a loose end,’ said Lady Di. ‘Perhaps Ho was aiding them, intentionally or not. In which case …’
In which case they might want to sever the connection.
Diana had a point, and it needed testing. If there was a link between Ho and Abbotsfield they had to discover it, and the fastest way would be to squeeze Ho none too gently. But Roderick Ho was a slow horse, and though on one level this meant he could be screwed up and tossed away like so much waste paper, there was a complication in that he was one of Jackson Lamb’s crew, and Lamb was inclined to play rough when you messed with his things. Which meant that any attempt to do so would have to involve snookering Lamb: not a step to take lightly, because if it failed, Whelan would be left standing on scorched earth. Lamb knew more about Whelan than Whelan was comfortable with. And Whelan had yet to think himself out of this corner, so for now had to tread carefully.
Lady Di might have delivered Ho. But it was up to Whelan what happened next.
So before he headed out to beard Dennis Gimball, he gave the instruction: ‘Keep sweating him for now. Another couple of hours’ soft time. It’ll pay off in the long run.’
Because soft time or not, a few hours in below-stairs accommodation and Roderick Ho would turn to jelly; just a messed-up ball of anxious worry, dying to spill his guts.
Well for a start, thought Ho, the plumbing’s fucked.
Single tap, jutting out of the wall at a height you’d have to be seriously below average to use comfortably: whose idea was that? But this was what you got when you used cowboys. You’d have thought the Service would rise to something a bit less cheap, a bit more reliable, but the austerity bug bit deep. Look at Slough House, and his own kit – years out of date, and while Roddy Ho could make a PC cable of any vintage come rising from a basket like a snake, that didn’t make it right to foist him off with substandard gear. It had long been on his mind to raise the issue first chance he got, but he wondered whether now was, in fact, the right time. People here had problems of their own. Even the floor was wonky. And besides, there were other matters to discuss.
Someone had tried to kill him last night.
Bad as that was, he couldn’t complain that it wasn’t being taken seriously. Here he was, after all, in protective custody; ferried by Diana Taverner, no less; the Park’s Second Desk (Ops), who hadn’t said much on the ride over, so rattled was she at how close they’d come to losing him. He’d nearly patted her hand, in fact – just in simple reassurance that he was still among the living – but had recognised that a physical overture might be misconstrued: another time, another place, lady. Because there was Kim, his girlfriend, to consider, and seriously: Lady Di ought to be focusing on keeping him safe right now, instead of allowing herself to be distracted by middle-aged fantasies.
(Middle-aged was pure chivalry, mind. She had to be in her fifties.)
Anyway, here he was, in the bowels of the Park, having been escorted here by the Dogs, the Service’s cop squad. Who hadn’t been talkative, and had forgotten his request for an energy drink while he waited. Still, if he got thirsty, he could help himself from that tap. Nobody could say Roddy Ho wasn’t prepared to rough it while the powers that be worked out the best way to protect him.
Dragging the chair to a corner, Roddy entertained himself by discovering how sharp an angle he could balance it at before toppling to the floor. This proved to be about half as sharp as his first attempt but, it turned out, he had plenty of time to improve.
J. K. Coe said, ‘I think we’ve got a problem.’
Lamb said to Flyte, ‘He doesn’t speak much. Perhaps he’s making an effort on your account. Let’s see.’ He turned to Coe and said, very slowly, ‘Why. Might we have. A problem?’
Then he looked at Flyte again, tapping a finger to his temple. ‘Bit simple,’ he mouthed.
Coe twisted his earbud cord round his fingers. ‘There’s been another incident.’
‘Did you wet yourself again? Don’t worry, we didn’t notice.’
Catherine said, ‘Let’s hear him out, shall we?’
‘A bomb on a train,’ Coe said.
‘And that came to you via the music, did it?’ said Lamb. ‘Might have to try listening to jazz myself. Except I’d rather rub sand in my eyes.’
He put his bottle to his lips, and drank wine like it was water.
‘He’s not listening to jazz,’ Catherine said.
‘Yeah, funny thing, I’d got that far myself.’
‘We’re in lockdown,’ said Flyte. ‘No comms. And you’ve been listening to the radio?’
Shirley said, ‘Give him some slack. He carries a knife.’ She’d found a plastic glass somewhere and poured herself some wine, and her mouth was red from that or the Haribo. She looked like she’d applied lippy while no one was looking.
‘Where was the bomb?’ said River. ‘How many hurt?’
‘Nobody. The device was found and disabled.’
‘Where?’
‘On an HST from Bristol. Heading into Paddington.’
The others already had their phones out, checking the news websites.
Flyte said, ‘Do I have to say this again? Turn your devices off. We’re in lockdown.’
‘It’s because you’re new,’ Lamb said. ‘They’re testing the boundaries.’
‘When I need your input, I’ll ask.’
River, eyes on his phone, said, ‘Nobody’s claimed responsibility yet.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Lamb said. ‘Taking the credit for fucking up, that would be your department.’ He looked at Coe. ‘And as for you. I make a big announcement about the Abbotsfield killers having a crack at Ho, and you trump it with a story about nobody being hurt somewhere else?’ He shook his head. ‘We have to start playing cards for money round here.’
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ said Louisa.
Coe had put his hands on the desk in front of him, and his fingers seemed agile and twitchy. ‘Yes.’
Lamb’s sigh would have filled a sail. ‘A few fucking details wouldn’t go amiss. Whenever you’re ready.’
Coe collected the agile fingers on his right hand and turned them into a fist. He unbent them one at a time, still staring at the desk in front of him. ‘One. Destroy the village.’
River opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind.
‘Two. Poison the watering hole.’
Lamb leaned back in his chair, looking grim.
‘Three. Cripple the railway.’
Coe folded his hand away again, and stuffed it into the pouch of his hoodie.