‘Have you thought about taking it upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know what good it’ll do. I was there, same as Coe. We both know what that’ll mean, if it comes to handing down verdicts. There are reasons why the Park might want to cover it up, but probably plenty more why they won’t. Not least being, we’re not their favourite people.’ His coffee was too hot. A hot drink on a hot day. Better than nothing, though. ‘You want to know something funny?’
‘Please.’
‘I was planning on quitting. Before it all kicked off. I’d decided I’d had enough, and was gonna jack it in. Start a new life.’ He laughed: not a real laugh. ‘Good times.’
Louisa put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re all over the place right now, though. With your grandfather and all.’
‘Yeah. Still.’
‘So I wouldn’t make any big decisions. Not until … yellow car.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Not until it all shakes down a bit. We catch these guys, we get to be heroes. That’ll alter the picture. Besides, you know. Lamb. He has a way of sorting things out.’
River said, ‘There are limits. Anyway, catching these guys, that’s not gonna happen, is it? Realistically. Even if they do turn up here. In which case, frankly, we’re more likely to get shot than be heroes.’
Louisa dropped her cup into a bin. ‘Now, that’s just defeatist.’ She fished her phone out again. ‘I still think it’s strange we’ve not seen Shirley.’
‘It’s a big crowd. She’s a small person.’
‘But with ways of making her presence felt. I’m gonna call her.’
‘You’ll probably wake her up.’
Louisa said, ‘Yeah, that’ll be fun too,’ and made the call.
Fixed to the wall were two TVs, currently mute, each showing footage from Westminster Abbey. The PM was just disappearing inside, shadows swallowing him as surely as history would, any moment now. Then again, people had been saying that for a while. The other screen showed crowds lining the roads. It might have been a celebration, but there were few flags flying. Close-ups showed serious expressions, occasional tears.
Emma Flyte said, ‘Have you ever seen so many blues on the street?’
‘Royal wedding?’
‘Even then. And khaki, too. There must be two full regiments out there. You could basically stage a war in central London.’
Welles said, ‘You’re worried something’s going to happen? Or that it’s not?’
They were in the Dogs’ quarters – ‘the kennel’, naturally – having been told by Taverner to remain there for the foreseeable, which as far as Flyte was concerned, might turn out not that long. Yesterday she’d sat in Slough House, handcuffed to a chair, and listened to those idiots discussing which of Gimball or Jaffrey might end up dead. If she’d brought that straight to the Park, maybe Gimball would have made it through the night. As it was, her career probably wouldn’t survive him by much.
But here she was, and she’d dragged Devon along behind her. She’d yet to hear him complain about it.
She said, ‘The Abbotsfield crew, they’re what, five strong? And probably one down now, given someone went through a window.’
‘Two words,’ said Welles. ‘Suicide squad.’
‘Okay. But even then, how close to the Abbey could they get? There’s no traffic within quarter of a mile. And on foot, they won’t get that close. Not with every pair of eyes on the lookout for dodgy actors.’
‘They don’t need to get close,’ Welles said. ‘These aren’t combat rules, remember? To be a target, you just have to turn up. This crew, if they mow down a crowd at a zebra crossing, they’ll call it a result. Any crowd, any street. They just have to open fire.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But that’s not exactly seizing the media, is it?’
‘No shortage of news crews out there.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Nobody likes it.’ Welles hoisted himself out of his chair. There was a table in the corner on which an ancient coffee machine muttered to itself. ‘You want some?’
‘I’m caffeinated beyond belief,’ Flyte told him. ‘Any more, you’ll have to peel me from the ceiling.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ He filled a cardboard cup from the jug. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here,’ he reminded her. ‘I’m off duty.’
‘Yeah, boohoo.’
‘I feel a discrimination lawsuit coming on.’
‘You make such a thing out of being black,’ she said. ‘Try being blonde. Then you’d know what harassment feels like.’
He laughed.
On one of the screens the picture changed, and Flyte tensed. A disturbance, people pressing forward so a barrier fell.
‘Dev?’
He’d already abandoned his coffee, the cup dropping to the tabletop, rolling onto the floor.
And then there were policemen on the screen; helping people to their feet, moving the barrier so nobody else tripped.
Welles exhaled heavily.
Flyte said, half to herself, ‘So many people there. It’s like a coronation.’
‘“We are not afraid,”’ Welles quoted. ‘They want to be there, show the bastards they’re not winning. That they’ll never win.’
‘But some of us will lose, all the same.’ The screen showed someone who’d borne the brunt of the collapse; a young woman, her face contorted in pain. Broken leg? Broken something. Two officers were crouching beside her, one laying a hand on her forehead.
Welles said, ‘Would you prefer it if the streets were deserted? If they had a memorial service and nobody came?’
She said, ‘They’ve picked soft targets until now. They’re in for a shock.’
‘Not sure there’ll be many of us feeling sorry for them.’
‘No. But it makes me wonder why they got so ambitious. They’re not going to get anywhere near the Abbey.’
‘A snake eating its tail. This wouldn’t be happening if they hadn’t shot up Abbotsfield. They’ve ordered their own victim turnout. What’s the matter?’
Emma had gone white.
Lamb was not far from Regent’s Park, waiting at a junction where a tree overhung the pavement. There were no crowds; outside of the Abbey’s environs, London was muted, as if the arching blue sky were an upturned bowl, clamping down on everything. He had contrived to be late, but not late enough, and it was a full minute before Molly Doran approached, her cherry-red wheelchair buzzing, as if pursued by mosquitoes. He lit a cigarette, then ran a finger round his collar. It came away damp.
‘What speed can you manage on that thing?’ he asked, when she’d come within range.
‘Faster than you’d think.’
Lamb grunted. ‘Might get one myself. Walking’s hell in this weather. Makes my feet swell up.’
‘Is there not a small part of you that gets tired of this?’
He leered. ‘I have no small parts. Remember?’
‘Must be fun working under you, Jackson.’ She steered her chair into the shade. ‘Tell me about Catherine Standish.’
For a moment, the near impossible happened, and Jackson Lamb looked thrown. But he was looming above Molly Doran’s eye level, and it was possible she didn’t notice. ‘She’s a drunk. She makes my tea. Does the typing. So what?’
‘Nobody types any more.’
‘Yeah, I don’t micromanage. Typing or whatever. What’s it to you?’
‘Seems only fair I get some information in return.’
‘In return for what? You’ve told me nothing yet.’
‘You seriously think I’d show you mine without seeing yours first? Come on, Jackson. Even when I did have legs, I didn’t spread them that easily. She was Charles Partner’s girl Friday, wasn’t she?’
‘You never met her?’
‘She was on the exec level. I didn’t get upstairs that often.’