“They’ll want to know why nobody at Westacres was prepared for the flash-mob. It wasn’t the world’s best-kept secret.”
“No, but Westacres’ security staff aren’t GCHQ. They look for shoplifters, they’re not scanning the internet for potential threat. As for our own surveillance, if it crossed our radar, or Cheltenham’s, it wouldn’t have held their attention more than a minute. Why would it? It’s a student prank, not an IS plot.”
“Fine, but put that upfront. Make it part of the narrative, not an excuse we’ve come up with afterwards. And don’t worry about Cheltenham, either. If GCHQ fuck up, that’s their problem.”
“This is our united front?”
“This is zero-sum politics. If GCHQ gain influence, we lose it. That simple. You’ve got the fact-sheet on Robert Winters?”
Robert Winters was the 3:04 man. The man who’d turned up at the Westacres flash-mob and blown the children to Kingdom Come.
“Everything we know about him, yes.”
“Don’t stray beyond that for now. Speculation isn’t going to help.”
Whelan tucked the folder under his arm and said, “Thank you, Diana. I appreciate your input.”
“Your first week. Not what you’d call a gentle introduction.”
“No, well. I wasn’t expecting an easy ride.” He hesitated. “I know you had, ah, ambitions of your own.”
She was shaking her head before he’d finished. “Wasn’t going to happen, Claude. I was too closely associated with Dame Ingrid and, well, once it turned out she was toxic . . . ”
“The penalties of loyalty.”
“That’s a kind way of putting it.”
Five minutes’ prep would have taught him that she and Ingrid Tearney had been sworn enemies, and whatever else you might say about the weasels, they always did their prep.
As casually as he could manage, he said, “Anything else, Diana, before I go see the headmaster? Anything you’re not sharing?”
“Anything I find out, you’ll know one minute later.”
“A minute’s a long time in intelligence work.”
“Figure of speech, Claude. I won’t hold anything back.”
“Good. Because like you said, it’s a zero-sum game. Anyone not for me is against me. I hope we’re clear on that.”
“As glass, Claude,” she said. “Oh, one thing. Your autograph.” She’d left papers, neatly stapled, on the table, and she collected them now. “Times three, I’m afraid. Everything in triplicate.”
“Some things never change. Do I need to read all this?”
“I ought to insist. You’ll discover more about where we source our office supplies than you ever dreamed possible.”
“One of the things I love about this job. Its refreshingly traditional attitude towards red tape.” He skimmed the top set, signed all three on their final page, then left the room at a trot.
Lady Di watched him go, hugging the papers to her chest, then reached for her mobile and redialed Emma Flyte.
“Change of plan,” she said. “I need to see you.”
The COBRA meeting was well underway when Slough House came to life, if the heavy scraping of its back door counted as life: Roderick Ho, his red puffa jacket shiny new, its cuffs and pocket edgings trimmed with hi-viz silver. His earbuds were mainlining chainsaw guitars to his brain when his phone vibrated with an incoming text. That’ll be the ball and chain, he thought fondly. Checking I’ve not copped off with a City-bound babe on the Central line—women who worked in banking looked like they shopped at Victoria’s Secret. No wonder the girlfriends of alpha-types like Roddy Ho got nervous around rush hour. His head still pounding to a jackhammer beat he clicked to his messages, expecting to read “Kim,” but it was from Lamb. He read the text halfway up the first flight of stairs and said, “Jesus.” And then he said “Jesus,” again, and then he stomped the rest of the way up to his office.
When Moira Tregorian arrived, he was on his back in River’s room, fiddling around with cables. She tried to go past but the sight of a pair of legs protruding from beneath a desk defeated her, and she was back fifteen seconds later, coat still on.
“Is everything all right?”
He didn’t reply.
“Is the network down?”
Because if the Secret Service’s network was down, things were potentially serious. Maybe she ought to hide under a desk too.
But he still didn’t reply, and it only then occurred to her she was looking at Roderick Ho’s legs, not River Cartwright’s—Cartwright a lot less likely to be wearing jeans with purple embroidery on the thighs—so chances were their owner’s head was plugged into a Walkman, or whatever they were called. There was a strong argument that such devices should not be countenanced in the office, but it gave her the excuse to do what she did next, which was kick Ho on the soles of his feet.
Which didn’t hurt, but at least made him bang his head on the desk.
“Ow! Christ!”
“Yes, well, there’s no need for that.”
Ho pushed himself out and scowled up at her. “What you do that for?” he shouted.
She tugged at her earlobe.
Ho pulled his buds out and said, “What you do that for?” with equal petulance but less volume.
“Because you weren’t responding to me.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t hear you.”
“Precisely.”
Ho rubbed his head. Talking to women frequently left him bruised. It would be easy to start thinking they were all mad and violent.
“So—what are you doing?”
“Swapping PCs. This one’s better than the spare in my room.”
“But isn’t it Cartwright’s?”
“Oh, yeah, you haven’t heard. He’s dead.”
“He’s what?”
“Lamb texted me. I’m kind of his right-hand,” Ho said. “The others, well. Not exactly your high-fliers. Let’s face it, Shirley’s a nutjob, and—”
“He’s dead?”
Ho said, “Lamb just identified his body.”
“Dear dear me,” Moira said faintly.
There was movement behind her as Louisa arrived. “What’s going on?”
“I’m just swapping—”
“Young Cartwright’s dead,” Moira told her.
“No.”
“Mr. Lamb just texted—”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“No.”
Louisa left the room and entered her own office, closing the door behind her as softly as a breeze.
“Oh dear. I didn’t handle that very well.”
“Handle what?” said Ho.
JK Coe arrived, half-invisible in his hoodie. If he registered the presence of intruders, he didn’t say; just slumped at his desk and booted up. Already his fingers were tapping away, caressing invisible keys.
“Did you hear?” Moira Tregorian said.
She had as much luck with him as she’d had with Ho.
“Is everyone deaf?”
Something about her body language, the warning vibes, got through to Coe. He pulled his earbuds out and looked her way from the safety of his hood.
“It’s Cartwright. River. Lamb’s texted to say he’s . . . ”
It occurred to her she wasn’t making the best job of breaking the news, but on the other hand, there were only so many ways of finishing this particular sentence.
“. . . dead.”
Coe stared for a moment or two, then looked at Ho, who had temporarily abandoned his plan of cannibalising River’s kit.
“It was me Lamb texted,” he said, to underline who was whose right hand.
Coe stared a bit longer, then said, “Uh-huh.”
This was the longest speech either had heard him deliver.
More noise from downstairs: Shirley and Marcus, arriving together. And noise from the hallway too, as Louisa re-emerged from her office and came back into River’s room, her eyes the colour of burnt matches. “What the hell are you talking about?”