He wanted to say: there’s no system in the world can prevent a bunch of homicidal lunatics shooting up a village if they get the urge – no system, that is, that anyone sensible would want to see. It was a question of balance. You lived in a democracy, and accepted that certain freedoms came hand in hand with certain dangers, or you opted for full-scale oppression, which severely curtailed the opportunities for unofficial slaughter, but potentially maximised the official kind. But this was not a conversation to have with Dennis Gimball. So instead he said, ‘I take full responsibility for all the failures of the Service. And have a duty to prevent, as far as it’s in my ability to do so, any further such failures. Which is why I have to ask you not to make the speech you’re intending to make tonight, Mr Gimball. It might have serious consequences.’
Gimball had puffed himself up now. Someone, somewhere, had once used the word Churchillian in his presence, and the memory lingered on. ‘Serious consequences, my arse.’ His eyes flickered towards his wife, but she seemed on board with the vulgarity, so he continued. ‘All you’re doing is shoring up your own position. You might not be interested in party politics, but you’re still its creature, and as long as I’m a threat to the PM, I’m a threat to you too.’
He evidently rather liked the idea of being a threat. His eyes had acquired a little light. The image that occurred to Whelan, oddly, was marsh gas: flickering flames where gas was escaping. He’d never seen the phenomenon; only read about it.
‘And I can assure you—’
Enough, thought Whelan.
‘Dancing Bear,’ he said.
Gimball stopped mid-sentence.
‘Do you need me to say more?’
‘… I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘We both know that’s not the case.’
Dodie Gimball’s face had sharpened to a point, all but her expensive nose, which retained its shape while the rest of her features contracted. Whelan’s reading was, the name was strange to her, but its implications weren’t. Which didn’t matter either way. She had never been the intended target of any necessary revelation.
He said to her, ‘I did warn you.’
‘Dennis and I have no secrets.’
‘Perhaps not from each other. But there are a lot of people out there who might find your husband’s … proclivities surprising.’
‘Dancing Bear doesn’t even exist any more,’ Gimball said. ‘It closed down years ago. And what of it, anyway? It was a perfectly legal establishment.’
‘So I understand.’
‘Just a little bit of dressing up.’
Whelan nodded. His face was blank of any obvious emotion: while he had no qualms about dropping a bomb in the Gimballs’ parlour, he didn’t want to give the impression he was enjoying it. That would lack class.
Dodie had gathered herself now. She said to her husband, ‘Darling, should I call Erica?’ Then, to Whelan, ‘Our lawyer.’
Before Whelan could answer, Gimball was shaking his head. ‘No. No. Let’s just wait and …’
See, probably. The word escaped him. Or suggested another implication:
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me there are photographs.’
‘Good God, no.’
‘… No?’
‘No, I’m not going to tell you that. It would be a little retro, wouldn’t it? A few polaroids in a Manila envelope? We’ve moved on since those days.’
‘Spit it out,’ said Dodie.
‘There’s video. Do you really think a club like Dancing Bear would pass up the chance to film its members having fun? That was its main revenue stream. If we hadn’t bought up its archive, you’d have heard from its proprietors by now. Given your rise to prominence since.’
Dennis was shaking his head, though more as an indication that he was still in his denial phase than in actual disbelief.
‘So here we are, then. Fair warning. If you go ahead with the speech you’re planning, your career will be over before the Shipping Forecast’s aired. I’m not suggesting the evening news, nor even tomorrow’s papers. All due respect, Mrs Gimball, but they’re no more of the moment than a polaroid would be. No, we all know that Twitter, YouTube, reach parts of the planet where they’re still puzzling out the wheelbarrow. And you’ll be tomorrow’s big star. I’d ask you both to consider that carefully.’
There was nothing more to say on either side, so he left them there and made his own way to the front door. But Gimball caught him as he was retrieving his raincoat, and barred his way, looking as if he hoped there were something that might be said or done to render the last few minutes impotent. But hope was all it was. So it was almost with pity that Whelan said, ‘I lied, by the way. I do that sometimes, for effect,’ and reached into the pocket of his coat and took out an envelope. It was creamy white, the kind birthday cards arrive in, and wasn’t sealed, and when he held it slantwise a single photograph slid out, face up. It showed Dennis Gimball in a happy mood. He was on a small stage, and appeared to be singing – karaoke, probably – dressed in what Claire, Whelan’s wife, would almost certainly identify as a flapper dress. It brought to mind The Great Gatsby, anyway.
As Gimball studied it, the way one might an alien artefact, Dodie appeared at his shoulder. She glanced at the photo in his hand, no more, and then at her husband with what Whelan identified as sympathy.
At Whelan himself, she directed a gaze of pure hate.
Gimball spoke. ‘There’s no crime in it.’
‘Nobody suggested there was.’
‘No one gets hurt by what I do.’
‘I doubt anybody will claim that. No, I think what most people are going to do is laugh, Dennis. I think they’re going to laugh their fucking hearts out.’
Afterwards, Whelan was ashamed of saying that – the whole sentence, not just the profanity – and knew that Claire would have been disappointed, but it came naturally in the moment. This probably had something to do with the way Gimball had attacked him in the House.
His raincoat over one arm, he walked through the mews to the road, where his car was waiting.
‘“Alternatively sane”?’
‘Top of my head.’
‘It showed.’
‘It was off the cuff, River. I didn’t know I was going to be marked on it.’
Louisa and River were fetching their cars, or in River’s case, Ho’s car. Well, Ho wasn’t using it, and Lamb had known where he hid his spare keys: in an envelope secured to the underside of his desk. ‘The second most obvious place,’ Lamb called it, the first being if Ho had just Sellotaped them to his forehead. River didn’t feel good about using Ho’s car without permission. He felt fantastic.
The rain had eased off, and the breeze that was kicking up felt fresh and ready for anything.
Ho used a resident’s parking permit he’d applied for in the name of a local shut-in, not far from where he’d nearly been run over the previous morning. Louisa was on a meter, which was nearly as expensive as, though without the obvious benefits of, a second home. They reached Ho’s car first. Before Louisa could walk on, River said, ‘You really think there’s something to this?’
‘What Coe said?’
‘That, yeah. Plus what happens next. Someone’s going to try to whack Zafar Jaffrey? Or Dennis Gimball? Tonight?’
‘Everything else has happened in a hurry. Abbotsfield. The penguins. The bomb on the train.’
‘Yeah, but.’
‘I know.’
‘We can’t even be sure it’s Jaffrey or Gimball. Let alone tonight.’
‘Well, we have to do something.’
‘On account of Lamb.’