“The skin’s not broken,” Catherine told her. “That’s something, anyway.”
It didn’t feel like much to Louisa, but having Catherine say so was reassuring somehow. “You back for good?” she asked.
“I hope not,” Catherine said, then followed Lamb and Chapman out of the room and up the stairs.
“She brought the O.B. with her,” Shirley told them.
“The O.B.’s here?”
“Upstairs with the Moira.”
Marcus shook his head. Chaos seemed the order of the day. That was certainly what Stan-the-garage-man had thought, when he’d returned to find his forecourt a war zone: a black cab steaming in the rain, his gates in splinters. Marcus had shown him his ID, pointing to the line about Her Majesty’s Service, and told him they were Duty Men, apprehending a VAT defaulter. Stan had cast an uneasy eye towards his workshop, which was doubtless where he kept his books, and piped down. Though he did ask who’d pay for the gates.
“Send the invoice to your local tax office,” Marcus said. “They’ll see you all right.”
And now Marcus felt good, or better than in recent memory. It wasn’t just smashing through the gates that had done the trick; nor sideswiping the bad guy in the process. It was more that he hadn’t had to use his own car. This felt like a turning of the wheel; his luck shifting back to its proper position.
Except for the part about the bad guy getting away.
He said, “I clipped him with the taxi, I know I did. Felt the impact.”
“And then he got away,” said Shirley.
“Shirl,” Marcus said. “If you’d been there, you’d have decked him. We get that. But you weren’t, and he’s smoke. Okay?”
“Just saying.”
“Any word from River?” Louisa asked.
“Not even a postcard. Don’t you hate it when colleagues go on holiday and—”
“When did Catherine get here?”
“I bet he won’t even bring chocolates back. About half an hour ago.”
“What kind of state’s the O.B. in?”
“He looked like a ghost. Confused and scared.”
“River was worried about him.”
“Yeah, well,” Shirley said. “Running off to the continent’s a good way of showing it. Cool jeans, by the way.”
“Ripped jeans.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“I pay good money for unripped jeans.”
“Kim wears ripped jeans,” Ho said. “She’s my girlfriend,” he explained.
“Really.”
“Ripped jackets too.”
“Are you still here?”
“Yes,” Ho said. They stared. “No,” he said, and left. Before he’d crossed the landing, they heard Lamb bellowing down the stairs for him.
“Ripped jackets?” Marcus said. “Is that a thing now?”
“No,” said Shirley. “And asking if something’s a thing now isn’t a thing any more either.”
“You think Chapman has any idea what’s going on?” Louisa asked.
“I hope somebody does,” said Marcus.
When Ho got to Lamb’s office Lamb threw a handful of takeaway cartons at him. “These things have been breeding. When you’ve chucked ’em out, go next door and fetch some new ones. Full.”
“. . . Full of what?”
“Chinese food, idiot,” Lamb said. “Or ‘food,’ as you people call it.”
Ho brushed a lump of congealed rice from his jacket, then tried to rub the stain away. “What kind, I meant?”
“Surprise me.”
Bad Sam eyed Ho with pity. “It’s Roderick, right?”
“. . . Yes.”
“Roderick, would you let me piss on you for a quid?” he asked.
“. . . No.”
“So why’d you let him do it for free?”
“Don’t mind him,” Lamb explained. “It’s the pain talking.”
“When you open your mouth, that’s a pain talking. What are you finding so funny?”
This to Catherine.
“You two,” she said. “It’s like watching dinosaurs having foreplay. Or Top Gear.”
“We’ve met, haven’t we?” Bad Sam asked.
“One of my happiest memories.”
“You’re very perky,” said Lamb. “Happy to be back?”
Catherine told Ho, “He doesn’t need food, he’s already eaten. But find me some ice, if you can.”
Ho slipped away, still rubbing at the mark on his new leather jacket.
She said, “I’ve told you why I’m here. The Park are looking for the old man. I thought it best to bring him somewhere safe.”
“Which old man are we talking about?” Chapman asked.
“Your ex-boss,” Lamb said. “David Cartwright.”
“Cartwright? He’s still alive?”
“Yeah, but we’re in injury time,” Lamb said. “The guy who tried to whack you? There’s a lot of that going round.”
“He tried to kill Cartwright?”
“Not personally. That particular gentleman ended up with a flip-top head. But I’m assuming the two events are not unconnected. Unless it’s just open season on clapped-out spooks.”
“I’m pretty sure if that happened, you’d be top of most people’s list,” Catherine said.
Chapman said, “Well if the Park are looking for him, why’s he here? He’d be safer with the professionals.”
“Well, that rather depends who signed off on the murder attempt.”
He stared. “You think someone at the Park wants to kill David Cartwright? And me?”
“It’s a theory.”
“They already gave me the sack,” Chapman said. “It’s a bit fucking cheeky having me murdered too. Besides, I’m old news. I don’t even know who’s running the place now. Tearney went, didn’t she?”
“A victim of political correctness,” Lamb said sadly.
“Didn’t she arrange several murders?”
“Well, that too. But the new boy, his name’s Whelan, hasn’t been there long enough to start throwing his weight around. No, if this things got its roots in the Park, it’s like you. Old news. From back when Cartwright was one of the movers and shakers. You used to watch his back, didn’t you?”
“Sometimes. It’s not like he needed full-time supervision.”
“But he went walkabout occasionally.”
“What are you getting at, Jackson?”
“You went with him to France.”
“Oh Christ,” said Sam Chapman. “This is about Les Arbres, is it?”
Moira Tregorian, too, was wondering at the turns the day had taken; from the secret thrill at the death of a colleague—well, it wasn’t as if she knew him well—to its baffling reversal; from the lunch she’d expected to be an induction into the rituals of Slough House to the interrogation it had turned into instead. How well did she know Claude Whelan? What was the point of contact between her—Regent’s Park’s erstwhile office manager; wielder of the power of overtime; desk allocator to the Queens of the Database; timekeeper extraordinaire; marshal of the service contracts; fielder of stationery-related enquiries; occasional duty-officer—and the brand-new, squeaky clean First Desk? Did they belong to the same book club? Frequent the same church? Had they, perhaps—even spooks have their carnal moments—indulged in an office indiscretion? And Lamb’s blandly neutral choice of word here, barely more loaded than a water pistol, was utterly belied by his expression, which was a popish leer. She’d suspected Mr. Lamb would be an awkward customer. She hadn’t realised how much work “awkward” could be made to do.
And then this: the arrival of her predecessor.
Whatever Moira Tregorian might have expected of Catherine Standish, this wasn’t it. She had seen drunks before: who hadn’t? They tended to vibrate slightly, as if tuned to a higher frequency than everyone else, and their skin was saggy and their hair poorly tended. They served, in other words, as a warning. But Catherine Standish seemed intact, a word Moira wasn’t sure she’d used of a person before. She was intact: nothing obvious missing. It was disappointing, somehow, though she had managed to keep this reaction to herself, she hoped.