But all Whelan found himself able to say was, ‘Rejoining? That’s not terribly likely, surely.’
‘Not likely? Have you been paying attention? Not likely is the new normal. He’s got a wife writing a twice-weekly column that amounts to a press release for the sack-the-PM brigade, and when he’s ready to make the jump he’ll expect to be warming his arse on my seat within two months. And this new-found taste for democracy’ – which he made sound like a synonym for paedophilia – ‘means he’ll have fifty-two per cent of the population scattering rose petals at his feet while he does. And it’s not just me they’ve got in their sights, either. The main reason he’s appointed himself scourge of the Secret Service, ably abetted by his tabloid totty, is that I’ve given you my full backing. One hundred per cent confidence, remember? An actual hundred, rather than a hundred and ten, or even, God forbid, a hundred and twenty, which I like to think speaks to the absolute fucking sincerity of the gamble I’m taking here. What I’m saying, Claude, is, we stand and fall together. So I’m going to ask you again, without my oh-so-honourable chums taking notes on your answer, how close are you to rounding up these trigger-happy bastards? Because if we don’t see closure on this soon, the second highest-profile casualty is going to be you. Maybe they’ll stick our heads on adjacent spikes. Won’t that be cosy?’
It occurred to Whelan that if the PM showed half as much fervour when addressing the nation as he did when contemplating his job security, he wouldn’t be regarded as such a lightweight.
Whelan said, ‘I held nothing back from the report I just delivered. Arrests aren’t imminent, but they will take place. As for guarantees that another attack of the kind can’t happen, I’m not able to give that. Whoever these people are—’
‘ISIS,’ the PM spat.
‘Well, they’ve claimed credit, yes. But whoever the individuals are, they’re currently under the radar. They could be anywhere, and they could be planning anything. We’re not in a position to deliver certainties. But I’d repeat that I don’t think door-to-door searches in areas with a high Muslim population would be useful at this stage.’
‘Well, that’s where we differ. Because anything to show that we’re actually doing something would, I feel, be useful at this stage.’
‘I understand that, Prime Minister, but I’d urge caution. Provoking resistance from the radicalised segments of the community would be playing into their hands.’
It was an argument Whelan had made three times already that morning, and he was prepared to make it again but was distracted by an alteration in the offstage atmosphere. The background noise from the nearest corridor, the hum people make when they want everyone else to know they’re busy, had subsided over the last ten seconds, to be replaced by the lesser but far more ominous sound of the same people reading news alerts on their phones.
‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘I don’t hear anything,’ the PM said.
‘Nor I,’ said Whelan. ‘That’s what worries me.’
They emerged as someone was turning up the volume on a rolling news channel, which was screening amateur footage of a violent aftermath.
There was blood, there was panic, there was debris.
Closure, it appeared, wasn’t happening any time soon.
‘It’s been brought to my attention that you arsewipes are not happy bunnies.’
This was Jackson Lamb. The arsewipes were his team.
‘So I’ve convened this meeting so you can air your grievances.’
‘Well—’ River began.
‘Sorry, did I say “you”? I meant me.’
They were in Lamb’s office, which had the advantage, for Lamb, that he didn’t have to move anywhere, and the disadvantage, for everyone else, that it was Lamb’s office. Lamb smoked in his office, and drank, and ate, and there were those who suspected that if he kept a bucket there, he’d never leave. Not that its attractions were obvious. On the other hand, bears’ caves weren’t famously well appointed either, and bears seemed to like them fine.
‘Did one of you jokers put a whoopee cushion on my chair, by the way? No? Well in that case I’ve just farted.’ Lamb leaned back and beamed proudly. ‘Okay, you’re all uptight because there’s a national emergency, and somewhere at the back of your tiny little minds you’re remembering you joined the security services. That rings bells, yes? The bright shiny building at Regent’s Park?’
‘Jackson,’ Catherine said.
‘It gives me no pleasure to have to say this, but keep your fucking mouth shut while I’m talking, Standish. It’s only polite.’
‘Always happy to have you mind my manners, but do we really need to hear the lecture?’
‘Oh, I think it’ll be good for morale, don’t you? Besides, the new boy can’t have heard it more than once. I’d hate him to feel he was missing out. What was your name again?’
‘Coe,’ said J. K. Coe, who’d been there a year.
‘Coe. You’re the one gets panic attacks, right? Behind you! Just kidding.’
Catherine put her head in her hands.
Lamb lit a cigarette and said, ‘Where was I? Oh yeah. Now, I’m a stickler for political correctness, as you know, but whoever decided we’re all equal needs punching. If we were, you wouldn’t be in Slough House touching your toes when I tell you, while the cool kids over at Regent’s Park are saving the world. Except for parts of Derbyshire, obviously.’ He inhaled, and let smoke drift from his mouth, his nostrils, possibly his ears, while he continued: ‘And if we let you help them out, you’d doubtless end up doing the only thing you’ve ever proved yourself good at, which is making a bad situation worse. Any comments so far?’
‘Well—’ River began.
‘That was rhetorical, Cartwright. If I really thought you were going to speak, I’d leave the room first.’
‘Every manhunt needs backup,’ Louisa said. ‘CCTV checks, vehicle backgrounds, all the stuff we’re used to. You don’t think the Park would appreciate our help?’
‘Make an educated guess.’
‘… Yes?’
‘I said educated,’ said Lamb. ‘That guess left school at fifteen for a job at Asda.’
‘I just thought—’
‘Yeah, well, you don’t get paid to think. Which is just as fucking well in your case.’ Lamb shifted in his chair and shoved his free hand down his trousers. Scratching commenced. ‘Now. As I was saying before everyone decided this was an open forum, there’s a lot going on, and you’re not part of it. So let’s fuck off back to our desks, shall we? Devil finds work for idle wankers, and all that.’
‘Hands.’
‘Yeah, hands, sorry. Word association.’
They trooped out, or half of them did. Lamb leaned back, eyes closed, his hand still down his trousers, and pretended not to notice that Shirley, Louisa and Catherine remained in the room. Chances are he’d have kept this up all day, but Catherine was having none of it.
‘Are you done? Or have you not started yet?’
He opened an eye. ‘Why, are you running a meter?’
‘Shirley has something to tell you.’
‘Oh, fuck.’
‘I think you mean, “What is it, Dander?”’
‘Yeah, that’s probably what I meant,’ said Lamb. ‘But my autocorrect kicked in.’ He withdrew his hand and opened his other eye. ‘What is it, Dander?’
‘Someone tried to run Ho over.’
‘Just now?’
‘At lunchtime. In the street.’ Shirley paused then added, for clarity’s sake, ‘With a car.’
‘Maybe they mistook him for a squirrel. I’ve talked to him about that beard.’
‘It was deliberate.’
‘Well, I’d hate to think of Ho being run over accidentally. It would be robbing the rest of us of a moment’s pleasure. Where did this happen?’