Diners nearer the windows were craning forward to see what was happening. Without a clear view from his booth, Judd stood abruptly and dropped his napkin. Sirens were sounding, their distant, interlooping wails a disorganised commentary on city busyness. The irritation Judd had been feeling slipped into something less comfortable. He made for the door, aware that he was drawing glances: might be something, might be nothing, but there was never any harm in showing himself prepared for an emergency. The redheaded waitress was by the door, peering outside, all pretence at professionalism history. A few yards down the road lay a lump, obscured by people crouching round it.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s been an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
The girl didn’t know.
The sirens grew closer.
The lump was wearing a grey suit.
Someone was speaking into a mobile phone: “No, I swear, he was dumped here by a van. Guy got out, opened the back door, and unloaded him like he was a sack of rubbish . . . ”
Judd looked both ways, but saw no van.
“Took off like a bat out of hell . . . ”
The first police car arrived, and its occupants jumped out and approached the body at a run.
“Okay, okay, let’s have some room here. Let’s have some room.”
“Could everyone please back off, please.”
The first officer dropped to one knee by the body and began speaking urgently into his radio.
Judd’s first thought was that this was Tearney’s work; an emphatic declaration that she wasn’t his lapdog. But that didn’t survive long. If the Service she headed was this efficient, Monteith’s tiger team would have been wrapped in chains and dumped in the Thames by coffee time.
“Did anybody see what happened? Could those of you who saw what happened give your names to my colleague here, and we’ll be taking statements just as soon as—”
Judd shook his head, and stepped back into Anna Livia’s.
“I’m ready to order,” he told the waitress.
“And your guest?”
“Won’t be joining me after all.”
It meant he had the bottle to himself, of course. But gave him plenty to think about while he waited for his lunch.
PART TWO
True Enemies
You could feasibly throw a tennis ball and cover the distance between Slough House and St. Giles Cripplegate, but if you wanted your ball back, it might take a while. For there was no straight route through the Barbican, which resembled an Escher drawing assembled in brick by a spook architect, its primary purpose being not so much to keep you from getting where you were going, but to leave you unsure about where you’d been. Every path led to a junction resembling the one you’d just left, offering routes to nowhere you wanted to go. And set down in the middle of all this, like a paddle steamer in an airport, was the fourteenth-century church of St. Giles, within whose walls John Milton prayed and Shakespeare daydreamed; which had survived fire, war and restoration, and which now reposed serenely on a brick-tiled square, offering quiet for those needing respite from the city’s buzz, and a resting place for poor sods who’d got lost, and given up hope of rescue. Today there was a book sale under way, with pallets of paperbacks laid on trestle tables along the north aisle, and an honour-box on a chair awaiting donations. A few moody browsers were picking over the goods. Apparently ignoring them, Jackson Lamb clumped past and sat on a bench in the nave, near the back. Three rows ahead, an old dear was picking her way through a private litany of petition and remorse. The way her shoulders trembled, Lamb could tell her lips were moving as she prayed.
Separating herself from the book-fanciers, Ingrid Tearney joined him.
He said, “Cripplegate. You think they had their own private entrance?”
“I expect they were beggars.”
“You’re probably right. Probably both kinds. Lucky and poor.”
“I’ve heard a lot of things about you, Mr. Lamb. But never that you were one for whimsy.”
“I don’t spend much time in churches. It’s maybe rubbing off.” He raised one buttock off the bench, like a man preparing to fart, but reconsidered, and settled back onto an even keel. “I’m having a busy day. Half my team’s gone AWOL, and now I’m missing lunch. What’s important enough to let my takeaway get cold?”
“An hour ago, I agreed to close down Slough House.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You don’t seem bothered.”
“If it was going to happen, we’d not be sitting here. I’d be in my office, listening to Diana Taverner crowing down the phone.”
“Maybe I wanted to tell you in person. A perk of the job. It’s not like your department’s a jewel in the Service’s crown, after all. It’s more like a slug in its lettuce patch. There’ll be few tears shed in the Park when the memo goes round.”
Lamb said, “I don’t suppose you can smoke in here.”
The old woman glanced back at them, religious irritation on her face.
“It would be the work of a moment to put you all on the street. It’s not just that what your team does is barely worth doing. It’s that when they start doing things they’re not supposed to be doing, the mess they make requires serious attention.”
Lamb nodded proudly.
“One of your operatives shot and killed a Russian citizen not long ago.”
“I remember,” said Lamb. “He’s still upset he didn’t get a bonus.”
“Slough House is supposed to be a punishment posting. Your . . . slow horses?”
“They get called that.”
“They’re supposed to throw the towel in. Pursue opportunities more in keeping with their talents. Like local government, or petty crime.”
“‘Petty’ is uncalled for,” Lamb objected. “They have weapons training.”
“I hope you’re not making life easy for them.”
Lamb paused, and seemed to be contemplating the surroundings: old stone, quiet air, wooden benches. Hymnals were slotted into ledges in front of them, and motes of dust, some of which might have been breathed in and sneezed out by Shakespeare, danced in coloured shafts of light that beamed through the windows. It was almost cool, compared to the bakery outdoors. Compared to Slough House, it was a slice of Paradise.
“I think I can safely say I’m not doing that,” he said at last.
“Or too hard.”
He looked at her.
“Because overdoing the punishment, letting them know you relish putting the boot in . . . Well. That can be counterproductive, don’t you find? The sort of thing that makes some people dig their heels in harder. Alpha types, I mean.”
“You’ve not met Roddy Ho, have you?”
“You keep deflecting.”
“And you keep going round the houses. Any chance of getting to the point? I have underlings to bully.”
“Peter Judd.”
“Our new boss, God help us all. What about him?”
“He’s the one wants Slough House shut down.”
Lamb shook his head. “I doubt that.”
“Trust me. He just got through explaining it.”
“Trust you? There’s a topic for another day. No, what Peter Judd wants is to wave his dick about. Metaphorically, for a change. And you’re the one he’s waving it at. Slough House just happens to be in the way. You’re not seriously telling me you haven’t worked that out for yourself?”
Again, the old woman looked back and glared. Lamb waggled his fingers in return.
Ingrid Tearney looked across at the book-browsers. They’d been joined by an elderly gentleman who’d taken a seat next to the honour-box. Whether this showed lack of trust remained open to question. He might have been planning a heist. She’d lowered her voice when she next spoke: