On Catherine Standish’s floor he paused. There was no sound save a steady electric hum from the lighting. Catherine’s was a corner apartment; her door the first he reached. When he pressed his eye to the peephole, no light showed. He took out the metal pick again. He wasn’t surprised to find she’d double-locked the door; nor that it was also on its chain. He was about to deal with this third obstacle when, from behind the now inch-open door, she spoke.
‘Whoever you are, back off. I’m armed.’
He was certain he’d made no noise, but stilclass="underline" Catherine Standish was wound pretty tight. She probably woke when pigeons passed overhead.
‘You’re not armed,’ he told her.
There was silence for a moment. Then: ‘Lamb?’
‘Let me in.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Now.’
She had never liked him, and he couldn’t blame her, but she at least knew when to jump. Sliding the chain back, she let him in, then shut the door, snapping the hall light on in the same movement. She was holding a bottle. Only mineral water, but she could feasibly have done damage with it if he’d been an actual intruder.
Judging by her expression, perhaps he was. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Get dressed.’
‘I live here. You can’t—’
‘Just get dressed.’
She looked old in this unexpected light; her greying hair loose over her shoulders. Her nightdress might have come from an illustration in a book of fairy tales. It fell to her ankles, and was buttoned down the front.
Something in his voice changed the context for her. It was still her home, but she was still Service, he was still her boss. If he was here in the middle of the night, things were happening that shouldn’t be. She said, ‘Wait in there,’ pointing Lamb at an open doorway, and disappeared into her bedroom.
Before discovering it was Lamb chiselling through her front door, Catherine Standish’s thoughts had been the obvious ones: that she was being burgled, or targeted for rape. Grabbing the bottle on her bedside table had been an automatic response. And God help her, when she’d seen who it was, she’d wondered if he’d come to proposition her. She’d assumed he was drunk; had wondered if he were mad. Now, hurriedly dressing, she wondered why she hadn’t gone for her telephone instead of the bottle; why her first response to this latest scary moment had not been solely fear. The adrenalin that had pumped through her had felt more like a release of tension than panic. As if she’d been waiting for years, and the all-but-silent scrabbling at her lock was simply the second shoe dropping.
The first had been finding Charles Partner’s body.
She pulled on the dress she’d laid out for the morning. Tied her hair back, and checked her reflection. My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic. It was rare that she could look at herself without those words uncurling in her mind. My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic. For a long while she’d thought herself a coward. It had taken some time to understand that becoming dry involved bravery, not the least part of which was making that assertion in public. Reaching for a weapon rather than a phone was that same bravery making itself felt. It had taken great effort to rebuild her life, after so many props had been taken away, and if most days it didn’t feel like much of a life, it was the only one she had, and she wouldn’t surrender it without a fight. The fact that the only weapon in reach had been a bottle could be labelled one of life’s little ironies.
My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic. There was this to say for the AA mantra: you were in no immediate danger of forgetting who or what you were.
Ready to face her monstrous boss, she joined him in the other room. ‘What’s going on?’
He’d been standing by her bookshelf, gathering data. ‘Later. Come on.’ He was already heading for the door, not looking back. Expecting her to be on his heels.
Maybe clocking him with the bottle would have been the way to go. ‘It’s the middle of the night,’ she said. ‘I’m going nowhere until you tell me what’s happening.’
‘You got dressed, didn’t you?’
‘I what?’
‘You got dressed. So you’re ready to leave.’ He had that look she was used to, of expecting her to do stuff simply because he said so. ‘Can we move?’
‘I got dressed because I’ve no intention of standing in my dressing gown while you invade my space. If you want me to go anywhere, start talking.’
‘Jesus, you think I was hoping to catch you in your underwear?’ He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. ‘Shit has hit fan. Big time. Leave now with me, or soon with less friendly people.’
‘You’re not lighting that in here.’
‘No, I’m lighting it as soon as I get outside, in less than one minute. Stay or come. Your choice.’
Catherine stepped aside to let him leave.
She was always aware of Lamb’s physical presence. He took up more than his share of space. Sometimes she’d be in the kitchen at Slough House and he’d decide he needed to be there too: before she knew what was happening, she’d be pressed against the wall, trying to stay free of his orbit while he rooted in the fridge for somebody else’s food. She didn’t think he did this deliberately. He simply didn’t care. Or was so used to living in exile inside his own skin that he assumed others would give him room.
Tonight, she was more aware than ever. Partly because Lamb was in her home, smelling of cigarettes, and yesterday’s alcohol, and last night’s takeaway; wearing clothes that looked like they were melting; taking her measure with his eyes. But there was more to it. Tonight, he gave the impression that someone was riding his coat-tails. He was always secretive, but she’d never seen him look worried before. As if his paranoia was paying off. As if it had found an enemy that wasn’t only his past, lurking in a shadow his own bulk threw.
Scooping her keys from a bowl, unhooking her coat from its peg, she grabbed her bag, which was heavier than expected, double-locked the door behind her, and headed downstairs.
He was in the lobby, unlit cigarette in his mouth.
She said, ‘What sort of trouble? And how come I’m in it?’
‘Because you’re Slough House. And Slough House is officially in the shit, as of tonight.’
Catherine cast her mind briefly through the last few days’ activity; found nothing in her memory but the usual list-assembly, the data-sift. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘Cartwright’s blown a fuse, and we all get to burn down with him.’
‘Not a million miles off,’ Lamb admitted. He pushed open the door, and went through it first, scanning the parking area. ‘These the usual cars?’
‘Like I notice?’ she said. Then said, ‘Yes. They’re the usual cars.’
This earned her a swift glance. He said, ‘Baker’s been hurt. Moody’s dead. There’s probably a C&C out on all of us, and I’d rather not spend the next couple of days answering stupid questions underneath Regent’s Park.’
‘Sid’s hurt?’
‘And Moody’s dead.’
‘How badly hurt?’
‘Not as badly hurt as he’s dead. Did you hear that bit?’
‘Jed Moody was always going to end badly. But I like Sid.’
Lamb said, ‘You’re full of surprises, you know that?’ and led her out of the building forecourt, with its resident parking and low wall surround and tall green anonymous bushes, and saw the SUV parked on the pavement opposite.
Nick Duffy, noting Lamb’s reaction, said, ‘I hope he’s not going to take this the hard way.’