Lamb shifted his feet to the floor, carefully enough that only a few things were knocked from his desk. ‘No. Because if it was it would be two coincidences, on account of it happening at the same time as we’ve been rubbed out of the Service database.’ He looked at Lech. ‘Rubbed out in the technical sense, that is. Not your area of expertise.’
Lech’s look, his posture, his reddening neck; everything bar his actual voice invited Lamb to go fuck himself.
‘Have you raised this with the Park yet?’ Catherine said. ‘Dare I ask?’
‘Our refugee status? No, I haven’t. On account of I prefer to know what Taverner’s up to before I ask her about it, and I haven’t worked out what that is yet. Too busy. Some of us have lives outside the workplace, you know.’
‘Comforting gay American dwarfs,’ said Shirley.
‘Glad someone’s paying attention.’
‘Or is it dwarves?’
‘There was only one of them,’ said Lamb. ‘His friend’s dead.’ He farted in a brisk, businesslike fashion. ‘Anything else? God, look at you all, lined up like a choir at a hobo funeral. About as confidence-inspiring as a Spanish motorway.’
‘Nothing like rallying the troops,’ said Catherine.
‘I have something,’ said Ho.
Lamb glared. ‘Pubic lice? That would explain the fidgeting.’
‘I know when our records were removed.’
‘Well, fuck me merrily on high. Actual information.’ He leaned back. ‘Come on then. Amaze us.’
‘First week of January. The fifth.’
‘How do you know?’ said River. ‘If the records aren’t there, they can’t tell you when they were deleted.’
Ho adopted the superior look cats give mortals. ‘I checked for when the personnel database was updated, outside the regular back-ups. Then looked to find each time an update happened with no new material added.’
‘How can you—’
‘It gets smaller.’
‘Which meant something was deleted,’ Louisa said.
‘Yeah, duh.’ Ho interlaced his fingers importantly. ‘Administrator activity’s logged. But you have to know where to look.’
‘And that’s why we keep you,’ said Lamb. ‘I’d known there was a reason, beyond my famously charitable nature.’ He beamed round at the rest of them. ‘See? Being a dickless no-mates pays off in the long run. Okay, Austin Powers, as a reward, you can keep your shirt on. I’d been going to make you eat it.’
‘And what use is that?’ said Shirley. ‘Knowing the date it happened?’
‘Difficult as this will be for you to understand,’ said Lamb, ‘knowing things is better than not knowing things. Think of it as the difference between having a cocaine baggie in your pocket and not. I hope this helps.’
Shirley managed not to check her pockets, but it was a close-run thing.
‘All righty,’ said Lamb. ‘I’ve had as much as I can stand for one lifetime. Piss off and do some work. And remember, all of us are lying in the gutter. But some of you are circling the drain.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But it could be worse. You could be a hotshot squad of international assassins. Then you’d really be in trouble.’
Nobody dared ask, and they all trooped out.
On the way downstairs, Shirley said, ‘Have you gone off reservation lately?’
‘Me?’ said Louisa. ‘No.’
‘Then why would the Park be tailing you?’
‘They don’t need a reason,’ said Louisa. ‘We’re Slough House. They can do what they want with us.’
She left it until after lunch before heading into River’s room. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. His computer was on, its screen reflected in the windowpane behind him: rows of columns, probably an electoral register. So much of what they did involved scrolling through the surface details of civic existence, looking for bumps that weren’t there. But River’s hands weren’t on his keyboard or his mouse. They were holding something he dropped in a drawer as she entered.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘You okay?’
‘Just peachy.’
She perched on the corner of his desk and raised an eyebrow. ‘An Aston Martini?’
‘It’s actually a Renault Crisis.’
‘Yeah, that sounds more you.’ She leaned forward, and he pushed the drawer shut. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘It’s nothing. Tell me about this guy who was following you.’
‘He was a guy,’ said Louisa, ‘and he was following me. That’s a barrette, isn’t it?’
‘A barrette’s a kind of gun, right? I haven’t got a gun, no.’
‘That’s a Beretta.’
‘Or a bishop’s hat? Haven’t got one of those, either.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about now,’ said Louisa, ‘but we both know what you’re not talking about.’
River said, ‘I was clearing my drawers out, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, ’cause you’re big on spring-cleaning. I’ve noticed that in the past. That was Sid’s barrette, wasn’t it? Okay, hair grip.’
‘Why would I have—’
‘Because you found it on her desk after – afterwards. Come on, River, this is me. What’s the matter? Why’s she on your mind?’
His face was set in a familiar obstinate scowl.
‘Because that call you got, the one you thought was her. It could have been anyone. A wrong number, a glitch on the line. Whoever it was didn’t say anything, did they? You can’t recognise a silence.’
Though she was recognising this one. River had pushed his chair back onto its rear two legs; was leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed.
Louisa glanced towards the room’s other desk, currently vacant; its most recent former occupant a smudge on a distant hillside. And she thought about Emma Flyte, who hadn’t been a slow horse; who had, let’s face it, been better than any of them. Both more recent casualties than Sidonie Baker, but fresh wounds make old scars itch. It didn’t take a genius to work out why River Cartwright was turning Sid’s barrette over in his hands; the hair slide that was all the Park’s removal men had left of her presence.
She said, ‘I’m not a therapist, God knows, but—’
‘She’s alive.’
‘I know you want to think that. I do too. But until she actually turns up—’
‘No, seriously.’ He let the chair fall back onto all four legs, and laid his hands flat on the desk. ‘She has done. Turned up. Sid’s alive.’
Louisa stared, but it didn’t take her long. He meant every word, she could see that.
‘You— Really? Jesus, River! Really?’
He glanced ceilingwards, and shook his head. ‘Not here.’ And then he was on his feet, heading for the door. His coat hung on a hook, and he scooped it free in passing.
She followed him a moment later, barely caring that Lamb might hear them, or that leaving Slough House without his permission was a hanging offence.
They were out in the yard a minute later; in the pub over the road shortly after that.
Her hair was different. Maybe that’s what death does to you. It was still mostly red but now punkishly short, with a white stripe across her left temple where the bullet had passed, leaving in its wake a shallow channel, which gave her the appearance of having been imperfectly sculpted. Her dusting of freckles had faded and her skin seemed whiter, though that might have been the effect of dim lighting. She was skinnier too, her upper body swamped by a hoodie whose American university brand name disappeared inside its own folds. Once she’d been all clean lines and fresh air; now that same thought conjured up an image of her hung out with the washing. But she was still Sid. She had Sid’s eyes and Sid’s mouth, so she was still Sid; back from joe country, and in his grandfather’s house. How had that happened?