So the evidence was there, among the information recently relocated to a secure site off-grid, and while it was true that Diana might herself have gone rooting for it any time these past few years, that would have been to lay herself open to the risk that Donovan now faced on her behalf . . . Besides, leaked evidence would have resulted in a whitewash, or a Select Committee Inquiry as they were also known; the inevitable investigation would have focused on the leaker, not the leaked. Several whistle-blowers of the recent past served as object lessons to this effect: icons of the internet generation they may well be, but Diana Taverner saw no future for herself holed up in an embassy box room, or eking out an existence in a foreign capital. No, if the evidence surfaced through another’s machinations, that would allow her to watch in horror as her Head of Service’s corruption was revealed; to offer her support to a dumbstruck minister; to humbly accept a caretaker role until the dust settled . . . If she wanted to take on Ingrid Tearney, the way to do it was sideways. Which meant using someone like Sean Donovan, whom she could trust because he was no spook but a soldier, and held to a different notion of loyalty: one that involved revenging himself on a Service that had done him harm.
Of course, if he discovered that it was Taverner herself who was responsible for that, things might grow awkward . . .
She finished her drink, considered her immediate options, and decided she didn’t have any. The only course of action open to her was to have another drink.
It didn’t take her long to get served, because the bartender was male. When that stopped happening—Diana didn’t know what she would do when that stopped happening. It was like contemplating death. While he poured she glanced round the bar, then noticed her own reflection in the nearby mirror, and saw with horror what looked like a grey streak in her chestnut hair . . . It turned out to be a trick of the light, thank God, but underscored her current situation: time was stomping on regardless, and opportunities had to be seized. Better to go down in flames than timidly fade.
Thinking all this, she didn’t pay as much attention as she should have done to a figure in the corner; a smooth man—sleek even—with dark hair brushed back from a high forehead, and brown eyes. He had a newspaper spread in front of him, and appeared to be studying it, but what he was mostly doing was watching Diana Taverner.
“I told you I could hot-wire a car.”
“Buses weren’t mentioned,” Lamb said.
Ho had made tinder of the porch, and punched a sizable hole where the front door used to be, which, given the speed he’d been going at, said much for the durability of the good old London bus, and not much for whoever had put the house up. The hallway was littered with chunks of masonry, shattered glass, and splinters of wood. Part of the door frame was lying across Bailey’s back. If the bus had intruded much further, it would have flattened him like a bug.
“I thought you might be in trouble.”
“Yeah. Because crashing a bus would have been a big fucking help if I had been.”
“He was doing his best,” Catherine said. “Thanks, Roddy. That was a good plan. Now go and fetch some water, would you?”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“No, well, it’s not for you. The kitchen’s back there somewhere.”
“Try not to level it to the ground,” Lamb said.
Ho moved sulkily off, just in time for a dinnerplate-sized chunk of plaster to drop from the ceiling and hit him on the head.
Lamb tilted his chin heavenwards. “Owe you one.”
Catherine bent over Bailey and brushed debris away. “Leave him alone. If you’d driven a bus through a wall, we’d never hear the end of it. What are the others doing?”
“Cartwright and Guy are helping your pal Donovan out.”
“Helping?”
“Seems the Grey Books are in some off-site storage place near Hayes. Donovan needed Service help to get in.” Lamb was fiddling in his pocket while he spoke, and when his hand emerged, it was clutching the unwrapped flapjack. He bit it in half then said, “Well, that or he didn’t fancy Hayes on his tod.”
“What about Marcus and Shirley?”
“I incentivised them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lamb gave a long-suffering sigh. “Am I the only one who understands man-management round here?” He crammed the rest of the flapjack into his mouth, and a moment or so later said, “And when I say ‘man,’ I’m most definitely including Dander.”
“She’s big-boned, that’s all. How, precisely, did you—”
“I fired them.”
Catherine pondered this for a moment. Marcus and Shirley, more prone than River even to banging their heads against walls while waiting for something—anything—to happen. “That might work,” she allowed.
“Yeah, and the beauty of it is, if it doesn’t? They’re already fired.”
“But on the other hand, you could have just given them instructions.”
“They haven’t fucking learned to follow instructions.”
Ho returned from the kitchen with a glass of water. He looked at Lamb, then at Catherine, then at Lamb again.
“It’s a glass of water,” Lamb said. “Take a wild guess.”
Ho handed the water to Catherine.
“Thank you,” she said.
She was on her knees now, cradling the still-unconscious Bailey’s head in her lap. Opening his mouth with one hand, she poured water from the glass into it.
“You’re going to drown him?” said Lamb. “Seems a bit harsh.”
“I’m not the one who broke his face.”
“I think I’ve got one of his teeth in my knee.”
“He’s just a kid.”
“Shouldn’t be playing with grown-ups then.” Bending low, Lamb went through Bailey’s pockets. Finding a wallet, he sat back on his haunches and flipped through it: some small change, a pair of ten- pound notes, a credit card and a driving licence.
The notes disappeared in Lamb’s meaty fist.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Petrol money,” said Lamb. He glanced at the licence. “Well well well. Craig Dunn.”
“He’s waking up,” Ho said.
The young man’s eyes were moving under their lids. Catherine tapped his cheek gently with the flat of her hand.
“Is that actual first aid?” Lamb asked suspiciously. “It looks like what you’d do with a puppy.”
“Why don’t you do something useful and call an ambulance?”
“I’ve already been useful,” Lamb said. He looked at Ho. “What’s the matter now?”
“I paid for the petrol.”
“You’ll need to file an expenses claim,” Lamb said. “Louisa’ll show you how.”
Craig Dunn groaned and opened his eyes.
At first sight, the wasteground was empty of people. The Black Arrow van was parked near a car which looked like Louisa’s, and there was a skip, various heaps of masonry, and a pile of tumbled-over fencing, but the crew they’d seen drive in had melted away.
“Where did they go?”
“Don’t look for people. Look for movement.”
It was like one of those children’s puzzles: you stare at a picture of a tree until you can make out the squirrels.
They were in shadow themselves, more tree than squirrel, and speaking in whispers. Shirley had buttoned her jacket up, to prevent white T-shirt showing; Marcus had pulled his cap low. They were huddled by the entrance to the mis-shaped quadrilateral formed by the buildings; a pole designed to block ingress had been fixed in an upright position, and a wooden sentry box where a car park attendant once lurked was empty, save for a heavy stink of piss. There were lights beyond the furthest building, signals for passing trains, but the sky overhead had given way to a thoughtful deep blue, and nothing shone in the foreground.