And Cartwright thought they were on borrowed time, but Coe knew that one thing the Service liked tightly wrapped was a fuck-up. London Rules meant build your walls high, and the order in which you chucked your people over them was in inverse proportion to their usefulness. So as long as he was more useful than Cartwright, he’d not be first in line to be pitched over the wall. Coe didn’t feel great about thinking this way, but he did feel alive, and that was the first priority. You were all in this together until you weren’t. That was also London Rules.
And another thing he wondered about was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed: was that how he’d come off this evening? When he’d joined the Service he’d been in Psych Eval, which had involved evaluating operational strategies for psychological impact – on targets as well as agents – but had also meant carrying out individual assessments; who was stressed, who’d benefit from a change of routine, and who was a psychopath. Every organisation had a few, usually at management level, and it was handy to know who they were in case there was an emergency, or an office party. J. K. Coe had become adept at recognising the signs, but perhaps he should have been taking a hard look at himself, especially since his own trauma. Maybe that had opened a door into his dark, one never since closed. And that was why he reached for his knife every time he was startled; why taking a life left him feeling buoyed, and in control. If he’d been writing a report for his own Psych Eval folder, half of it would have been in green ink.
But J. K. Coe thought that was probably okay. Everyone needed an edge. This was his.
The car had gone; the street was dark and quiet. His blade was where it ought to be.
Behind him, in Ho’s house, something clattered and someone shrieked.
A floorboard creaked again, and Kim readied for flight.
On her first approach to Ho’s house, there’d been activity; a black van, and serious-looking men loading Roddy’s computer equipment into the back of it. There was broken glass on the pavement, and a couple of chunks carved out of the brickwork. From the back of last night’s cab she’d called Shin and said He’s home alone and Make it quick? He’s harmless. Had she really thought it would be painless? The important thing was that it hadn’t been happening to her. Those were the rules of the game: number one came first and foremost.
And just for insurance, she’d tended Shin from the outset.
You’re in charge, aren’t you?
The others have to do what you say.
You’re not like them …
None of them were ever like anybody else. That was what men liked to hear about: the many ways in which they were unique.
Kim had walked straight past the black van; found a café to nest in for the afternoon, and had returned to find the house in darkness. She’d let herself in with the key Roddy had given her, then lain on the bed, planning her next move.
He was probably dead. They’d probably killed him. Would have killed her, too, if she hadn’t played Shin. You’re in charge, you’re not like them. This had been necessary, not least because she was frightened of Danny, who had a dangerous look. And it had paid off, because Shin had let her leave; had watched her drop through the bedroom window, visibly swelling with the promises she’d made him. They’d be together, once this was all over. She would wait for him. They would fuck happily ever after.
But for every trick that paid off, there was another left you in the dust. So here she was, crouching in a wardrobe, and there was somebody out there – any number of somebodies. If it were Shin and co., the same ploy wouldn’t work twice. Shin on his own, she could shape like putty. Shin with the others watching would be a different story.
But she didn’t think that was who was in Ho’s house now.
Waiting, ready, she tightened her fingers round the wire hanger; reshaped and wrapped around her fist, its hook straightened to a jabbing point.
If someone else’s eye was the cost of her freedom, that was fine by her.
There was a draught, because the board that had been wedged over the broken pane didn’t fit properly. River prised it aside, and let dark air waft across his face. If he’d had the sense to have parents like Ho’s, perhaps they’d have kitted him out with a property too, with a front door of his own, and neighbours who were occasionally visible during daylight hours. But the thought of his mother gifting him a deposit on an ordinary house in an ordinary street almost made him smile. No, his family support came in the shape of the O.B., support that was rotting away now, had rotted away, would give any moment, and then just be a memory of timber: something that was strong and upright and always there, until it wasn’t. Well, at least he’d be spared knowing about the god-almighty fuck-up River had been part of today. That was when you knew things were bad; when your grandfather’s mental slippage was a silver lining.
He came away from the window. There wasn’t much here, now Roddy’s toys had been carted away. A brisk, efficient job the Dogs had made of it; nice to know, given they’d soon be doing the same for him. Well, good luck with that. You could pile most of what he owned into a skip without anyone deeming it a waste. No, the real waste was his career, which had turned out to have a damp fuse attached; so much so that the thoughts he’d had earlier, about walking away, themselves seemed a pipe dream now. Once the Park had taken stock of the day’s events, he’d either be offered up as a sacrifice or swept under a carpet. And again it gripped him, behind his ribs: cold panic. He didn’t dare check his phone to see what the news was saying; at the same time, he wanted to hear somebody’s voice, someone on his side. His mother? Hardly. His grandfather? He’d need a stronger signal than his phone was capable of. So who else – his father? But Frank was a renegade with blood on his hands, and River might kill him if the opportunity arose.
So there was only the here and the now; there was only this moment. Until it all fell apart, and the Dogs came and dragged him away, he’d keep on with the matter in hand, searching for someone who might be dead, which felt like the story of his life. He dropped to one knee and checked under the sofa, which was far too low to be a hiding place, but allowed him to feel he was doing something. And then rose at a crash from across the landing, and a startled shout: Louisa.
Ho’s room was heavy with an acrid, non-specific odour which, caught and bottled, would probably kill rodents, or old people. Louisa was breathing carefully. On any list of rooms she was never likely to find herself in, this one was right behind Benedict Cumberbatch’s, though for diametrically opposite reasons. Still, at least Ho wasn’t here. Just the evidence of his being: the Anime posters on the walls; the clutch of dirty mugs on the floor, rimed with chocolatey sludge.
She didn’t want to think about the used tissues blossoming between them, like failed, discarded attempts at origami.
The bed was wide, its sheets dark blue, its duvet cover brown. Seriously, thought Louisa. She dropped to her knees, checked under the bed. More discarded Kleenex roses; enough dust bunnies to dehydrate Watership Down. There’d been a bedside lamp, but it was gone – you’d think the Dogs were running a boot sale on the sly – but there were drawers in the table it had sat upon, and Louisa looked through these. Okay, so Kim wasn’t likely to be hiding in one, but how often did chances like this crop up? Not that Ho would conceal anything interesting by putting it in a drawer: his life would be parcelled into bite-sized data chunks, and distributed among the laptops and drives that were now visible only by the marks they’d left behind; the dusty outlines of removed hardware. It would all be back at the Park now; like Ho, in the process of being dismantled. Chances were, it would never be put back together again. Whether this went for Ho too was a thought Louisa didn’t dwell on, though she was conscious of a rare flash of empathy for her colleague, who had been useful on occasions, if likeable on fewer. But who was she to talk? She’d not gone out of her way to make Slough House a happier place. She’d made efforts with River, true, but Jesus: after today, the one-time Most Likely To Succeed was well and truly holed below the waterline. What they were doing here, a pointless search for a probably dead witness, was basically marking time: River and Coe were fucked, and it would take a miracle for the rest of them to survive the morning-after recriminations.