“Wrong question. You should be asking, what the hell was Cartwright doing, trying to steal a file?”
“Well, I assume it was a ransom demand,” Louisa said. “Whoever took Catherine got in touch with him.”
“Has Ho traced her phone?”
“She’s taken the battery out. Or someone has.”
Lamb grunted.
“So what now?”
“Well it’s long past lunchtime,” he said. “And no bugger’s fetched me a carryout yet.”
“So that’s the bigger picture sorted. But what about these other issues? You know, the danger your team’s in. That sort of thing.”
“Cartwright’s not in danger. They might work him over a bit, but they’ll give him to the plod soon enough. He’ll be perfectly safe.”
“But in prison.”
“Yeah, well. Silly sod should have thought of that before having his awfully big adventure. He’s in MI5, not the Famous Five.” Lamb flicked ash onto Catherine’s desk. “You’d think he’d have worked that out by now.”
“And what about Catherine?”
“Remember what I just said about collateral damage?”
“So whoever’s fucking about with Slough House, you’re just going to let it happen.”
The chair creaked dangerously as Lamb leaned back, dangling his arms over the sides. “What do you expect me to do?” he said. “It’s not as if we know who’s doing the fucking about.”
“And when we find out?” Louisa asked.
“Ah,” said Lamb. “That’ll be a different story.”
“Slough House,” Judd said. “Close it down. Today.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. Do we own the building?”
“Yes.”
“Better still. We can flog it off now the market’s recovered. That’ll pay for the odd decoder ring, what?”
“And the agents?”
“Have them put down.”
“. . . Seriously?”
“No. But it’s interesting you felt the need to ask. No, just sack them. They’re all retards or they wouldn’t be there anyway. Hand them their cards, tell them goodbye.”
“Jackson Lamb—”
“I know all about Jackson Lamb. He’s supposed to know where some bodies are buried, yes? Well, newsflash, nobody spends a decade in this business without stumbling across the occasional corpse. And if he feels like kicking up a fuss, he’ll find out what the Official Secrets Act’s for. Wormwood Scrubs is more than big enough to hold him as well as Cartwright. Speaking of whom, yes, hand him over to the woolly suits. Don’t see why having a grandfather in the business should buy him any favours.”
Thus spoke a man whose own grandfather had paid his school fees.
Tearney knew what this was, of course. Slough House meant nothing to Judd; he cared less about it than she did, and she didn’t care at all. Were it not that it acted as a thorn in Diana Taverner’s side, she’d have erased it without a moment’s thought. Lamb was a Service legend, but there were museums full of one-time legends: label them, hang them on a hook, and they pretty soon lost their juju. The slow horses could be history by teatime, and would have passed from her thoughts before supper. But to wipe Slough House out of existence on Peter Judd’s word was a different matter entirely. And if she let him get away with it, she’d wind up in his pocket.
Of course, a pocket was a good place to be if you were probing the wearer for soft tissue.
She said, “Consider it done.”
Donovan turned away and opened the van, producing something from its depths which for one heart-quelling moment Monteith thought was a pistol, with elongated neck. A silencer? But when Donovan unscrewed the cap and took a pull from it, Monteith saw it was a bottle of water.
He shook his head. Too much heat, too much excitement. From the bright sun outside to the petrol-fumed air of the car park had been like stepping from one form of battery to another: having been slapped silly by sunshine, he was now being rabbit-punched by pollution. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that London was more than one city. There was the one he was taxied comfortably about in, whose views were spacious and spoke in agreeable accents of wealth and plenty, while the other was cramped, soiled and barbarous, peopled by a feral race who’d strip you bare and chew the bones. The divide itself didn’t worry him—it was why the security business paid dividends—but he didn’t like being caught on the wrong side.
He remembered a late instruction he’d given, and something tightened behind his waistband. “The woman. Did you, ah . . . ”
“Shake her up a bit?” said Donovan, screwing the cap back on the bottle. His voice was flat, but Monteith heard judgment in it.
He bridled. Rank be damned: money went one way, respect the other. That was business.
“Just a joke, man. Is she still at the house?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want to speak to Judd in person before we all stand down.” He paused to look around before continuing. “No point changing shirts before the final whistle.”
There was nobody in sight, and the only vehicle in earshot was on the level below, and getting lower. Out on the street, traffic noise didn’t count; it was simply the natural state of being, like the buzzing round a hive.
Donovan said, “You don’t trust him, you mean.”
“. . . Why wouldn’t I trust him?”
The van’s back doors were still open. The soldier put a foot on its floor and began retying a bootlace. “Because he’s a sneaky piece of shit.”
“. . . I beg your pardon?”
“Your pal. Peter Judd. He’s a sneaky piece of shit.”
“He’s also a senior officer in Her Majesty’s Government. So I’d thank you to keep a civil—”
“Where are you meeting him?”
“—Did you just interrupt me?”
Donovan put his boot back on the ground, and Monteith was forcibly reminded that the older man was bigger, fitter; altogether more . . . substantial.
He took a step back. “Let’s not forget who pays your salary, Donovan.”
“Yes, let’s not do that.”
“You’re lucky to have a job at all, with your record.”
“Don’t kid yourself. My record’s the reason you hired me. Puts hair on your balls, doesn’t it, Sly? Having the real thing about the place, instead of plastic heroes.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Oh, I thought you enjoyed it. Makes you think people like you, doesn’t it, when they call you Sly?” Donovan leaned closer, to bestow the following confidence. “I have to tell you, though. That’s not the reason they do it.”
“Ring Traynor. Now. Tell him to release the woman, and get back to the office. And you can consider that your final act in my employment. You’re sacked.”
Even Monteith could hear the quiver in his voice, the barely repressed anger. Let Donovan give him one more excuse . . .
Donovan laughed. “Sacked? You don’t want to try for, what, ‘cashiered’? Tinpot little general like you, I’d have thought ‘cashiered’ more up your street.”
“If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be queuing up for your jobseeker’s allowance. Bit of a change from the parade ground, that, was it? Lining up with all the ex-squaddies for your charity handout?”
Donovan shook his head, facing the floor, but when he looked up, Monteith saw he was laughing. For a moment he thought the last few minutes had just been erased, that Donovan had been having a soldier’s joke, but that bubble burst in short order. Donovan wasn’t laughing with him, but at what he’d just said.
“‘Charity handout’? I swear to God, I’ve fought wars against people I had more respect for.”