‘Well, he started off knowing more than the rest of us,’ went on Lamb, ‘on account of his boyfriend being murdered by the Russians. Ah, the return of Macho Mouse.’ This because Ho was at the door. Once he’d been let in, Lamb said, ‘I sent you to buy a lighter, not invent one.’
Ho blinked. ‘The shops weren’t open.’
‘Why is it I only hear excuses? Give it here. You can keep the change.’
‘… I used my own money?’
‘Let’s have the receipt, then.’
Ho handed it over.
‘Thanks.’ Lamb lit the receipt with the lighter, the cigarette with the receipt, and dropped the flaming scrap of paper on the floor. ‘Where was I?’
‘It might be good if we didn’t burn the house down,’ Catherine suggested.
Reece trod on the scrap and killed the flame. ‘These dead people. The ones in the car. They’re not who killed Andrey back in Moscow?’
‘Doubt it. It’s not like the GRU’s short of talent.’ Lamb studied his cigarette for a moment. ‘But the man who gave the order’s the one who pointed a hit squad at Slough House, so we have a common foe. And you know what they say about common foes, Noddy?’
‘Do they say you can go fuck yourself?’
‘He’s funny,’ said Shirley. ‘Can we keep him?’
‘I know who’ll end up having to take him for walks,’ Lamb said. ‘What’re you fidgeting with, anyway?’
It was a plastic lighter. ‘Found it on the pavement,’ she said.
Lamb glared at everyone. ‘Don’t imagine I’m letting this slide. I start letting you comedians take the piss, you’d lose all respect.’
‘And then where would we be?’ said Catherine quietly.
Lech said, ‘We’ve talked our way round several houses. Are we closer to knowing what to do next?’
‘What we do is, we go live,’ said Lamb. ‘Because as we’ve just established, the GRU have more than one hit team.’
‘… There’s another one out there?’
‘Bound to be,’ said Lamb. ‘And closer than you’d think.’
Out in Tonbridge, still groggy with sleep, River staggered for a piss about 6 a.m., and was jolted awake by his reflection in the mirror. He looked like windfall, and his hands were scabbed and torn. He washed them until they tingled with cold, while deep in the bones, the knuckles, the joints, the memory of what they’d done last night tingled too: holding the woman’s head in the lake until she died.
Then he walked through the house. It had grown smaller as he’d reached adulthood; was bigger again now, partly because it was empty; partly because property, anyway, looked huge now he was renting a one-bed in the capital. And partly because his past grew larger every day, and this was where most of it was. Even the absences told stories. Constellations of tiny holes in the walls were all that was left of the art that had hung here. He remembered finding Rose on the landing once, gazing at an etching, a few pencil lines summing up a doorway trailing ivy, and he hadn’t asked her what she was looking at – he could see what she was looking at – but wished now he’d thought to ask her what she saw.
As for what the O.B. had seen, and thought, River had his own memories to draw on. Some had faded. It had become popular to record the older generation’s words while they were around to deliver them, and it had occurred to River to tape his grandfather’s reminiscences, but only for as long as it took the notion to form. David Cartwright would never have allowed it, and to do so surreptitiously would have been tantamount to treason. So all River had was the old man’s library. If the O.B. had ever consigned his recollections to paper, the results would be hidden there somewhere. It was a memory palace made solid.
To which River now added his own memories, as if daubing a new picture on a used stretch of canvas. Sid was still asleep, curled in the armchair. It was good to see her peaceful, after last night’s alarms. He thought about chasing after her in the car; almost headbutting an oncoming vehicle. When someone you loved was in danger. That’s what he’d been thinking: someone he loved was in danger. And now she was sleeping in the room he’d grown up in.
His phone was on the table, reassembled, though nobody had taken advantage of this: no texts, no messages. He picked it up, looked at Sid, and wondered about taking her photo, before deciding this would be creepy beyond belief. But while the phone was in his hand he scanned the room anyway: the O.B.’s shelves, his books and mementos, the print of The Night Watch above the fire; a six-second video that ended with Sid’s sleeping form. Okay, still creepy, but he could always delete it. He checked for messages again, but there weren’t any. Then remembered there were two bodies in the car outside, and wondered what he was playing at: mooning about like a lovestruck kid. He pocketed the phone, retreated from the room, and left the house.
The car was round back, where they’d left it. He’d thrown a blanket over the corpse in the seat well, a cunning ploy, and as he peered through the window could only make out a shapeless lump: all that was left of a would-be murderer. Well, seasoned assassin. Just not in River’s case. He didn’t open the boot. It was clear no one had come looking. He flexed his fingers, felt the tingle again; remembered the texture of the woman’s wet head. But he’d be better off right now putting together some breakfast.
Before going back in, he surveyed his surroundings. The garden his grandfather had loved had returned to the wilderness nature prefers; the weeds outnumbering the cultivated shrubs; the lawn peppered with dandelions and daisies. Somewhere underneath lay the canvas David Cartwright had painted, and maybe it would see the light again one day. Unlikely to be River’s doing. He walked round to the front. Is this yours? Wicinski had asked. And in answering – Yes, yes, it’s mine – River had felt the truth of it for the first time. It was his house. It had always been the house he’d grown up in – always been home – but until now it had been his grandfather’s property, and River had simply lived in it. But now it was his. Was he really going to sell? It was the obvious, sensible thing to do. But standing here, knowing Sid was sleeping inside, obvious and sensible took on different shades. Most of his life was here. Assuming the rest of it lay elsewhere suddenly seemed presumptuous.
The other evening, contemplating his future, he’d pictured himself with a hand on the doorknob, ready to step into whatever the next room held.
So okay. Here he was.
River had his keys in his pocket, so used the front door for a change. Unlocked it and twisted the knob.
Stepped into his future.
Damien Cantor watched the footage from Oxford Circus sitting at his breakfast island: a marble-topped counter which weighed slightly less than a terraced house. Coffee in front of him, he was jiggling his foot to a mental beat, one matching the scenes on his laptop. The film hadn’t been broadcast yet – they’d been trailing snippets since five – but would go out with the 8 a.m. bulletin: catch the news cycle where it hurt. Parts were rough, but that was fine – would show the viewer it was raw, and really happened. He particularly liked the bit where the bin went through the window. The crew had grabbed a blurry outline of the man responsible, the red sweater beneath the yellow vest, without catching his face. It was good to have Tommo Doyle back on the payroll.
Good to have Peter Judd owing him a favour, too. He’d made like they were scratching each other’s backs – Cantor catches the story; Judd’s man Flint catches some headlines – but they both knew where the truth lay. Judd was looking to be a kingmaker, and the last time there’d been one of those without a TV channel providing back-up, everyone involved had been wearing frock-coats. So Judd owed him. It was the way of the world.