‘And is that nothing the kind you plug him into, hit him with or inject?’
‘I meant literally, they won’t do anything with him. They’ll lock him in a room and let him sweat. Probably for a few hours. By the time they get to asking him questions, he’ll be an open book.’
‘I hope they’ve got their coloured pencils ready,’ Lamb said. ‘So chances are, they haven’t started on him yet?’
‘Why does that matter?’
Lamb bared his teeth in an unholy grin. ‘It gives us a little time.’
‘… You’re going to have to elaborate.’
Catherine leaned forward and gave Emma her sweetest smile. ‘Oh, I think Mr Lamb has a plan.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because he claimed he was going to empty his bowels. And he never takes less than fifteen minutes to do that.’
Lamb smiled proudly. ‘If a job’s worth doing,’ he said.
‘So where did you really go?’ Flyte asked.
‘To fetch this,’ said Lamb, and he unfolded the newspaper he was still holding and showed her Marcus’s gun.
Claude Whelan wouldn’t have been surprised if a butler had opened the door. It was a mews flat not a mansion, but stilclass="underline" a grammar school boy, he retained that sense of expecting the worst when dealing with privilege. In the event, though, it was Dodie Gimball – arch-columnist; keeper of the flame – who answered the bell. She wore a knee-length grey skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse, which looked to Whelan like battle gear. Her smile was as false as her nose. The latter had cost her upwards of twenty grand; the former, years of practice.
‘Mr Whelan. So marvellous of you to visit.’
‘Mrs Gimball.’
‘Oh, do call me Dodie. I imagine you’re familiar with so many details of my life, it seems artificial to have you stand on ceremony.’
Given his awareness of what her nose job had cost, it would have been disingenuous to contest that. ‘Dodie, then.’
‘You’re on your own? No armed guards or, what do you call them? Dogs?’
‘I don’t know how these stories get about,’ he said.
‘Of course you don’t. Can I take your coat?’
‘Thank you.’
The rain had passed over, and while the eaves were still dripping and the gutters puddled, the sun was peeping from behind tattered clouds, and Whelan’s raincoat quite dry. As he handed it to her, as she hung it on a hook, Dennis Gimball emerged from the front room. Or parlour, Whelan supposed.
‘Ha. George Smiley, no less.’
‘If only,’ Whelan replied. ‘Thank you for taking the time to see me.’
‘I was given the distinct impression I had little choice in the matter.’
There was an aggressive edge there, a bluster, which surprised Whelan not at all. Gimball’s public performances always contained this element; an aggrieved awareness that not everyone present held him in the esteem he deserved – as compared to, say, Peter Judd, who successfully conveyed the impression that he gave no fucks for anyone who didn’t cheer his every syllable. But Judd was presently waiting out a hiccup in his career – long story – while Gimball apparently presented a threat to the PM’s position. One of the unforeseen consequences of Brexit, reflected Whelan, was that it had elevated to positions of undue prominence any number of nasty little toerags. Ah well. The people had spoken.
And if Gimball wanted aggression, that’s what he’d get.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You havn’t.’
Dennis looked taken aback, but Dodie pursed her lips, as if having a presentiment confirmed.
‘I’m not sure I’m going to offer you a drink,’ she said.
‘I won’t be staying long. Perhaps we could …’ He gestured towards the open door.
‘If we must,’ said Dennis, leading the way.
The room had been knocked through, so there were windows at both ends, allowing for more daylight than the property’s outside appearance suggested. A pair of overstuffed sofas faced each other across the middle of the floor. Perhaps the Gimballs each had their own, and lay in parallel, purring across the divide. For the moment, though, neither sat, nor offered Whelan the opportunity to do so.
‘It might be best if I spoke to your husband in private,’ he said to Dodie.
‘Seriously?’
‘It’s always best to say that up front,’ he said. ‘That way, nobody can pretend they weren’t warned.’
‘Oh, if warnings are being passed around, here’s one for you. If you attempt to come the heavy with my husband, you’ll understand the meaning of the power of the press.’
She thought herself impregnable, Whelan knew. What she hadn’t yet realised was that the leash her editor kept her on might be long, but remained a leash. She just hadn’t felt its limit yet. But her editor imagined a knighthood in his future, and her paper’s proprietor a seat in the Lords. There was little doubt whose interests would win if it came to bare knuckles.
He looked at Dennis. ‘I gather you have plans for this evening.’
‘That’s no secret,’ Gimball said. ‘It’s a public engagement, widely advertised. You’re welcome to attend, in fact. Come along. You might learn something.’
‘And you’re going to use the occasion to make wild accusations about Zafar Jaffrey.’
‘Wild accusations?’
‘That’s the information I have.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any point my asking where it comes from? No, of course not. The Establishment closing ranks, as usual.’
Dennis Gimball, as all present well knew, was the public-school-educated son of the owner of a high street fashion chain. It was funny, if tiresome, how self-appointed rebels always believed themselves to have ploughed their own furrow.
Whelan said, ‘Be that as it may, with the national mood as it is, there’s a feeling that it would not be useful to have you indulge in rabble-rousing.’
‘… “Rabble-rousing”?’
‘Stirring people up.’
‘I’m aware of what the phrase means, Whelan, I’m questioning your application of it.’
‘There’ve already been public disturbances in several cities, mostly in areas with a high immigrant population. It’s in nobody’s interests that we see any more.’
‘I’m flattered that you think anything I say could have such a wide-ranging effect.’
‘You really shouldn’t be.’
‘But what we’re seeing is the natural revulsion felt by the law-abiding majority to the atrocity in Abbotsfield. And if you imagine I’m going to keep quiet when I have information which might lead to those responsible being apprehended, well, that’s rather casting doubt on my patriotism, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Nobody doubts your patriotism for a moment. But if you have any such information, I’d suggest you convey it to the appropriate authorities rather than deliver it to a public gathering.’
‘The appropriate authorities being …?’
‘The police, obviously. Or, if you prefer, you could give it directly to me.’
‘Ah, yes. To be suppressed or twisted, no doubt.’
‘That’s not how we operate.’
‘Really? Because my impression was, the PM speaks and his poodle barks. That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it? Nothing to do with Jaffrey. Everything to do with the effect that what I say will have on the PM’s chances of remaining in office.’
‘I’m not interested in party politics, Mr Gimball. I’m interested in national security.’
‘And a fine job you’re making of it. What was today’s triumph? A bomb on a train? How many people have to die before you admit you’re unfit for office?’
‘Nobody died today, Mr Gimball.’
‘But twelve people died at Abbotsfield,’ Dodie Gimball said. Up until now, she’d been watching this like a ferret watching someone juggle eggs. ‘And that would be on your watch, would it not?’