And now would be a good time to punch this man in the head.
This was principally because he was having a piss: one of the top three moments of attention being elsewhere. Except he was being remarkably quiet, so was either pretending or was one of those types – which included Lech – who couldn’t urinate with a stranger nearby. So maybe he was ready for an incoming blow, and would twist aside the moment Lech launched his attack, leaving Lech with one of those cartoon wounds you get from punching a concrete walclass="underline" a throbbing boxing glove of a hand, pulsing in time to a muted trombone.
Also, Lech was more a strategy man, or had been back at the Park: gathering data, making observations; occasionally getting very particular about finicky details. Putting the anal into analyst. When someone needed punching, there were numbers he could call. It wasn’t about being a wuss; it was about playing to your strengths. And besides, if he’d got it wrong, and this guy was a civilian, punching him in the head wouldn’t go down well. A thing about Slough House, it wasn’t so much a last-chance saloon as an out-of-options off-licence. Any mistake you made would be your last inside the Service, and punching a shy stranger in the head in a public toilet probably counted.
So instead of getting physical, Lech said, ‘Busted.’
The man didn’t turn round. ‘… You what?’
‘I said, you’re busted.’
‘No idea what you’re talking about, mate. Do you mind? I’m trying to have a piss.’
‘You’re Park. You’re supposed to tail me without being spotted. But guess what? You’ve been spotted.’
The man in the mac either finished pissing or finished pretending he’d been pissing or gave up trying to piss altogether. He zipped up and turned, looking Lech in the eye. ‘Don’t know what your game is, but find someone else to play it with, yeah? Because keep bothering me, and you’ll end up head first down one of those, get me?’ He gestured towards the urinal behind him. ‘Head first,’ he repeated, and made hard shoulder contact as he headed for the door.
Reasonably convincing, Lech thought, and time was he’d have stepped aside and assumed he’d made a mistake, or at least allowed for the possibility. But that was back when his face was still the one he’d grown up with; before it resembled a five-year-old’s drawing of a railway junction.
ID, Service card, wallet and phone.
Pocket change and door keys too.
Fuck ’em.
‘You haven’t washed your hands,’ he said.
‘Piss off,’ said Black Mac, and Lech threw his punch.
It was an uppercut, without a huge amount of force behind it, and his target was the side of Black Mac’s head, offering the chance that his hand would come off worst. All in all, though, it wasn’t a bad punch, maybe a five out of ten, and could have been a seven or eight if it had made contact. As it was, he missed by a couple of centimetres, as Black Mac jerked his head aside, giving the distinct impression that being attacked by strangers was not entirely outside his range of experience. Better trained; in better nick. Or just better. You couldn’t rule it out.
Then he hit Lech twice in quick succession, both times in the stomach, and Lech staggered backwards, crashing through a cubicle door and only remaining upright by bracing himself against the walls with outstretched hands, essentially offering a full-body target for the next blow. Which, it turned out, was a real beauty; the kind you’d find yourself thinking about on waking for the next few months, and observing its anniversary by hiding your head under a pillow and weeping quietly.
Luckily for Lech it was Shirley delivering it, and Black Mac on the receiving end.
When River arrived the house was dark, like a line from a rock and roll song. He parked on the verge, noticing fresh ruts where another vehicle had lately stopped. Might be something, might be nothing, but instead of collecting the shopping from the back seat – he’d brought bread, cheese; a few other things Sid might like – he headed straight for the house, going round the back. The door was unlocked. Also, there was a hole in the glass – neatly engineered rather than hooligan breakage.
‘Sid?’
The empty house replied in its usual fashion.
‘Sid!’
Pointless, now, to essay stealth, so he charged through the hall, a memory of Rose’s complaint – Don’t run in the house, darling – rising from the tiles. The study was in darkness. Sid had been here – her blanket was puddled on the floor; there was a half-full glass of water next to a spread-eagled book – but wasn’t now. River ran upstairs, in and out of empty rooms. Bare walls stared from every direction.
Back in the study he collected himself, and tried to remember his training. There was no sign of conflict, merely of interruption, though the large glass paperweight presented to the O.B. on his retirement had found its way to the floor. He picked it up, surprised as always by its weight; peered into it for answers before replacing it on its shelf. Wherever Sid was, she had taken her jacket; also her shoes. If people had come for her, would they have bothered about those details? But then, if people had come for her, it was a racing certainty next door’s sentinel would know about it. The thought, the deed, the space between the two: he was banging on Jennifer Knox’s door within seconds.
‘Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘So late.’
It wasn’t late, was barely eight, but darkness was threading its way through the local lanes, and the neighbourhood nestling down like a pigeon.
‘Mrs Knox, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t an emergency, but I really need to know, were there callers next door? Did a car come?’
‘Is this about your friend?’
‘About my friend, yes.’
‘She went off in the car with the other two. Just five
minutes ago.’
‘Which other two?’
‘The couple from’ – her voice lowered a notch – ‘the hospital.’
‘Okay,’ said River. ‘When you say a couple …’
‘A man and a woman, yes.’
‘In a car.’
‘It was silver, I think. Or white. It’s hard to tell with the street lights.’
She backed away from the front door, ushering him in. He stepped inside, leaving the door open. He would need to leave in a hurry. Would need no obstacles.
But Mrs Knox was heading into her sitting room. ‘Would you close that, please? Keep the warm in?’
He pushed it to, and followed her. ‘Did they say where they were going?’
‘They said she wasn’t well. Did I do the right thing?’
‘Did they say where they were going?’
‘Only she’s been there days, and doesn’t come out at all. And I thought the house had been cleared? What’s she been sleeping on?’
‘Mrs Knox—’