Slough House

7

THEY CALLED IT SILICON Roundabout, because of the tech firms clustered in its orbit, and from this end of Old Street, at the top of the sloped passage dropping into Subway 3, the landscape it commanded was a familiar London medley of the weathered and the new; the social housing estate and the eye hospital balancing the swollen glass bulb of what Lech thought was a hotel, and the complicated facade of an office block straight from an SF comic. Over the roundabout itself, part-shrouded in builders’ canopy, hung a four-sided video screen, scrolling through an endless cycle of ads for the Pixel 3a, but looking as if it wanted to be broadcasting something more in keeping with the times: cage-fighting, or Rollerball, or a party leadership hustings.

They’d waited out the worst of the evening crush in a nearby pub; one blessed with a good location, relieving it of the necessity of making an effort. Lech’s small red wine lasted forty minutes, during which Shirley had drained two pints of lager and explained, for reasons that escaped him, the various kinds of body-modelling on offer within a two-hundred-yard radius: tongue-splitting, ear-pointing and tunnelling, this last involving opening holes in earlobes large enough to ease a pencil through. Lech wasn’t sure he hadn’t preferred being ignored. Through windows partly obscured by promises aimed at passers-by – Good Food! Happy Hour 5–7! – he watched office workers heading for bus stop or underground. There’d been a touch of rain in the air, a dampness on the pavements, and he wondered whether his raincoat was still on a hook in the flat he’d shared with Sara, and whether falling in with Shirley’s mischief was a wise idea, and whether doubling the length of an hour made it twice as happy, or only half.

‘So anyway,’ Shirley said, ‘I was thinking of getting my ears sharpened. What do you reckon?’

He reckoned Lamb would love that, possibly to the point where it triggered one of his seismic coughing fits. ‘Sounds cool. Go for it.’

She looked pleased. ‘Maybe I will.’ Then checked her watch: ‘Okay. Time to go.’

Lech decided to give the last mouthful of wine a miss. He stood and, when she didn’t follow suit, gave her a questioning look.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there.’

But she wasn’t, or not that Lech could see. Collar upturned, he strode down the passage towards Subway 3 and turned into the underground complex that always felt to him like a colosseum, though whether that made its commuters gladiators or lion fodder was open to question. Down here, a few timid retail premises huddled; the kind that looked like they’d not survive ten minutes in the open air. On the other hand, stranger weeds flourished in London’s cracks and crevices. He walked past bookshop, card shop, coffee shop, key cutters; skirted a postbox-sized screen reeling through the same ads as its monster parent overhead, and noted without pausing a sign announcing Subway 2’s refurbishment. What had been its entryway was boarded over, and he could hear drilling. There were still people around, mostly heading into the Tube station, but he carried on by, veering right towards Subway 1 – the Hoxton/Shoreditch exit – past sandwich shop and flower shop, whose brief fragrance was a shower of light in the dark. At the far end he took the stairs up to ground level, where he doubled back past the gated entrance to the housing estate then, without looking behind, made a 180-degree turn onto the slope heading back to the subway. Overground, underground. Nobody paid attention that he could tell, but he was careful not to check. He didn’t see Shirley anywhere, either.

And what were the odds, he wondered, back in the underground colosseum, that this was some bastard prank; that the others had already joined her in the pub, where they were busting a gut over his gullible goose chase?

… Fuck them, he thought.

But not quite yet. Fuck them in ten minutes; maybe fuck them in twenty. Because he didn’t have anything else to occupy him, and he’d always been a walker after dark, Lech Wicinski; a long-time stroller of the empty streets.

And if these streets weren’t exactly empty, or entirely streets, they’d do for now.

I suppose you’re wondering why you’re gathered in the library.

That was Hercule Poirot speaking: the memory of her bullet, deep inside her brain.

And she was indeed gathered in the library, if that was what hiding in the study amounted to. But other suspects were nowhere. It was just Sid alone, and whoever was outside.

She’d come downstairs while they were on the garden path, and now sat with her back against the closed study door, the doorbell dying away. Nothing sounds louder than a bell in an empty house. Her heart was fluttering, her insides clammy. The study was in darkness. Nobody here. The bell rang again, then once more. And then the flap on the letterbox jangled, and she imagined the pair taking it in turns to drop to one knee and peer into the hallway.

Life went quiet again, the only disturbance the faint rattling of a doorknob.

In a perfect world, they’d have gone away. But in a perfect world, Sid wouldn’t have been shot in the head.

There was a shelf in the study devoted to objects rather than books. This had struck Sid as strange. She hadn’t known the O.B. – which was what River had called him, so it was hard for her not to – she hadn’t known the O.B., but had known who he was, and it was difficult to imagine the Service legend, the man who’d steered the ship during the captaincy of various First Desks, as collecting knick-knacks. A glass globe; a hunk of concrete; a lump of mis-shaped metal. But that was how lives worked, as a slow accretion of private detail, and what mattered more was whether these objects would make useful weapons. She supposed they might, if the wielder was in decent shape. Which she wasn’t, but this didn’t stop her taking one in her hand, a pleasingly heavy glass globe, with just the thinnest slice removed to allow it to stand. It contained nothing. She might have expected a butterfly wing, or a whispered fragment of autumn – a leaf, a pebble – but it was only glass and weight. Crouched against the door, she cradled it in both hands, allowing herself to believe that it anchored her to the world.

Which worked up to a point, but that point was reached when she heard the tapping on the back door.

There’d been a tourist, a year or two back, who’d been separated from his party in the underground, and it was three and a half days before they found him. It was so nearly a classical myth, it wasn’t even funny. Lech was starting to recognise the feeling. He turned into Subway 4 – St Luke’s/Clerkenwell – passed the public toilets and turned left, up the slope, beneath its pedestrian bridge, and arrived for the fifth time at the plaza, with its trees and benches and flowerbeds, its ranks of e-bikes. The rain was holding off still, and there were fewer people. It was that lull between the end of the working day and the start of a weeknight’s drinking; less frantic than the weekend version, but not without its panicky framework. Sometimes you clung onto the edges of a day because what went on in the middle ate away at your soul. Sometimes it was the other way round. Lech shook his head, dispelling the notion that his days held no safe places, and kept walking: past the appalling mural, stags and druids, and back down the stairs into the half-light.

And there he was again.

First time Lech noticed him he’d been wearing a grey mac. He was now wearing a black one, but its lapels were open enough that Lech could see the grey lining: a reversible, a swift and handy costume change. He’d been wearing specs earlier too, and wasn’t now. Didn’t matter. Lech had his number. Kept it to himself, though; didn’t let it show in change of pace or curl of lip as he reached the central area and looped back towards Subway 3: Moorgate and Old Street West (South Side). He was starting to feel as if he could draw the colosseum freehand, and people the result with sasquatch figures, lumpen and drooling.

He climbed the stairs, waited a full two minutes, then headed for the slope and walked back down. Give his tail time to start wondering if he’d got lost in the surrounding streets.

The crowd was thinner. Still no sign of Shirley, and he was now about eighty per cent sure she’d been playing him, and would spend the rest of the week, or maybe her life, laughing herself sick whenever she passed him on the stairs: sucker spent an evening circling Silicon Roundabout. He supposed that meant he’d have to retaliate, which would no doubt lead to massive escalation. Well, everybody had to die sometime. When he passed the central pillar he spotted his tail again, his mac black side out, and without pausing to study him, Lech registered relief in his body language. Good good. He thought he’d messed up, and allowed Lech to get away. For now – for the next minute or so – he’d overcompensate by keeping him in sight, or that was the theory.

Lech remembered that feeling, those moments during training when you knew you’d screwed up, and wondered if this was the one that would tip the balance; lead to the brief interview where you were thanked for your time, and assured that there were plenty of avenues that someone with your talents might usefully explore. Landscape gardening or life insurance. Maybe something in IT. But Regent’s Park wasn’t in your future, or a subject you’d ever talk about again. Sign here, please.

To this kid here, that probably felt like the worst of all possible outcomes. But trust me, thought Lech, as he walked back along Subway 4 – trust me – that’s not the worst that can happen.

Instead of reaching the end and heading streetwards, he turned into the public toilet.

The tapping paused, as if a reply were expected. When none came, it started again.

And perhaps, if she stayed very still, this would stop happening. But that was frightened-animal thinking; the instinct that freezes a rabbit in a road. This rarely causes cars to disappear.

The study curtains were open. She’d tried the windows the day before, hoping to let the room breathe, but they were locked, and she hadn’t found a key. An image of throwing herself through them came and went, a scene from a film, which in real life would leave her in bloody rags on the lawn.

And she couldn’t call River. Her phone was in the cottage in Cumbria, or that was where she’d last seen it. When you went dark, your phone was the first thing you ditched.

Can’t call for help; can’t dash for safety.

This was what got rabbits killed.

She’d been padding about in socks, but her trainers were under the O.B.’s chair. Relinquishing the globe she crawled across to reach them, pulling them on and lacing them up in a supine position. Wearing them gave her a small measure of comfort; an extra protective layer. Tt Tt Tt said the bullet. As well as being the voice of Poirot it was the voice of reason, it seemed. Eager to remind her that any notion of safety was balls.

The tapping paused.

Sid risked a look at the window from behind the bulk of the chair. She saw nobody; just the waving shadow of a tree: goodbye. It might have been her heart playing tricks.

But it happened again.

Only it wasn’t a tapping now; more a squeaking, like someone rubbing a finger against glass. The back door had a glass pane, she remembered. A glass pane in a wooden frame. And she had locked the door after River’s departure last night because that was what you did when you were hiding; you locked doors. Even doors with glass inserts, which you didn’t have to be an expert to find your way through; merely someone with a disregard for damage.

The squeaking stopped, and was replaced by a circular, scratching sound.

The glass globe might be a weapon. Or the lump of reshaped metal. Once a Luger, River had explained. Wartime details were involved in what followed. Now it was redesigned by Dalí, and all she had to load it with was the memory of a bullet. Tt Tt Tt. From the back of the house came a brief splintering, as glass dropped to the tiled floor. The ex-gun felt complicated in her hand; she could make out what might once have been the barrel, now curled in upon itself like a sleeping lizard, but its trigger had been swallowed up inside the metal mass. There was a clicking noise which she interpreted as the unfixing of the back door’s latch, a hand reaching through a broken pane to release the sneck. ‘Sneck’: a word she’d acquired up north. A faint brushing sound as the door opened, sweeping shards of glass aside. If she could solve the gun, remind it what it used to be, she would not be defenceless. The air in the house shifted, a rearrangement she could feel even in the study. She listened for footsteps, two pairs. But they’d creep, she thought. She wouldn’t hear them now they were in the house. Missionaries creep.

If she could remind herself what she used to be, she would not be defenceless.

The silence grew closer, as if the effort someone was making to be quiet were inching through the house.

It stopped outside the study door.

As long as he was there, Lech shut himself in a cubicle and had a piss.

This is my working life, he thought. Used to be an intelligence analyst – one of the hub’s best and brightest – and now I’m in a stinking public lavatory, hoping one of my own side makes a pass. Such was the view from Slough House.

He finished, flushed, but instead of stepping out to wash his hands leaned against the door and pressed his ear to it. The noises from the subway were muffled, abstract, aquarium-like. How many men had stood where he was now, hoping for strange encounters? He closed his eyes and thought about focaccia. Imagined thumping dough: punching it over and over, only to watch it rise.

Someone entered the toilet.

‘We want their ID,’ Shirley had said, back in the pub. ‘Their Service card, their wallet, their phone. Hell, their pocket change and their door keys too. Fuck ’em.’

‘These are agents in training,’ Lech had said. ‘They’ll be sharp. In good nick.’

‘I’m in good nick.’

You’re fucking high, he’d nearly said. The way she was jiggling in her seat, he’d have to scrape her off the ceiling soon. Two pints of lager had done nothing to bring her down.

The state she’d been in, he was better off on his own.

Whoever had come into the toilet was using the urinal. Lech rested his forehead against the back of his hand. The man finished, crossed the floor, ran a tap. Lech heard a paper towel pulled from the dispenser; the rustling of hands being dried. Then nothing. No footsteps; no breathing. Just a man in a public toilet, possibly holding a damp paper towel. A man in a black mac, he thought. Reversible to grey.

He opened the door, suddenly and loud, and stepped out of the cubicle.

The man was right up in front of the mirror, pulling at the corner of an eye, as if he had something in it. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t – it was a pretty obvious dawdling tactic – but what was certain was, he wasn’t the man in the mac, unless he’d changed his coat in the last five minutes, and also his head. When Lech appeared he left his eye alone, and watched as Lech, after a brief hesitation, came forward and rinsed his hands.

‘It’s polite to flush,’ he said.

‘Already did.’

‘… Right.’ The man rubbed his eye again. He was staring into his own reflection when he said, ‘Looking for company?’

‘Go away.’

‘Because this isn’t the place.’

‘I said go away.’

‘There are websites, you know. Apps.’

‘Fuck off,’ said Lech.

The man dropped his paper towel in the bin. ‘I’m only saying. Get with the century, right? Unless you’re into this scene.’

Footsteps were approaching.

‘Gotta go.’

He left as the man with the black mac stepped through the door into the gents.

She was called Jane. He was called Jim.

Surnames were not offered.

‘But you’re Sidonie Baker, yes? Sid to her friends.’

‘Which we hope to be.’

‘Oh, very much so.’

It had had an air of inevitability about it, the way the study door had opened and the couple had come in. They might have been prospective buyers, and the house a property on their list: good, airy rooms; a little question mark over the water table. So what did that make Sid, whose name they so handily knew? Their estate agent?

‘River will be here soon,’ she told them. ‘River Cartwright.’

‘That’s good. But we’ll be gone by then. We move quickly.’

‘Do you have a coat, Sid? Or a jacket? It’s not too warm out.’

‘Still a little early in the year.’

Jane was blonde and Jim dark, though viewed from this distance, rather than from – say – an upstairs window, neither convincingly so. Sid suspected artifice, an hour in a hotel bathroom with a packet from the nearest Superdrug. They were dressed the same as the first time she’d seen them, white shirts under dark jackets and coats, and their voices were bright and well-practised. They might not be working to a script, but they were improvising the dialogue for a planned scenario, and if the effect was a little laboured, well, what could you expect from bad actors?

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said.

‘You need to reconsider that,’ said Jane.

‘You’re not well,’ Jim explained. ‘Don’t you remember? You were being taken care of, in a very nice place, but you left early. You’re still getting those headaches, am I right?’

‘And they’re going to get worse without treatment,’ said Jane.

‘So what we’ll do is, we’ll leave a note for your Mr Cartwright, tell him where we’re taking you so he can come visit.’

‘But the sooner we get you there, the better.’

‘Traffic can be murder.’

‘How did you know I was here?’ she said.

‘Well, we popped next door, had a word with the nice lady.’

‘That’s the thing about the country, isn’t it? People taking notice of what’s going on around them. This was a city, you could be living here months, nobody would even know your name.’

‘Years, even.’

‘Like Jane says. Years.’

‘Is this yours?’

Jane had found Sid’s jacket, draped over a chair.

‘You might want to put that down. It looks like a heavy nuisance.’

Sid looked at the aimless gun in her hand. Stupid choice of weaponry; like going into battle wielding a holiday souvenir.

Tt Tt Tt.

The noise it made hitting the carpet was a faint echo of assault.

‘Good girl,’ said Jim.

‘Now here’s what we do,’ Jane said. ‘We all get into the nice warm car out there, and we head back to where you can be taken care of. Somewhere you should never have left in the first place.’

Sid found her voice. ‘You’re not from there. From the farm.’

‘No, dear. But we’re who they call when they need someone brought back.’

‘Runaways.’

‘Like yourself.’

She could make it as far as the door, she thought. Or maybe not all the way to the door. She could make it most of the way to the door, and then Jim would have her. Unless Jane had her first.

Use your little grey cells, ma chère.

The ones she still had left, her bullet meant.

‘Or you could keep running,’ Jane told her. She stooped to pick up the metal lump, and caressed it for a moment while looking at Sid. ‘You could run next door, even. Tell the nice lady we’re taking you somewhere horrid.’

She replaced it on the shelf.

‘But she won’t believe you,’ said Jim. ‘On account of, we’ve already had a chat with her.’

‘And she knows you’re unstable,’ said Jane. ‘Apt to injure yourself.’

‘Save anyone else the trouble.’

‘So best not make a fuss. Here, put your jacket on.’

It makes, how you say, the good sense, her bullet said.

Because she wouldn’t get as far as the door.

Jim was holding her jacket for her to slip her arms into. Be Villanelle, be Lara Croft. But she remained Sidonie Baker, and he remained unaware of any other possibility. Allowing herself to step backwards into his nearly embrace, she felt the jacket swallow her up.

‘All ready?’ Jane asked.

You are, how you say, fucked, said the bullet.

Jim opened the door with a butler’s flourish, and ushered Sid through it. Let’s take the back door, he suggested, in such a smooth undertone it barely required speech marks. Jane, leaving last, extinguished the lights. There was a circular hole in the back door’s pane, an expertly removed slice of glass through which one or other had reached to unlock the door and gain entrance. Exit was more easily achieved. As they led her to the car, Sid stared at the neighbour’s house, what was visible of it behind its screen of hedge. There were lights on, but no signs of movement. She hoped they had done nothing to harm her, the neighbour lady. There was no reason why they should, of course. But recent history spoke of collateral damage; of disregarded shrapnel ripping holes through innocent lives. If there were such a thing any more, thought Sid, as an innocent life – but that thought felt way too heavy; felt like a thought for a final journey. She sat in the back, Jim next to her. The seat belt was too tight, but she made no attempt to adjust it. Some things, you learned to live with.

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 wall: 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—’

‘They looked surprised when I said she was in there. They thought the house was empty.’

He took a moment to wrap his mind around that. They’d come looking for Sid, but hadn’t expected to find her? Or hadn’t been looking for Sid at all?

‘But they knew who I meant when I said you had a friend staying.’

‘And did they say where they were going?’

She furrowed her brow.

‘Mrs Knox—’

‘Please, I can’t bear to be badgered.’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s important. I really need to know where they were taking my friend.’

‘They said they’d be taking her back to the hospital. And that I shouldn’t worry if she seemed upset, because she’d been off her medication for a while.’

‘Did you see them leave?’

‘You didn’t tell me she’d been on medication. It’s only fair to let people know.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Various stories flew in and out of mind: harmless conditions requiring minor dosages. But all of this was wasting time. ‘Do you know which direction they went?’

‘I’m not sure, which way’s the hospital?’

River said, ‘There are different routes. I really need to catch up with them. Which way—’

She said, ‘Down the road. Not towards the village, I mean. Else their lights would have shone through my curtains.’

Which weren’t pulled shut, not entirely. There was a slight gap, in front of which a small table was positioned, a note-pad and pen waiting. Seeing this, River had a view of Mrs Knox’s life as clear as if it were spotlit; saw the heart of her empty days. Without asking, he crossed the room and picked the notebook up.

‘What on earth are you—’

XTH???

‘That’s private!’

‘Was this the number plate? Part of it?’

‘I’m not some kind of snoop!’

‘I really don’t care. Was this the number plate?’

She said, ‘I live here alone, you know.’

XTH???, which he could easily remember, but didn’t need to. ‘Sorry,’ he said, though he wasn’t. He ripped the page from its spiral spine.

‘You can’t do that!’

But he could, and had. He thanked her, or apologised, or supposed afterwards he’d done at least one of the two. He didn’t close the door behind him, either, in his rush to reach his car; a memory etched into his mind as he pulled away showed Mrs Knox framed in an oblong of light on her doorstep. She might have been wringing her hands.

‘So what happened to you?’

Shirley shrugged. ‘What did it look like? I was waiting for you to draw him into the net.’

‘I didn’t see you anywhere.’

‘You weren’t supposed to.’

And besides, he’d have needed super-vision, since Shirley had been half a mile away, having decided to lose her own tail before tackling Lech’s. Northern Line to King’s Cross seemed a good bet, and had almost certainly been successful, in that Shirley had grown confused changing platforms, resulting in a brief, unexpected excursion to Mornington Crescent. She hadn’t noticed anyone else making the same tortuous journey, so assumed her follower was currently heading wherever the Northern Line went. Unless nobody had been following her in the first place. That was the trouble with this bullshit training game the Park was playing: nobody told you when it started, and when or if it stopped.

Once back at Old Street, she’d hovered by the station barriers, then walked a circuit – underground, overground – without spotting Lech, let alone his tail. So she decided she needed a little sharpener, just to keep her edges shiny, and headed into the toilets to do a line, which was when she’d heard Lech’s voice coming from the gents.

But all he needed to know was that she’d been there when the chips were down.

She made a sideways gesture with a flattened hand. ‘Moves like Wonder Woman.’

They were in a pub again, a different one, having left the colosseum by separate routes and regrouped on a side street off Shoreditch High. Black Mac – whom Shirley had rendered comatose with a small leather sap – was last seen propped on a toilet, outstretched legs keeping the cubicle door closed. He won’t die, had been Shirley’s considered opinion. And okay, she wasn’t a medic, but she had considerable pharmaceutical expertise.

Lech was twitchy, his eyes flicking doorwards every time it opened. You’d think he’d never beaten up a stranger in a toilet before. And when she’d showed him the sap, he’d actually groaned.

‘Put that away. It’s a deadly weapon.’

‘I’ll just say it’s a sex aid.’

‘Still probably arrestable.’

She’d been interrupted in her earlier mission, so headed for the loo before she’d finished her first pint, and returned brighter-eyed, bushier-tailed, then dumped the contents of Black Mac’s pockets on the table.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Lech hissed, scooping keys and phone up and transferring them to his pocket. ‘Why don’t you just hoist a banner? “Muggers R Us”?’

‘Nobody’s watching.’

‘You hope.’ He thumbed through the wallet while Shirley took a few life-enhancing draughts of lager. She’d been in this pub before. Shoreditch was her stamping ground, though she might have to expand that definition. Stamping and bopping-on-the-head. She examined her fingers, which were a little tingly. Nothing gets the sap moving like swinging a sap … She thought about sharing this with Wicinski, but it was maybe too soon. He’d gone green when Black Mac hit the deck.

And now he said, ‘You know what I’m not finding?’

‘What?’

‘A Service card.’

‘Yeah, check again.’

‘I already did.’

‘Well, maybe he had it in his trouser pocket. I might have missed it.’

‘Or he didn’t have one.’

‘Or he left it at home.’

‘You ever do that?’

She didn’t. Her card was as good as sewn onto her body: there was always the chance she’d need to flash it at a copper making a drugs bust, or use it to impress someone. Which she hardly ever did, by the way. Maybe twice.

Lech said, ‘What if he wasn’t the tail?’

‘He probably was.’

‘But what if he wasn’t?’

‘What’s his ID say?’

There were credit cards in the wallet, their user name D Walker. Nothing with a photo on it. And no Service card.

Lech said, ‘He was wearing a reversible mac. He changed it while I was doing a loop. So I wouldn’t notice he was hanging around.’

‘There you go. Definitely a tail.’

‘Unless I got that wrong. Maybe he had it black side out all along.’

‘So what was he up to?’

‘Waiting for someone?’

‘So why’d he follow you into the toilet?’

‘Because he needed a piss,’ Lech said. Then: ‘Jesus, what have we done?’

‘Worst case scenario,’ Shirley said, ‘we’ve decked a civilian.’

‘And stolen his wallet and phone.’

‘Yeah, that too.’

‘This is serious!’

Which it was, but you had to see the funny side was Shirley’s take. And you could trace the culpability right back to Regent’s Park, if you wanted to get technical.

On the other hand, if you wanted to get evidential, you could trace it back to Shirley’s leather sap.

Lech said, ‘I’m not exactly unrecognisable.’

‘Neither am I,’ offered Shirley.

‘Yes, but he didn’t see you.’

Shirley thought about that. ‘You might be in some shit.’

‘Thanks.’

She looked at the booty on the table. ‘Probably we should get rid of this.’

‘We can post it back to him,’ Lech said.

‘Or he could pay for the next round,’ she said.

It didn’t seem much to ask. Not after Black Mac had wasted their time. But Lech was having none of it, and Shirley watched grumpily as the wallet joined the rest of the treasure trove in his pocket.

‘Another drink?’ she suggested.

‘I’m going home,’ said Lech.

‘Might be best to avoid Old Street.’

He didn’t appear any more grateful for that than he had for Shirley saving his neck in the toilet. But she was used to going unappreciated, and stayed for another drink anyway.

8

AT THE MEETINGS SHE attended less often than she should – My name is Catherine, and I’m an alcoholic – they suggested that you let go; not fret over things you couldn’t control. This was for the avoidance of guilt. One of the side effects of addiction, or recovering therefrom, was that you felt you had let the world down, as if you’d nodded off at a critical moment and allowed things to slide. And given the parlous state of that world, and the moral bankrupts governing it, it would be hard not to let the guilt become overwhelming. She knew all this. It was a series of small steps heading in the wrong direction: best to stick to the twelve recommended at those meetings. Make amends to those we have harmed, for instance.

Kay White was on her mind.

It was a peculiarity of Slough House that its occupants tended to know where everyone was. If some organisations had Chinese walls, to prevent confidential information spreading, Slough House’s walls were Swiss, inasmuch as they were full of holes; both literally – occupants had been known to punch the plaster – and in the sense that there was always leakage. The anguish of the floorboards and the creaking of the stairs told you who was where: it was an aural panopticon, wired for sound. And yet, it was easy to forget about each other. The separate miseries that slow horses came wrapped in, and the ongoing drudgery that was their daily grind, meant that much of the time they were on their own. Some more so than others. Kay White, for example. Nobody had liked her. She never shut up, for a start. So it felt no huge surprise when she’d betrayed them, and no huge loss when she’d been sacked. And what it felt like now she was dead, thought Catherine, was just more of the same: the woman had left no mark here, nothing to grieve over, and where there was no grief there was often guilt.

To assuage which, Catherine Standish was making mental amends. The working day was done but she remained at her desk, hands clasped on her lap, eyes closed. It might have looked like prayer, but was simply the summoning of memory: she was trying to find a moment she’d shared with Kay White, something that stood out against the background noise. But there was nothing of substance. Most moments spent with Kay had been an attempt to block her out. When she’d departed, along with – the name escaped her – it had been a relief. And that wasn’t a matter of blame, Catherine told herself. It was just life, which was full of passing strangers, even if some of them hung around for years.

… Struan Loy. That was the name. Loy had been here at the same time as Kay, and Lamb had kicked the pair of them out together.

And Struan Loy too had joined that chorus invisible; those who’d drifted from the margins of memory. In Catherine’s life, most such had been fellow drunks, who’d done their best to blur her recollection by being little more than blurs themselves, smeary with alcohol. But there were slow horses among them, which was why that prick of guilt was needling her. That prick of shame. She should go home, really. But before that – before running the gauntlet of London’s bars and pubs, its off-licences and supermarkets, its corner shops with their furtive shelves of booze, all calling her name as she passed – before any of that, she’d have a quick trawl through the usual search engines, and see if she could find out what Struan Loy was up to these days.

Maybe that would soothe her conscience, for a while.

Peter Judd said, ‘We live in new times, with new conditions, and new alignments are coming into being. This is a natural, and indeed ah ah ah a necessary, progression. For progression it is. And those who fail to appreciate that will suffer the usual fate of those unable to adapt to new circumstances.’

‘You mean political defeat.’

‘I mean political extinction.’

‘Give me a break,’ said Diana.

It would have been a nice moment if Channel Go had indeed gone to a break then, but it chundered on regardless.

‘And you believe,’ the interviewer went on, ‘that Desmond Flint is one of those ushering in these new conditions we’re disc—’

Diana killed transmission.

Judd’s TV appearances hadn’t diminished in number since he’d left office, a career turn some commenters had described as his fall from grace. But grace wasn’t something he’d ever aspired to, and its absence hadn’t hindered him. Besides, the notion that he was a spent force only held weight if you heeded the current wisdom, and wisdom was no longer an asset when making political predictions. The paths to power of current world leaders – paths including conspiracy to assault, knee-jerk racism, indeterminate fecundity and cheating at golf – were so askew from the traditional routes that only an idiot would have dared forecast future developments. It wasn’t unfitting, then, that Judd’s popularity as a political pundit continued. Judd might not have been an idiot himself, but his core supporters were a different story.

She was in her office, its glass wall frosted for privacy. On the hub, the night crew was settling into business, prepared to respond to the routine emergencies of national security. One of these, she considered, was even now unfolding: Judd had gone ahead with what he’d hinted at, and was throwing his weight behind the Yellow Vest movement. There were those who’d regard this as tantamount to pitching in with the Nazi party. But then, Nazis had a lot of support these days. That old thing about learning from the past didn’t always mean studying monstrous historical movements to ensure they never happened again. It could indicate an intention to perfect their trajectories, in the hope that they’d triumph next time.

Along with Judd’s hint had come veiled threats.

When you disappoint rich and powerful men, they let their displeasure be known.

And when you’d painted yourself into a corner, it was best to let the paint dry before leaving the room.

Earlier that afternoon, she’d had a meeting with the Ops team, one of whose ongoing low-level engagements was infiltration of the Yellow Vest movement: nothing too significant; a couple of youngsters distributing leaflets, stacking chairs and generally making themselves useful. An eyes-on approach, with the potential to upgrade to dicks-out if the situation demanded. But Diana had announced that she was pulling the plug.

Others around the table had exchanged puzzled looks.

‘Is that wise? All signs suggest that the movement’s gaining ground, not withering away.’

‘And we have a tightrope to walk,’ Diana said. ‘Our remit is security, and that doesn’t include an overzealous policing of dissenting voices.’

‘But—’

‘I wasn’t inviting discussion. I was stating strategy.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I’m pretty certain I do. I’m pretty certain this is me, doing just that.’

The mood had brightened when she’d gone on to outline the new funding, but the instruction had left her feeling treacherous, and she’d been glad when the meeting was over. A necessary move, though. It would give her a little breathing space while she decided what to do about Judd, about Cantor too. That a decision would be reached, a solution found, was a given. She’d wandered into the briar patch, true, but she hadn’t lasted this long at the Park without learning to trust her abilities. Even unelected, Judd remained a big beast in the political jungle. But Diana had done her growing up on Spook Street, where big beasts numbered among the daily kill.

He moved fast, though, she’d give him that. She hadn’t expected him to be putting down a public marker so swiftly. On the other hand, if it turned out he’d made a catastrophic error of judgement in backing Desmond Flint, he’d deal with it in his usual fashion: by pretending it hadn’t happened. It was astonishing how obediently the public trotted along after him when he did this.

Josie had interrupted her contemplation just before the shift change.

‘You were asking about Thomas Doyle. Recent hire with the Dogs.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s left us already.’

‘That was quick.’

‘He came to the end of his probationary period. There were question marks, like that episode with Molly Doran, but he’d probably have passed if he’d made the right noises. But he evidently didn’t want to. Handed his notice in.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you want me to follow up?’

Diana said, ‘Send me his file. Such as it is.’

‘Of course. And there’s an update on that death by fire outside Leicester. The former Park agent. I’ll send that too.’

‘Please do.’

When Josie left, she’d switched the news on, surfing her way to Channel Go from the more serious bulletins. And now she’d switched it off, having caught Judd’s contribution.

Emails from Josie were in her box: Tommo Doyle’s file, and a news report on the death of one Struan Loy.

She remembered Loy. Something of a joker, and so an irritation in any office space. The space he’d come to occupy outside Leicester, though, had been a shipping container, inside which he’d burned to death. Investigation remained ongoing, but it was clearly a murder. He’d been a slow horse, yes, but this was a coincidence. People got murdered. Slow horses were people. There was a Venn diagram waiting to happen, and somewhere near Leicester, it just had.

It was unlikely that Jackson Lamb would see it that way – he had a tendency to become aroused at any sign of threat – but Diana had other things to worry about. Besides, Lamb wasn’t privy to the daily updates, and the story hadn’t made headlines here in the capital. Chances were, it wouldn’t come to his attention.

‘Fuck me sideways,’ said Jackson Lamb.

Then put his head back and stared at the ceiling.

Catherine said, ‘The local paper said suspicious circumstances.’

‘Burning to death in a shipping container? Yeah, it doesn’t take Shylock Holmes.’

She decided to let that one go.

To the amateur observer, Lamb might be preparing for a nap. His feet were on his desk, his toes mostly visible through the tatters of his socks, and one arm lay across his paunch like a jovial illustration from Dickens. But Catherine, a seasoned watcher, recognised the tension enfolding him, and knew, too, that Lamb thought the way a bear hibernates. Best not interrupt him, unless you wanted a limb torn off.

She settled herself on the visitor’s chair, to one side of which lay the pile of takeaway hotboxes, and waited.

Empty noises drifted up from the lower storeys. Slough House was a medley of knocks and rattles after hours, its ghosts scratching windows and walls once its occupants had left. Or perhaps, she thought, this was normal, and it was simply a building relaxing into the dark.

She thought about Kay White, tumbling off a stepladder in the comfort of her own home.

About Struan Loy, screaming his lungs out in a tin trap.

More ghosts.

When Lamb at last raised the arm that had been dangling over the side of his chair, it held a cigarette. He slotted it into his mouth and, from somewhere on his person, produced a plastic lighter, which refused to work. After staring at it in wounded disappointment, he tossed it over his shoulder, and looked balefully at Catherine.

‘Can’t help you,’ she said.

‘Christ. Remind me of your purpose?’

‘You smoke too much. Like you imagine it’s a virtue.’

‘I can see how an idiot might think so.’

While he began the laborious process of opening drawers and rummaging through them without actually looking, she said, ‘We’re being watched by the Park, on and off. And hunted by someone else. At the same time?’

Lamb’s only reply was the clicking of another lighter, drawn from the depths of a drawer, and equally useless. It joined its companion somewhere in the shadows behind.

She persevered. ‘They must be connected.’

‘How?’

‘Well, I don’t know!’

‘So think about it. How many points of connection could there be? Jesus, a man could die trying to get a smoke round here.’ But his roving hand found a box of matches even while he spoke, and he brandished it in triumph, offering her a view of stained armpit. With a dexterity that would have impressed her in a squirrel, let alone an overweight drunk, he removed a match from the box and struck it one-handed, though lost points by dropping the open box while completing the action. Matches went everywhere, but the lit one reached his cigarette, which was all that mattered. Its job done, he tossed it away. Said, ‘Loy wasn’t a slow horse any more. Nor was White. Why would anyone think they were?’

Catherine said, ‘Because they’re operating from out-of-date information.’

‘And where might that come from?’

‘Oh Lord …’

‘And that would be the sound of a penny dropping, would it? If it took me that long to join a pair of dots, I’d still be wondering why my Y-fronts shrink when I look at porn.’ He paused to draw in smoke, scrunched his face in presumable pleasure, and yawned his exhalation. She’d not have been surprised to glimpse a crocodile bird, pecking shreds of meat from his teeth. ‘Takes it out of you, being a genius.’

‘It must be a constant strain.’

‘That and coping with the ill-tempered sarcasm of subordinates.’ He heaved himself more or less upright. More matches dropped to the floor. ‘I met this dwarf a couple of nights ago. I might have mentioned it.’

‘It cropped up.’

‘He told me his journo friend heard a whisper that Rasnokov had declared war on the Park’s assassination squad.’ Vassily Rasnokov was the GRU’s First Desk. ‘All jolly hockey sticks, I’m sure, except that the Park doesn’t have an assassination squad. It gives orders as and when, or hires local talent, like it did in Kazan. So the GRU has the same problem George W had back in the day. How do you declare war on something that doesn’t physically exist?’ He paused to smoke. ‘Answer, you go ahead and do it anyway, and hope to fuck no one notices.’

‘We get called a lot of things,’ she said. ‘But nobody’s ever accused us of being assassination specialists.’

‘And nobody thinks we are. But once the label’s been applied, the facts cease to matter. These guys have been given our names and told we’re the targets, and they’re getting on with it. They must have realised while breaking Kay White’s neck that she was more Milly Molly Mandy than Modesty Blaise, but so what? They’re getting paid to do a job, not worry about the details.’

‘But who applied the label? Or do I hear the distant clucking of chickens coming home to roost?’

‘I like to think I’ve made a lot of enemies,’ Lamb conceded. ‘But seriously, this day and age? Even I’d put me way down on a list of people worth killing. You’d have to be halfway through the Cabinet first. Not to mention whoever invented fruit-flavoured beer.’

‘I’m sure the GRU have similar priorities. But either way, this list they’re working from, it must have come from Molly’s archive.’

‘Uh-huh. Can’t have come from current records, because we’re not on them. And while it might be out of date, it overlaps with the present. If White and Loy were on it, then Cartwright and Guy are too. Not to mention you and me.’

‘And Roddy.’

‘Every cloud.’ He made his own final cloud, then squashed his cigarette out on the side of his bin. It was not, Catherine noticed, one of the monstrosities he’d been smoking lately. Just an ordinary filter tip.

He saw her noticing. ‘What?’

‘Just wondering what we do now.’

‘We gather them in,’ he said. ‘Before more bodies hit the streets.’

The activating order came from Catherine Standish, but he knew it originated from Lamb himself.

Blake’s grave. Now.

Roderick Ho stared at the text for a full five seconds, as if waiting for it to self-destruct, then tapped out his answer:

Roger that.

Then thought a few moments, and sent another:

A-OK.

Just in case she didn’t understand the first one.

After that, he was locked and loaded; ready to rock and roll. Cylinders firing and systems go: Welcome to the Rod-eo, he thought, then thought it again, because it was a new one. Welcome to the Rod-eo.

Saddle up.

Blake’s grave meant Bunhill Fields, the cemetery not far from Slough House. Blake was some dead guy, but that wasn’t important; what mattered was, it was where the team assembled when heavy shit was going down, and Slough House itself was off-limits. The emergency zone. And getting the call meant dropping everything and travelling light, because when you were called to the graveside, you needed to make sure it wasn’t going to turn out to be your own.

(A brief image struck him: of Lamb cradling Roddy’s body in his arms. Lamb’s broken gaze was directed heavenwards. Why? he was wailing. Why? For some reason Lamb was dressed as Batman, while Roddy’s own sweet corpse was in Robin costume. Very strange.)

Anyway. When word came down from Lamb that he needed his team, everyone knew what the real score was: he needed the Rodster. The rest of them could stand round making up the numbers, and that was fine, but what Lamb wanted was his best guy by his side. The others were camouflage.

And this was the part of the job Dyno-Rod loved: the part where his street skills came to the fore. Roddy Ho was the Duke of Digital; everyone knew that. He was Master of the Monitor, Lord of the Laptop, but that was only half the story. Take him away from his screens and he was also King of the Kerb, Sultan of the Streets, the something of the Pavements. He scrabbled about in his cupboard for his second-best pair of trainers – your second-best pair were your best pair, every fool knew that: they were what you wore when the going got rough – and grabbed his dark-blue hoodie from its hanger. Prez, pro, padrone, prince. Prince of the pavements. With smooth, practised economy Roddy readied himself for action: trainers on feet, hair tousled just right, and bang, he was out the door, only returning twice; once to change his blue hoodie for a black one – more ninja – and again to check he’d locked up properly. After that it was showtime, all the way.

No car. This was what it meant to go dark; you surrendered to the city, let it breathe you in gently, and carry you where you needed to go. Any watchers out there, they might hold you in their gaze for a moment, but then you’d shimmer and vanish, and they’d be left shaking their heads: what just happened? Then return to their original stance, waiting for your appearance, not understanding that you’d been and gone. That you’d cast no shadow; had slid through the streets like a whisper, your effortless passage a silent hymn to London’s dark and energising graces.

So any Regent’s Park newby assigned to pin a tail on the RodMan better bring their A-game, because the Rodinator left no trail. They’d have a happier time of it chasing smoke through a hurricane: Roddy owned the streets.

It was threatening rain, though, so he caught a bus.

When Lech Wicinski received the word he hadn’t the faintest clue what it meant, but his carefully composed reply – What?? – elicited no response from Catherine. So he phoned Shirley.

‘I just got a strange text.’

‘“Blake’s grave”? Me too. It means get there, now.’

‘Why? Do you think Lamb knows?’

‘Knows what?’

For fuck’s sake.

‘… Knows we just beat up a civilian. And stole his stuff.’

‘Oh, that.’ Shirley fell silent. ‘But why would he want us at Blake’s grave? When he could just bollock us in his office in the morning?’

A bollocking, Lech thought. He was thinking more along the lines of police, arrest, trial, imprisonment. Shirley’s more relaxed approach was likely drug-addled lack of perspective, but on the other hand might be based on experience. What happened earlier probably wasn’t the first time a slow horse had walked away from someone else’s wreckage. He’d heard rumours: about politicians, scaffolding, tins of paint. Mind you, that sounded a lot more accidental than thumping a civilian with a sap then stealing his money. So presumably Shirley hadn’t been involved.

He said, ‘So what does getting to Blake’s grave usually entail?’

‘You mean, what does it mean?’

‘… Yes, okay. That.’

‘Means some shit has hit a fan. And we’re all about to get spattered.’

‘Then why so cheerful?’

Shirley said, ‘Well, it beats an early night.’

So Blake’s grave, Lech interpreted, was the Slough House equivalent of the Park’s Apocalypse Protocol, in which all agents got out of the building and off the map, to regroup at various locations around the city. For Slough House, of course, only one rendezvous point was required. Otherwise, the slow horses would simply be several groups of a single person each, which was pretty much what they were the rest of the time.

The protocol also demanded you went dark: no phone, no vehicle, no watchers on your back. So Lech took batteries and SIM card from his phone. If Slough House had gone tits up, he’d better not paint himself bright colours. On the other hand, if this was Lamb’s idea of a wind-up, he wanted the wherewithal to Uber himself home afterwards, so instead of leaving the parts behind he put them in his pocket. Then he checked himself in the mirror, as he always did now – still a mess; those scars will never heal – and left the flat at the same time that Shirley, still in Shoreditch, ordered a vodka for the road. It would take her, like, five minutes to get to Bunhill Fields? Ten, max. And she knew it was an emergency shout, that three-word text, but really: what kind of emergency could it be? And if it was a really big one, she’d need another vodka inside her.

She was still keyed up from earlier. Playing it over in her head, they’d been lucky, her and Lech; him that she’d turned up at the right moment, when the guy in the black mac had been about to make his face a bigger mess than it already was, and him and her both that nobody had come in while they were dragging a stunned body into the cubicle. Two strokes of luck: maybe this was an end to her jinx run. Maybe this time she could partner up without having to pencil in an expiry date.

Not that her last partner had been her best friend or anything. In fact, when you got right down to it, it was possible he hadn’t even noticed they were partners.

And why did it matter whether she had a partner anyway?

The thought was one she’d been pushing away for as long as it had been creeping up on her. Her relationship history was back on an upward keel – she’d recently made it to a six-day anniversary – and it wasn’t like she was desperate to share an office again. It was more that, when it was her turn, she didn’t want to be bleeding on a hillside on her own, in the snow. She wanted somebody with her, holding her hand or saying her name. Not that she was superstitious. Shirley had no plans to die soon. But planning had nothing to do with it, as her late colleagues would no doubt testify. Or Blake, for that matter. She doubted he’d picked out his grave in advance. One day you’re wondering what to do at the weekend; the next, your weekend’ll never come.

But if Lech was going to fill the current vacancy, it was probably best she didn’t go into too much detail.

She finished her drink, left the glass on the bar. The pub was half full, and she didn’t feel eyes on her as she went, but waited in a shop doorway for two minutes anyway, checking the pavements, one hand on the window to steady herself. That last vodka: maybe not a great shout. But legend had it that being drunk caused double vision, and she wasn’t even seeing one person following her, let alone two, which made her both sober and untailed. She gave it another minute, long enough for a few deep breaths and a peculiar dance-like motion involving shaking her limbs very loosely, then stepped out onto the street. Five minutes; ten max. She’d probably get there first.

‘Where is everyone?’ asked Louisa.

‘I was wondering that myself,’ Catherine said.

That there was nobody around wasn’t in itself a surprise: the cemetery locked its gates after hours. That Louisa had arrived first was stranger: she had furthest to come. On the other hand, she’d ignored protocol and driven, so maybe that shortened the odds. It was one thing going dark; quite another spending the evening farting about on public transport. She lived way out of the centre because it was more affordable. Not because she enjoyed the commute.

Catherine was asking, ‘Were you followed?’

‘I’m pretty sure not.’

‘Pretty sure?’

Louisa said, ‘I spotted the guy the other day, and I’ve been careful since. Or maybe paranoid’s the word. I don’t think I was followed. Why, what’s going on?’

‘Let’s wait till the others arrive.’

‘Why’s Lamb not here?’

‘He will be.’

Louisa eyed Catherine’s dress. It was ankle length, as usual, with sleeves that blossomed at the cuff. On any given day, she looked like she was dressed as a Victorian puppet. Not many people could have carried it off, but Louisa had to admit Catherine was one of them. On the other hand, it was hard to picture her scaling cemetery railings.

‘Lamb has a key,’ Catherine told her.

‘I know.’

‘He opened the gate.’

‘How did you even know I was wondering that? And if Lamb was here then, where is he now?’

‘Here’s someone.’

Which was Lech. ‘You do know there are two Blake’s graves,’ he said.

This was true. There was a small headstone, suggesting the poet-painter William Blake’s remains lay near by, and a larger memorial, flat upon the ground, which seemed more confident of those remains’ location.

‘They’re, like, twenty yards apart?’ said Louisa.

‘I know.’

‘So we’d probably have seen each other, whichever one we were waiting at?’

‘I know. I was just saying.’

Darkness was traditionally forgiving of facial blunders: ill-advised piercings, drunken-error tattoos and New Romantic make-up stylings were diminished in shadow, and seemed less stupid. Lech’s scars, though, it made worse. The first thing you thought when you saw him was that you wanted to turn a light on. Probably not entirely fair to lump him with those who’d made their faces a sideshow: it hadn’t been his decision to have PAEDO carved into his cheeks. But it had been his choice to obliterate the word with haphazard scars, so he couldn’t claim not to have had a hand in it. And right now he looked nervy, Louisa thought, as if his evening had already gone wrong in some unspecified way, and he was waiting for it to go more wrong differently. Not necessarily an unwise state of mind when Lamb had sounded a siren, but still. There was such a thing as a positive attitude.

She wondered where River was. A summons like this, she’d have expected him to be first on the scene.

And now came Shirley, weaving into the graveyard’s central reservation like someone who’d been drinking with barely a pause since leaving the office. Not that Louisa was one to judge, but there was a margin there in which she could feel smug.

Catherine took one look and said, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Here.’ She produced a bottle of water from somewhere.

‘Oh, cheers,’ Shirley said. She took a hefty slug. ‘Thirsty work.’

‘What is?’

‘This. Whatever this is.’

The cemetery was wedged between Bunhill Row and City Road, from which the noise of traffic was still constant. That was the direction Shirley had arrived from, and Louisa couldn’t help wondering not whether she’d been seen climbing in, but by how many people, and what they’d done about it. Probably nothing. It wasn’t that London lacked the civic-minded; more that even the civic-minded didn’t much care when short drunk strangers hauled themselves over pointy railings.

Anyway, it wasn’t like they were tramping on actual graves. A few luminaries apart, the dead were fenced off from the flagstoned pathways.

Shirley was peering round, checking off a mental register. ‘Where’s Cartwright? And douchebag? And Lamb?’

‘Not here, obviously,’ said Catherine. ‘And a little respect for your colleagues, would you mind?’

‘Sorry. Mr Lamb.’

And if River wasn’t here yet, it probably meant he’d headed off to the O.B.’s, to be with Sid. Louisa wondered how she felt about that, not that she had a right to feel anything. Sid was one of them, she thought, one of the originals, though there’d been slow horses before them, and would be slow horses afterwards. Unless Slough House itself was headed for extinction. Being wiped from Service records wasn’t an encouraging sign.

She heard a strangled cry from Bunhill Row, followed by a tearing sound and a muffled thump. The kind of noise you’d get, she thought, if you dropped a computer nerd a short distance onto a hard surface.

Roddy Ho was on his feet when she got there, one pocket of his hoodie hanging loose but a scowl fixed firmly in place.

‘Hurt yourself?’

‘No. Just practising my land and roll.’

‘Yeah,’ said Louisa. ‘In case you find yourself doing a teeny-tiny parachute jump.’

Back at Blake’s grave they gathered around Catherine, Shirley still unfocused, the rest of them growing impatient. Rain was in the air, and an occasional shiver shook the trees. Somewhere on City Road, brakes squealed.

Catherine said, ‘Does anyone know where River is?’

‘I think he went to Kent,’ Louisa said.

‘His grandfather’s?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘… Why?’

‘He had a good reason,’ Louisa said. ‘But if that’s where he is, even if he’s heading straight back, he’ll be a while.’

Catherine pursed her lips. ‘He didn’t respond to the text.’

If he’d been obeying protocol, Louisa thought, he’d have dumped his phone soon as the text came through. And if any of them were likely to follow the protocol, that would be River. But before she could remind Catherine of this, Catherine was speaking again. ‘Okay, Lamb said that once Roddy got here, I should start.’

Ho visibly swelled.

Lech said, ‘Could you run his exact words past us?’

‘I’d sooner not.’

‘Because I doubt they were a compliment.’

‘Shut up, scarface,’ said Ho.

‘That’s enough. All of you.’ Nobody, thought Louisa, did schoolteacher quite like Catherine. ‘Now. Some of you will remember Struan Loy.’

‘Yes,’ said Louisa.

‘No,’ said Lech.

‘No,’ said Shirley.

‘No,’ said Ho.

Catherine gave him a look. ‘Well, you should. He was at Slough House same time as you.’

Ho shrugged.

‘What’s happened to him?’ Louisa asked.

She had the feeling it was nothing good. Former slow horse wins the Lottery wasn’t a headline waiting to be printed.

Catherine said, ‘He died. In a fire.’

Another squall of wind shook the trees, and they rustled in annoyance. Shush. Shush.

Lech said, ‘Okay, that’s sad, but he was before my time. So no offence, but if you’re planning a whipround for a wreath, count me out. And why the cloak and dagger, anyway?’

‘Because the fire was set deliberately. And he’s the second Slough House, ah, graduate, to die in the last few weeks.’

Lech paused. ‘That’s not a good statistic.’

‘Hence, as you say, the cloak and dagger.’

‘Who was the other one?’ said Shirley.

‘Kay White. Also before your time.’

‘But not before mine,’ said Louisa. ‘I thought she had an accident.’

‘Yes,’ said Catherine. ‘But the kind that might have happened on purpose.’

‘We’re being hunted.’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘That’s what Lamb thinks?’

‘He thinks someone’s taking revenge for the Kazan hit last month.’

‘I thought that was just a rumour.’

‘It is a rumour, yes. But it’s also true.’

‘Welcome to Spook Street,’ murmured Shirley.

‘By “someone”, we’re presumably talking GRU?’ Lech said. ‘They’ve sent a hit team?’

‘Again,’ said Catherine, ‘it’s a possibility.’

‘But why us?’ said Louisa. ‘We’re hardly in the frame for Kazan.’

Ho said, ‘But you can see why they might suspect us,’ and frowned meaningfully.

‘The Park,’ said Shirley. ‘This is them, right? Dropping us in the shit as usual.’

Lech said, ‘That’s a stretch. Putting targets on our backs for the new intake, that’s one thing. But I can’t see Taverner selling us to the Russians.’

‘Yeah, we’ve probably seen sides of her you haven’t,’ said Louisa. ‘And anyway. This isn’t the current crew, is it? Whoever’s doing this has got hold of an old team list.’

‘Which would nevertheless include some of us,’ said Catherine. ‘So you can see why I’d be happier if River had shown up. You’re sure he’s just out of town?’

Louisa said, ‘Yeah, about that. There’s something you should know.’

A rusty metal complaint interrupted her: the Bunhill Row gate was opening. It shut a moment later, and footsteps made their way along the flagstoned avenue towards where they were gathered.

Whoever it was, there were two of them.

‘Scatter,’ Louisa said.

She, Lech and Shirley made for the shadows round the side of the fenced-off graves. There was tree-cover, and bushes against a high brick wall: hideouts for children, but no place of safety. If whoever had come for Struan Loy and Kay White was coming for them, they’d be easy pickings. Louisa ducked into shadow and dropped to one knee, but when she peered back, Catherine and Ho remained standing in the light, staring after them.

Oh, crap.

It was Lamb making his way towards the graveside, and he wasn’t alone. Leaning into him was a young Indian woman whose right arm hung at an awkward angle, her left hand gripping the opposite shoulder as if holding everything in place. Lamb was propelling her forwards with a grace unusual to him, or not often on display. Her face was scrunched up in pain, and she was coughing softly, or whimpering.

Lamb said, ‘All right. Daddy’s home.’

Somewhat sheepishly, Louisa led the others out of the shadows.

Ho sneered. ‘I knew who it was,’ he told her.

‘Catherine did,’ Louisa said. ‘You’re just slow to react.’

Catherine, meanwhile, was studying the young woman. ‘Who’s this? And what have you done to her? She looks hurt.’

‘She’s fine,’ said Lamb.

‘But she looks hurt,’ repeated Catherine.

‘Okay, I broke her arm. But other than that she’s fine.’

Catherine stared at him. ‘What?’

Louisa said, ‘You broke her arm? For God’s sake! We need to call her an ambulance.’

‘First one with a phone gets fired,’ said Lamb. ‘You should have gone dark when you got the text. Or do I need to remind you you’re supposed to be fucking spies? Here. Hold this.’

‘This’ was the woman, and it was Lech he was speaking to. Who looked alarmed to find himself having to wrap a restraining arm around a captive, especially an injured, unhappy one. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked her, as Lamb shoved her into his orbit.

‘Bastard,’ she said.

‘Who is she?’ said Shirley. ‘And how come you got to break her arm?’

‘Bitch.’

‘Can I break her other one?’

‘Nobody’s breaking anything,’ said Catherine.

‘She’s Park,’ said Louisa.

‘Oh, somebody’s awake,’ said Lamb. ‘Thank you, Lara Crufts. Hope you didn’t trip over any tombs back there. Yes, she’s Park, and she’s here courtesy of the Boy Blunder. You can always rely on Odd-Rod to make the right mistake.’

Ho tried on his meaningful-frown face again.

‘He means she tailed you,’ said Lech. ‘Idiot.’

‘And you were waiting to intercept her,’ said Catherine. ‘But why did you have to break her arm?’

‘Because if I’d broken her leg I’d have had to carry her,’ Lamb said. ‘I mean, it’s not rocket science.’

‘We need to get her seen to,’ said Catherine. ‘You can’t just—’

‘It’s a clean break,’ said Lamb. ‘What am I, an amateur? And Taverner’ll make sure she gets what she needs, just as soon as she’s delivered a message.’

‘What message?’

‘That whatever game Diana’s playing’s gone sideways, and we’re the ones hanging off the edge. You got that, Southpaw? These words are for your boss’s ears only. Tell her I want to talk about Kay White and Struan Loy. In one hour. She knows where I’ll be.’ He lobbed a key at Lech, who took it one-handed. ‘Best let her walk out. Watching her climb the fence’d be funny, but we’re on the clock here.’

‘You’re sure this is—’

‘What I’m sure is, I don’t want to hear the next words out of your mouth.’

For a moment the little group was still, as if enacting a tableau: the end-point of a pilgrimage, gathered by this grave. Then all except Lamb watched as Lech walked the injured woman down the path towards Bunhill Row.

‘All that just to get Taverner’s attention?’ said Catherine, once they were gone.

‘Well, I considered leaving a horse’s head in her bed,’ said Lamb. ‘But the logistics are insane.’

‘Sid’s alive,’ said Louisa.

A revelation that didn’t seem to surprise Lamb. ‘And Cartwright’s with her?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then you mean she was alive,’ said Lamb. ‘Him too.’ He brushed his mouth, and a cigarette appeared. ‘Whoever these fuckers are, they’re not amateurs either. And like I said, we’re on the clock.’

When he lit his cigarette, he was briefly burnished by a halo of flame.

Louisa, thinking of River, shivered, and the first few spots of rain began to fall.

9

THE CAR MOVED SLOWLY along the lane, or that was how it felt to Sid. Slowly in the way that you moved slowly towards an undesirable appointment: your legs heavy, the pavement hostile, but time pouring away at its usual speed. Darkness was falling fast, in response to strange rural gravity. There were no overhead lights, but the car’s beams picked out hedgerow and gatepost, painting them in brief, minute detail, some of which fluttered away when lit. Moths, Sid thought. Moths and midges. There’d be more disturbances all around, sudden startlings and departures, if she could only see them. The creatures of the night reacting to the large bomb travelling past.

Sid was in the back seat, Jim next to her. Jane driving. Jane seemed calm and deliberate, her every move in tune with the car’s progress. Jim, seat belt in place, was half turned towards Sid, his expression one of benign insincerity. It would be better all round, his face suggested, if we could get this done without wasting more breath: on words, on smiles, on life. But he’d be prepared, if necessary, to lend an ear to any plea Sid might care to make, provided Sid didn’t expect him to act on it.

Sid’s sojourn in the study seemed like ancient history; like a walk in an orchard on a summer’s day.

And that lump of concrete, she belatedly realised, had been a fragment of the Berlin Wall. Hence its presence in the O.B.’s study. Much of his life had been dedicated to bringing that wall down, or that was how it appeared in retrospect. Perhaps it had simply been dedicated to fighting those who’d put it up, the wall itself being no more than a marker of which side he’d been on. Given a different birthplace, he might have been equally happy resisting the values of the West. Either way, at the end of the long road travelled, that chunk had come to rest on his bookshelf, symbolic of a temporary victory. Because history was cyclical, of course, and more walls would be built, and there’d always be those who hoped it would be better on one side than the other, and die attempting to find out. And in the longer run those walls would fall too, along with the despots who’d built them, crushed by the bricks they’d stacked so high. Walls couldn’t last. All the same, Sid wished she’d slipped that concrete lump into her pocket while she’d had the chance. There’d be something equally cyclical about using it to smash Jim’s face in.

Though its weight in her pocket would have alerted him, of course. They were assuming Sid was weak, and unlikely to defend herself, but Jim would have noticed if she’d tried to smuggle a brick out in her jacket.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked at last.

‘We’ve told you,’ said Jim. ‘To the hospital.’

‘No, really. Where are you taking me?’

He said, ‘Trust me. It amounts to the same thing in the end.’

Jane dipped the headlights to allow an oncoming car to pass undazzled, and cranked them up again once the lane ahead was clear. Sid caught a glimpse of a lone tree in a field, its limbs a crazy tangle of malice, and then it was gone.

And the end, whatever it might be, drew nearer.

From across the water drifted the sound of an old man mumbling in song, the same words, same cadence, as if he were caught in a loop of prayer. It stirred a memory in Diana that she couldn’t pin down as she walked the towpath towards Islington, where the canal disappeared into a tunnel. It had rained, only briefly, but enough to disturb hidden odours that sweetened the evening air. Houseboats lined the path, some of them floating plinths for what, in the shadows, seemed Heath Robinson contraptions designed to prepare their vessels for flight, but which would disassemble in ordinary daylight into bicycles and watering cans, recycling bins, seedling trays. From houses on the other side the occasional noises of family life filtered out: voices and snatches of music. But, a solitary runner apart, the towpath was empty. Diana was heading for the farthest bench, the one just this side of the tunnel. On it waited Jackson Lamb.

From this approach he looked like an exhausted tramp, and for a moment she wondered if he were the source of that mumbled prayer. His shoes were scuffed lumps, the hems of his trousers frayed, and his overcoat might have been stitched from the tattered sail of a pirate ship. And she had little doubt that the odour of cigarettes and Scotch would grow apparent the nearer she came, interrupting the softer smells the rain had released; little doubt, too, that for all his repose he knew damn well she was approaching, had been aware of her since she set foot on the towpath. And for half a second she had a troubling glimpse of another Lamb inside the shell of this one; one who had posed for the image in front of her, and whose carefully composed decrepitude was a sculptor’s trick.

Best to take the offensive. Best not to be anywhere near him, in fact, but he’d sent a damaged telegram in the form of a trainee spook, and she’d had little choice but to heed his summons.

‘You fractured my agent’s arm,’ she said, taking a place on the bench as far from him as possible.

He opened his eyes. ‘I warned you not to fuck with my joes.’

‘A twenty-three-year-old woman, for God’s sake!’

‘Yeah, I’d have done the same to a forty-year-old man. This is what a feminist looks like.’ He studied her. ‘Moving on. “I might have made a mistake.” Your words. And guess what? My death count’s rising faster than the PM’s dick at a convent school prize day. So. Want to explain the nature of your mistake? Or should I take a stab at it myself?’

He shifted as he spoke, and for an uncomfortable moment, she wondered if he were reaching for a blade.

But no. Not Jackson Lamb’s style.

She said, ‘Making mistakes is something every First Desk does, it goes with the territory. But whatever’s going on with your old crew, that’s landed out of nowhere. Nothing to do with current operations. So best thing all round would be if you just leave things to me, to the Park.’ She felt her eyelid tremble, and hoped he didn’t notice. ‘I gather you’ve gone dark. That’s sensible. Stay that way until I give the all-clear, and the rest of your team will be fine.’

‘That’s a relief. Do I get a kiss night night now?’

‘You need to trust me on this, Jackson.’

‘Funny thing. When I hear the words “trust me”, I get the feeling someone’s pissing in my shoe. So like we were saying, you made a mistake. This have anything to do with that club on Wigmore Street? Run by Maggie Lessiter?’

Diana said, ‘She tries to keep that quiet.’

‘Yeah, and I tried to keep this quiet.’ He farted, a three-note trumpet solo, then eased his buttock back onto the bench. ‘But somehow word got round.’

‘God. Don’t you ever consider impersonating a human being?’

‘Never met one worth pretending to be.’ He put a cigarette in his mouth, but didn’t light it. Possibly for fear of igniting the atmosphere. ‘Public schoolboy hang-out, isn’t it? Spotted dick for pudding, and matron rapping knuckles with a wooden spoon. Drawing lots to see who gets to be prime minister.’

‘So I enjoy the occasional lunch off the premises,’ Diana said. ‘What’s your point?’

‘My point is, you’ve taken a dip in the money pit. Because nobody pulls off a hit on a foreign holiday, especially not a Russian one, without serious brass in their pocket. And everyone knows there’s no spare cash for Service jollies, what with You-Know-What costing the earth. So when you greenlit that Kazan op, you did it with a suitcase full of used banknotes. And where better to find one of those than Lessiter’s club?’

‘This is pure fantasy.’

‘Nothing pure about it. You’ve been there all right. Ho ran your Uber records.’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, seriously. You’re supposed to be Head Spook. You’re about as under the radar as a Goodyear blimp. But anyway, yeah, I wanted to know where you were when you starting using Slough House as a dartboard. And who you might have been hanging out with.’

Diana looked away, towards the deeper darkness of the tunnel the canal headed into, or out of. Like most things, it was a matter of perspective. She said, ‘You’re confusing separate issues. What happened to White and Loy had nothing to do with any of this.’

Lamb had found a lighter somewhere, and lit his cigarette at last. ‘So I got Ho – and I have to tell you, he might be a twat, but he’s a talented twat. I keep expecting him to start firing ping-pong balls – so anyway, I got Ho to look at who else might have been having lunch there same days as you, and guess whose credit card he found?’ He exhaled smoke, making sure it blew in her direction. ‘Bullingdon Fopp. Bespoke PR services to rich tossers everywhere, in the shape of one Peter Judd. Now, why was I not surprised at his name cropping up? UK politics’ hardy perineum.’

Taverner winced. ‘I assume you mean perennial.’

‘You can assume all you like. I’m saying he’s somewhere between an arsehole and a—’

‘Jesus, Lamb!’ She shook her head. ‘He’s a member of the club. Him being there means nothing.’

‘Yeah, shut up. So here’s what I’m thinking. Peter Judd bankrolled the Kazan operation, presumably for reasons of his own. Nothing to do with the hit itself. More to do with the power and influence that come with buying First Desk.’

‘He hasn’t bought me.’

‘Oh believe me, Diana, he owns every last fucking inch of you.’

There was a waterborne scuffle a hundred yards down the canal: some ducks seeing to business. She let the noise distract her, as if its very irrelevance were an escape hatch; as if this reminder that the world contained a million other moments, all of them happening right this second, rendered her own situation no more meaningful than anyone else’s. But it was difficult to maintain that illusion with Jackson Lamb next to her. More than bones might soon be broken. And she recognised, out of nowhere, that looping prayer that had earlier leaked from a houseboat. ‘Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me Yet’. It was music, that was all. Music folded so carefully into the dark that it might have been just another city noise; the misplaced optimism of a terminal case.

Lamb said, ‘You invited him in and now he’ll sell everything that’s not nailed down, the way his kind always do. And Slough House isn’t nailed down. So do you want to forget about those fucking ducks for a minute and concentrate on the big issue? You pissed off the GRU when you took out one of their agents, and they’re looking to even the blood count. And thanks to Peter Judd, or someone like him, they’ve decided Slough House fits the bill.’ He flicked his cigarette in the direction of the canal, and for a moment it was a tiny rocket, leaving stars in its wake. Then it was only a hiss. ‘So this is where we are. And because I’m a people person, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you one chance to decide whose side you’re on. And before you do that, here’s a tip. Whatever rules this wet-job crew are playing by? So am I.’

Firing that cigarette into the dark might have been a mistake; he hadn’t anywhere near finished it. But another had appeared in his fist already, and he aimed it at her as if staring down its barrel.

‘Start talking.’

And Diana did just that.

When his phone buzzed with Catherine’s text, Blake’s grave. Now, River switched it off and removed the battery one-handed; left the parts on the passenger seat. Gone dark. It seemed to fit.

There are states in which all moods become possible at once: fear and fury, grief and excitement, dread, bewilderment, and a sudden deep attachment to something which might already have slipped away. River had spent these last years missing Sid, though he hadn’t known how much until now; the knowledge had arrived hand in hand with the awareness that she might have been taken away again. So he was driving too fast through darkness, the sky having deepened from blue to near-black, and the lane ahead, narrowed by his headlights’ focus, was a constantly swirling channel hedged on both sides by a blurry green mass. He was tensed to brake, but desperate not to. They were minutes ahead of him, in a possibly white car. XTH??? The number plate hardly mattered. The first car to swim into his vision would be the one he was chasing. There’d been nowhere to turn off, not without plunging into an unlit field.

They looked surprised when I said she was in there. They thought the house was empty.

Two of them, ‘from the hospital’. They’d come looking, the same way they had come looking in Cumbria, though this time they hadn’t expected to find Sid, which must mean they’d been looking for River. That bore thinking about, but not right this minute; for now, all he had to do was catch up, before they did whatever it was that missionaries did. Which River doubted involved saving souls, though it might include liberating them from the flesh.

Fear and fury, grief and excitement. Because he could not deny there was exhilaration in this; the pleasure of hot pursuit, a live mission. River’s brief tenure at the Park seemed a decade ago, and the long days at Slough House since must have seen slow poison feeding into him, because even now, with Sid’s life at stake, there was part of him that was glad this was happening. He tried to banish the thought, but couldn’t. He was glad this was happening, because the life he’d led since exile from the Park was not the life intended for him, not the one his grandfather had prepared him for. The O.B. had never wanted First Desk for himself, preferring to be the power behind the swivel chair, but he’d wanted it for River. That was the unspoken dream, present in the silences between the stories he’d told, but he’d never realised that it was the stories themselves River craved to be part of – that it was the danger he yearned for, not the satisfaction of moving pieces around the board. River didn’t want to be the storyteller. He wanted to be living in the tale. And if he’d had flashes, these last few years, of the ice in the soul required to plot an enemy’s destruction, he was just now learning the corruption that action demanded, the addictive joy in abandoning scruple and surrendering to the chase, even when someone you loved was in danger.

Which was the thought he was having when he took the corner way too fast and met the oncoming car.

The ducks concluded their meeting with some acrimony and adjourned, all parties seething. As Diana finished her account of her dealings with Peter Judd and the angels, their noise was being enfolded within the evening’s other disturbances: the traffic in the near-distance, and the aimless chatter of pedestrians on the road above, muffled by trees, so their language had no more clarity than that of the ducks.

When the girl had come to her – Ashley Khan; in her sixth month of training, and no guarantee she’d reach her seventh, not after tonight’s encounter – Diana had considered sending the Dogs out, to bring Lamb in under heavy manners. And then reality kicked in: if Lamb was breaking bones just to show her he was serious, then he was monumentally pissed off. Which meant he knew that his former team was being hunted down, and was looking for someone to blame. And given his talent for mayhem, and the tightrope she was currently walking, it would be safer to have him hear the facts from her than find them out for himself.

The ducks’ departure had left the canal as ruffled as an unmade bed, which now quietly made itself before her eyes.

‘Not just Judd, then,’ said Lamb after a while. ‘You’ve got a whole coven of the fuckers.’

‘Businessmen. Entrepreneurs. Concerned about our national security.’

Even as she was saying the words, she could feel their hollowness. Lamb possibly noticed this too, as his immediate response was another fart.

‘Judd’s no fan of Slough House,’ he said. ‘Last time we locked horns, I seem to remember he ended up a butler short.’

Butler wasn’t quite the word for Seb, Peter Judd’s erstwhile fixer, fiend and legbreaker, but it was true that he hadn’t been seen for a while.

‘But what the altogether fuck’s he playing at now? Sponsoring a hit, okay, that puts you in his pocket, and I’m sure he’s enjoying having you wiggle around there.’

‘I’m not in his pocket.’

‘Tell that to his stiffy. But feeding the opposition my crew, what’s that about? It’s as carefully planned as a Trump tweet. There’s no sense playing both ends against the middle when you’re the one in the middle.’

Diana said, ‘It’s not Judd.’

‘Then who?’

She said, ‘White and Loy were old news. They’re off the books. And even the books have been off the books since I wiped Slough House. Which means the details this GRU team have, if that’s who they are, came from Molly Doran’s archive.’

‘Thanks. I’d got that far.’

‘And Judd hasn’t had access to the archive.’

‘And you’re gunna tell me who has.’

‘One of the angels – one of the backers – his name’s Damien Cantor. Media playboy, grew up on the internet and graduated from YouTube with honours. He—’

‘I don’t give a shit about his CV.’

‘But maybe you’ve noticed Channel Go? That’s his baby.’

‘His baby? What’d he do, screw a shopping channel?’

Diana said, ‘Judd wanted Cantor on board because he’s got money, a ton of it. And what floats his boat is influence. He wants to be setting the agenda, not just reporting it, because that’s how it is these days. You own a news channel, it’s like putting a deposit down on a government.’

‘Another Murdoch Mini-Me, eh? Paint my fucking wagon.’

‘He’s also a narcissist and a show-off. Essentially, a PM-in-waiting. So he couldn’t resist letting me know he’d put one over on me.’

Lamb gave an impressed whistle. ‘Have to get up early in the afternoon to manage that.’

‘Fuck you, Jackson. Give me one of those.’ She meant a cigarette, but realised too late what she’d let herself in for: Lamb removed the one inserted between his lips and passed it to her. After the briefest of hesitations, she accepted. He produced another from behind his ear and lit both. Once that was accomplished, she said, ‘He told me one of his ex-security staff had signed on with the Park. When I ran his name, I found he’d had a run-in with Molly. Lurking in her stacks. Not something she approves of.’

‘Yeah. She really puts her foot down when that happens.’

‘You’ll like this, then. He called her a crip.’

Instead of responding, Lamb stared across the canal, at one of the houseboats moored opposite. A flickering behind its curtains suggested candlelight within, or perhaps a TV, or an iPad. Anything, really.

She said, ‘Tommo Doyle’s his name. And he could have photographed the Slough House file while he was in the archive. On Cantor’s instructions, I mean. Because Cantor knew about Slough House. Judd told him.’

‘Told him what, precisely?’

‘That the department existed, that I’d wiped your records, that I was using your crew for target practice. It must have given him the idea you were a sellable commodity.’

‘And there’s nothing a rich man likes better than knowing something’s for sale.’

‘There were already rumours the Kremlin’s furious about Kazan, and looking to take revenge. Ready to declare war on our equivalent of their murder squad. Except we don’t have a murder squad, which left them punching shadows.’ Diana paused. ‘Cantor’s not interested in ideology. But he wants to be a player, and these are the boys who stole the White House. If he offered them a viable outlet for their anger, who knows what he’ll get in return?’

‘Yeah, and he starts feeding tigers their breakfast, who does he think they’ll eat for lunch?’ said Lamb. ‘The stupid fucker. And that’s why my old crew are falling off ladders and burning to death. You’d think the GRU would have noticed our team list is written in faded ink on yellow paper.’

‘Why would they care? They just have to be seen doing it. By us. By Rasnokov. By the Gay Hussar himself. Welcome to the fake news world, Jackson. You’ve been hiding in Slough House too long. Things have got nasty out here.’

‘They always were,’ said Lamb.

Words smeared across River’s mind in the moments afterwards, each syllable flat as a fly on a windscreen, its shape still apparent amidst the mess:

Shit

No

Sid

But while it was happening there were no words, only movement. River’s brain became a blank, while his hands and feet did his thinking: slamming the brakes on, going into a skid so loud, so total, he had no choice but to go with it, turning the wheel so the car spun as it approached collision, like a cartoon animal trying to avoid the inevitable, pulled one way while its legs tried to go the other. The windscreen filled with light and just as suddenly emptied: there was a tooth-grinding scream of metal on metal, and directions scattered and reassembled themselves in a different order. He was no longer moving. The car he’d nearly hit was parked sideways across the narrow lane. And River was still facing it, so one of them had managed a 180-degree turn. He suspected it had been him.

He’d done a parachute drop once, overseen by the military. Low opening, they called it: pulling the cord at the last possible moment. River still remembered his feet hitting the ground; it was a memory stored in most of his bones, including those in his ears and thumbs. This was similar. There was also an old joke here somewhere. The good news is, your airbag works.

River buried his face for a moment in the soft mass, then tore it from its casing. It deflated with a Lamb-like noise.

‘You bloody maniac!’

The other driver was standing next to his door.

‘Sorry,’ River mouthed.

‘I’m calling the police. I’m calling the police. You bloody—’

‘Sorry.’

‘—bloody stupid maniac.’

River nodded, because it was the least he could do. He was a bloody bloody stupid maniac: pointless to argue the toss. Or to waste more time. He tried to recreate his sudden turnaround, which proved a lot more complicated when done consciously, with an angry man providing the chorus. But it got done and then he was away again, still driving too fast down a narrow dark lane, but conscious of something having shifted inside him shortly before he didn’t crash; some realisation he’d arrived at, the way you might put your hand inside a crowded wardrobe, and pull out exactly the thing you hadn’t known you were looking for.

The end turned out to be a clearing by the side of the road; a small parking space among trees, from which, Sid guessed, a footpath would lead somewhere picturesque, or interesting, or historical. She was not in the mood for any of these things. But it didn’t seem likely that her preferences would count for much.

‘Nearly there,’ said Jim, as Jane parked in the far corner.

What now? Sid asked, then realised she’d done so without making any noise. She cleared her throat. ‘What now?’

‘Nothing to be alarmed about.’

‘No. But what?’

Jane spoke for the first time in a while. ‘There’s a lake through the trees. Well, a large pond. Looks nice on the map.’

‘Area of natural beauty,’ said Jim. ‘One of those phrases you hear.’

‘We’ll take a look, shall we?’

There’s a word for questions that don’t require an answer.

Sid provided one anyway. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

Jim laughed. ‘You’ve come this far. What’s a hundred yards more?’

‘It’s dark.’

‘We have a torch. And it’ll be lighter by the lake. Water reflects.’

‘You know what?’ said Jane. ‘I think a dip would sharpen us all up. What do you say to that?’

She’d directed this at Jim, who said, ‘Nightswimming – why not? It’ll only be cold for a few moments. After that, it’ll feel quite normal.’

‘I don’t have a costume,’ said Sid. She seemed to be having trouble with her volume control: the words came ballooning out of her mouth, as if she’d taken helium. This was what happened when you got near the end: everyday things slipped away. The last time she’d died, it had happened suddenly, so she hadn’t been nervous. This time, there was too much warning. These people were going to kill her. She didn’t know why, but didn’t feel she’d find any reason acceptable, even if it were carefully explained.

‘Skinnydipping,’ said Jim. ‘Why not? We’re all adults.’

He reached over and released Sid’s seat belt. The strap brushed her breasts as it spooled back into its cavity. ‘Or,’ he said, and for the first time his voice became his own: no longer the jolly vicar but the ice-toned intruder. ‘We could finish it here in the car. Which will be messier, but we can do that if you prefer.’

His head was right up against Sid’s, their eyes inches apart. Sid stared into them, and nothing stared back.

‘All right,’ she said.

Jim tilted his head slightly: a question.

‘Let’s finish it here in the car,’ Sid said, adjusting her sleeve.

Lamb said, ‘You realise, if this goes on much longer, I won’t have two spooks to rub together.’ He in- then exhaled, a thin cloud that drifted away across the canal. ‘Not that they won’t enjoy that,’ he added. ‘Last time Ho experienced friction, someone was giving him a Chinese burn. Well, just a burn in his case.’

‘You’ve gone dark,’ Diana said, a refrain she’d played earlier. ‘Stay that way. All of you. Another few days, a week at most, and you can safely graze again. We’ll find this hit-team, send them home in a padded envelope.’

‘I love it when you talk stationery.’ Lamb turned to look at her. His face was the moon’s: craters and hummocks and random patches of grey. ‘White and Loy, I can live with. But Sid Baker was in that file too. And that’s a different story.’

Diana said, ‘She’s dead,’ but didn’t put a whole lot of effort into it.

‘She was dead,’ he agreed. ‘That’s the official line. But you needed it on record that she actually wasn’t, in case it came back to bite you. I mean, it was your fuck-up that nearly got her killed. So you buried the truth in Molly’s archive, where no one was likely to look. Because everything goes straight to digital now, right?’

‘Except you.’

‘Pretty much a last resort where I’m concerned, yeah.’

She said, ‘I wouldn’t be the first First Desk, and I won’t be the last, to hide things among the paperwork. So okay, yes, I wanted Baker out of the picture. I’ve kept her safe all this time. New name, new footprint. Nice little cottage near the Lakes.’

‘I’m hearing the world’s biggest but coming in to land.’

‘She’s gone absent. Her milkman reported it a couple of days back.’

‘And you did what?’

‘I didn’t get the report until earlier today.’

‘That’s what I like about the Park,’ said Lamb. ‘Always on the ball. Any chance you included her hideaway details among that paperwork? Don’t even bother answering that. Found out where she went yet? And why?’

‘We’re looking into it.’

‘Let me save you the bother. She’s at David Cartwright’s place. Remember him? Used to be the Service’s pied piper. He played, everybody danced.’

‘And why would she go there?’

‘Because joes on the run look to other joes for help, and Sid was close to River Cartwright. Whose grandfather’s address would be on record as his main contact on account of River living in a six-month rental. She’ll know that from having seen his file back in the day, and our bad actors’ll know it courtesy of your friend Cantor. So now they’re on a two-for-one. They turn up looking for Cartwright, they’ll find Baker too.’ He paused. ‘I hope you’re keeping up. I’m fucked if I’m repeating any of that.’

‘Her address wasn’t in the file,’ said Diana. ‘But the facility she’d been treated at was.’

‘Stone me. How could they ever have found her?’

She studied her cigarette, which was all ash and filter. ‘I’ll send a team out.’

‘Don’t bother. Cartwright knows we’ve gone dark. He may be an idiot, but of all the idiots I’m proud to call my own, he’s the idiot who’s memorised the protocols. He’ll have vanished and taken her with him.’

‘Unless the GRU team got there first.’

‘Yeah, well, in that case we’ll need the cleaners in.’

‘The past never stops coming back to bite us, does it?’

‘It never stops coming back full stop,’ said Lamb.

She ground out what was left of her smoke. ‘I appreciate that you’re pissed off. But it’s under control now, or will be soon. So don’t make waves, Jackson. Barricade yourself somewhere with a case of Talisker. By the time you’ve drunk yourself to death, it’ll be safe to come out.’

‘Nice to hear words of comfort. It’s like being offered a glass of water by the arsehole who’s just burned your house down.’

‘Oh, and one other thing,’ she said. ‘Two of your lot beat up a civilian tonight. Stole his wallet and phone.’

‘We’ve all got ways of making ends meet,’ said Lamb. ‘But how do you know they were mine? It’s not like I’ve got a monopoly.’

‘Because Wicinski was being tailed when it happened. My agent reported him lurking in the gents at Old Street station. Actually spoke to him there. Ten minutes later Wicinski left in a hurry, along with – quote – a squat-looking she/he. I’m assuming that was Dander. And they’d left their victim in a toilet cubicle.’

Lamb considered this. ‘I’ll give you squat-looking. But Dander’s more of a he/she, I reckon. Your agent’s very rude.’

‘And last time I checked, mugging was a criminal offence. So once Slough House’s lights are back on, expect that pair to be clearing their desks. Aside from whatever the Met do with them.’

‘Clear their desks? Dander’ll probably do a crap on hers.’

‘More work for the cleaners then.’

He said, ‘This Judd business. The angels. You’ve stepped into a bear trap, you know that.’

‘I can handle it.’

‘You think?’

‘I know.’

‘Your funeral.’ He offered her an outstretched palm. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll need your keys.’

‘You’ll need my keys. What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m going dark, as requested, which means I’ll need a safe house. And for obvious reasons, I don’t currently have faith in the Park’s ability to boil a kettle, let alone keep me or mine out of harm’s way. So if you’ll let me have the keys to your place, it’ll save you having to sweep up broken glass in the morning.’

‘You’re not using my house!’

‘Like I said. Broken glass.’

‘Jesus’s blood,’ she said, the words coming out of nowhere. Then found her key ring, and detached a pair. She recited an address, not her own.

‘Been dipping a toe in the property market?’

‘Just leave it as you found it, all right?’

‘My philosophy of life,’ said Lamb, taking the keys.

It was clear that damage had been done. There was a noise from the engine suggesting distress, what had started as a polite knock fast becoming an irritated rattle. River had passed several cottages but encountered no further vehicles; couldn’t see anything suggesting tail lights when he reached the occasional straight. He had no idea where he was. Probably he’d cycled this way as a boy, but the curves and twists were lost to memory. These might be ditches he’d already ended up in once. Nice to have had a practice run.

In his stomach now, a tightening knot. He was breathing hard and his teeth were clenched. What had been excitement had drained away, and he was in the grip of dread; dread of not finding Sid; dread of finding her body. He’d been half a second away from piling into that oncoming car: subtract an atom of luck and he’d be dead or badly injured. And whatever was going to happen to Sid would carry on happening, unless it already had. And she’d never know he’d tried to stop it.

A gunshot broke the evening in two, but it was only his engine, the knock that was a rattle reaching new heights.

And then a dull grey something shone through trees on his left, and River remembered a lake, a picnic spot. A small piece of his boyhood fell into place, and he slowed approaching the next long curve, suddenly sure there’d be a parking place here, behind a line of trees. Even as the thought formed, reality arrived to meet it: déjà vu made physical. He turned off the road, drove into the darkness, and came to a halt twenty yards from the space’s only other vehicle: silver, its registration ending XTH. The doors hung open, but there was someone in the back seat. Someone not moving.

River killed his engine, and for a second or two was aware only of how loud his breathing was.

The airbag was still in the footwell, and tangled his foot as he climbed out. His heart was beating too fast, and his legs trembled as he approached the other car, thinking No, Christ, not again. Remembering the blood on the pavement the last time Sid had died.

‘Let’s finish it here in the car,’ Sid said, and pushed the O.B.’s letter opener up through Jim’s jaw, into his head. She was surprised at how easy this was, if not as surprised as Jim. Because his seat belt was still in place he didn’t fall forward but sagged back against the car’s upholstery, and bubbled some nonsense, and died.

Jane screamed.

Sid opened her door and tumbled out.

She was away already, running along a track to the water’s edge. Speed mattered. Maybe Jane would wait to check that Jim was beyond help, but Sid already knew he was. She hadn’t even bothered trying to remove the blade, it was in so deep.

He had only been cold a few moments, but Sid guessed it was already starting to feel quite normal.

The trees thinned out, and she reached the lake. The path turned into a narrow wooden jetty, lapped by lake water, and leading to a wooden shack on stilts: a bird hide. It wasn’t much bigger than a telephone box, and Jane could probably tear it down with her bare hands. So Sid stuck to the shore, veered left, ran a few paces, then ducked among trees, which immediately attacked her, slashing her face and hands with low branches. She stopped, and they calmed down.

Her clothes were dark. She could blend into shadow. But she’d already used up a lifetime’s luck, along with her only weapon.

The look in Jim’s eyes when he’d known he was dead. There’d been outrage there, rather than fear.

All was quiet.

There were no birds, no traffic; only the fussing of the lake as the wind skated across it. You’d have thought there’d be lovers, or drinkers, or both; you’d have expected at least one small group of idiots looking for romance or similar oblivion. But there was only Sid and Jane, who’d be coming for her now, armed and with urgent intent, because this was no longer a job, it was personal. Whatever toxic bond had fused Jim and Jane, she’d avenge its sundering. So it was likely that Sid would die in this unfamiliar place, and with the thought she pressed against the tree trunk, as if trying to melt inside it, become invisible, become tree.

Tt Tt Tt said the bullet, and a gunshot broke the evening in two.

Sid yelped, but it hadn’t been a gun, had been a passing car, and she opened her mouth to scream for help, then snapped it shut. A scream would bring Jane, and it wouldn’t take Jane a moment to finish her job. Which was what Sid had become: an unfinished job. Like an unswept floor, or an unwashed dish. Fuck that, she thought. Tt Tt Tt said the bullet. Fuck that.

She could slip back onto the track and keep running. She doubted it went anywhere. It would circle the lake and bring her back where she’d started, but didn’t most paths do that? Look at her own travels. When she’d fled Cumbria she’d imagined River a place of safety. For some reason he was a fixed point among a mess of scattered detail: a pair of shoes in a wardrobe, beyond use, but never thrown away. Rubbish littering an office floor. Bad coffee drunk in a car at night. Why did you come here? … I couldn’t think of anywhere else. And you’re safe.

There was no fathoming what the mind kept hold of.

‘Bitch!’

She was grabbed by the arm and pulled onto the track, flung to the ground and kicked hard. She tried to roll with it, a lesson supposedly burned into bone memory on the Park’s training mats, but she landed like a bag of wet sand, the air punched out of her.

When she opened her eyes Jane was a fuzzy rim of light, which brightened and dimmed to the beat of Sid’s heart. She crouched to be sure of being heard.

‘I could put a bullet in you now. Kill you one piece at a time. But you’re still going in that water in the end, and you’re going to die with your lungs bursting. Because that was the plan.’

‘That’ and ‘plan’ were where she kept the beat: her tool the handle of her gun, her drum Sid’s head.

Tt Tt Tt.

The world was flaring grey and white, like a washed-out flashback in a creepy movie. Sid’s head hurt, as did her knees, and everywhere between.

‘So small and harmless, so fucking wounded you looked. Holding that lump of metal as if that was your only weapon.’

Another blow. Another moment of nearby lightning. Sid felt her teeth scream.

‘And all the time that fucking knife up your sleeve.’

Sid spoke, but the words came out so thickly they might have been made of mud.

Jane shook her. ‘What?’

Sid spat. ‘He helped me on with my jacket,’ she said. ‘He let me have the knife.’

Be Villanelle. Be Lara Croft.

She’d been Sid Baker, but the old one, not the new.

‘Get on your fucking feet.’

Jane dragged her back to the jetty, her gun hand round Sid’s collar, the gun itself pressed to Sid’s ear. Sid’s feet were next to useless, and seemed to slide off the earth, but progress was made.

The walkway to the bird hide was solid and new. Halfway along Jane sent her sprawling again.

‘I should gut you like a fish. Make you eat your own entrails.’

You can borrow my knife. I left it in your lover’s head. But the words wouldn’t emerge: Sid’s throat was locked.

There ought to be birdwatchers. Crews of twitchers, awaiting the dawn chorus. But it wasn’t even early yet; was still getting late.

Then Jane was kneeling beside her, one palm flat on her back, the other pulling her hair, forcing her to look up. ‘What you’ll see when you’re dying. My face, laughing at you. And all your dead friends too.’

Sid said, ‘His jaw was soft. The knife went right through.’

Jane banged her head on the woodwork, then heaved her across it, one hand still on her collar. She forced Sid’s head over the edge. The water was high and stared back at her, an ever-folding blanket laced with sequins, reflections from nowhere. Sid could only see two inches in front of her, but the view reached all the way to life’s end. And then it was gone and her head was underwater, held there by Jane’s hand.

You’re going to die with your lungs bursting.

She tried to kick, but Jane was on top of her, one knee in her back, one hand pressing her right arm to the jetty. These sensations were happening in a different time zone. Meanwhile, Sid was holding her breath, while Hercule Poirot wheezed inside her. Tt Tt Tt, he said. Then Pp Pp Pp, and finally Qq Qq Qq. The water tightened round her head, and memories broke from the mass of her past: the shape of the bedknob on her first bed. The coat she wore on her first day at school. Something was burning inside her chest, and might swallow everything, if she let it. A piece of coloured paper on which she’d fixed gold stars and drawn a friendly horse … It would be simplest to breathe in now, and let the lake’s cool water put the burning out. She had forgotten why she was here. But all paths lead back to where they started, don’t they? The coloured paper crumpled and vanished, joined all the things she couldn’t remember yet, and then Jane’s hand released her and she almost slid into the water anyway, because that seemed the obvious move. But with what was left of her free will she pulled back, and breathing air seemed the most extraordinary event: unusual, unprecedented, worth lighting a candle for. It hurt, and her chest still burned, but for a minute she couldn’t get enough of it, and lay there gasping, staring at the clouds, while a yard away Jane, taking a break from killing Sid, was killing River instead.

When River followed the path through the trees, it led him to the lakeside he remembered from boyhood, or thought he did, though this was new: a wooden jetty, ten yards long, leading to a small hut, probably a bird hide. The jetty was low, or the lake high: either way, its elevation allowed a woman to drown Sid Baker by holding her head under water while kneeling on her back. Sid was alive because her feet were kicking, just barely. Something silver on the planking caught a random sliver of light: a gun. She’d put the gun down the better to drown Sid. This thought took a moment to process itself, and by the time it was done River was halfway there.

The woman turned before he reached her, and her face was pure calculation: work in progress versus approaching deadline. She abandoned her task, leaving Sid flapping like a landed fish, and lunged for the gun, which River’s foot reached first: he sent it flying towards the hide. It hit the door and clattered to the woodwork. He tried to kick her in the face as a follow-up, but was unbalanced. She was on her knees, a good height at which to direct a jab at his balls, but his forward motion had propelled him past her, and she hit his thigh instead, which went briefly numb. He turned, dipped and reached for the gun, but she was on her feet now and kicked out, catching him on the shoulder, but only because he averted his head in time. Before she could snatch the weapon he sprang forward and caught her midriff, rugby-tackle-style: now they both went down, River on top. He felt her knee thrust upwards between his legs and jammed his thighs shut, and crashed his forehead onto her nose. Blood spurted. Then her open palms slapped both his ears at once, and the resulting thunderclap split his head open. She pushed him off, and for a moment they shared a look: one of them was going to kill the other. Whoever had the gun was favourite.

She was nearest.

She scrambled onto all fours and scurried for it, but River recovered in time and leaped on her. He tried to grasp her collar, and gain leverage to smack her head on the platform, but she rolled without warning, throwing him off. He nearly went in the water; she nearly reached the gun, but he grabbed her wrist, and when she tried to smack her forearm into his face, bit her. She screamed in outrage, and he hauled himself over her, stretching for the gun, but two swift punches to his side stopped him. He jabbed his elbow into her face in response and she loosened her grasp, and this time his hand did reach the gun, but before that could matter, she punched him in the throat. His whole body convulsed, fingers included, and the gun went off: a sudden firework against a dark background. The bullet could have gone anywhere. The gun did; before she could wrest it from his breathless grip he launched it, hard as he could, into the night: the splash it made when it hit the water met the gunshot’s echoes coming back.

Still trying to breathe, feeling like his head was wrapped in plastic, he tried to crawl free, but he was on his back and she was clinging to him tight as a lover: her face soaked in blood, her teeth a grimace. And then she hit him in the face, twice, each blow sending pain rocketing through his head. Before a third blow could connect he arched his back violently and threw her aside. For a second he felt weightless, and had to anchor himself: there was work to be done. He scrambled to his feet, lost balance, and tumbled against the bird hide again, but didn’t fall. She was on her feet too, in the crouching dragon position, unless it was flying tiger: she was about to launch herself, and almost did, but something stopped her – Sid Baker, wrapped around her legs like an angry toddler. River stepped forward and punched her in the face and she fell back over Sid and hit the deck. River threw himself onto her while Sid clung to her legs; she was kicking madly, but Sid wouldn’t let go. Kneeling on her stomach, River put his hands round her throat and squeezed. It was like wrestling a fish: she arched and flapped and tried to punch him again; then seized his wrists and tried to break their grip. He felt himself winning, but she freed a foot; kicked Sid in the head, and dislodged River. She rolled, began to crawl, but he was on her again, and this time for good: for good? Was this good? River was suddenly aware of the noise, all the noise they were making. Yelps and snarls and pained mouthfuls of air. She was flat on the deck and he was on her back, and the water was there in front of them. She’d tried to drown Sid. It seemed like a plan. He hauled her forwards, and she struggled when she realised what he was doing, but it didn’t help her, not with the two of them holding her down. And then River had her head in the water, like some God-awful Baptist ceremony, and her arms flailed about, desperate to grab hold of something; she caught his ear and tried to rip it off, digging her nails in, but River wouldn’t relax his grip, couldn’t, and now Sid was pulling the woman’s hand away and holding it in both her own. Her feet were beating a message in Morse code, just a loose collection of vowels expressing who knew what. She had never died before. It was new territory. And then the letters spaced themselves out, and the message fragmented, as whatever it was the woman was seeing outgrew her ability to describe it. One last shimmered attempt at resistance, and she fell silent. It was over. It would never be over. But it was over.

River gave it another full minute before letting go of her head.

There was no sudden reanimation; no last-minute movie shock.

He drew back from the edge, still on his knees, every muscle trembling. Sid, too, had shuffled away. With distance between them they were breathing in unison: hard ragged gulps of air. He was soaking wet, he noticed. Sweat and blood. Lake water. Something to think about if this ever happened again: bring a change of clothing. He wanted to be sick. Even as he had the thought, Sid threw up. He wiped his mouth, as if it were hers.

Somewhere behind them an owl hooted. And then, from the other side of the lake, another replied: Hu-whit. Hu-whuh. Life went on.

10

A CROWD DEFAULTS TO ITS dominant emotion. Recent years had seen children taking to the streets, angry at the damage their elders have done to their planet, but fired by hope nevertheless. For others, rage remained the easier option.

That evening, the Yellow Vests had gathered around Oxford Circus. Though traffic continued to flow, the protestors were confident of their right to occupy the pavements, and their presence had swollen to cover all four corners of the junction, blocking the entrances to the Tube. But rush hour was over, and there was no sign, tonight, of any counter-demonstration by those who were similarly angry but for diametrically opposed reasons, so the usual business carried on at the usual pace; chanting and jeering and outbursts of ragged song. Leaflets, as always, were thrust on anyone passing; these leaflets, as always, now littered the pavements. And all the while the usual targets attracted attention shading into abuse: the too well dressed, the obviously indigent, the clearly foreign, cyclists, drivers who sounded their horns in derision, drivers who failed to sound their horns in support, women in groups, women in pairs, women on their own, and anyone whose skin tone deviated from the yellow-vested norm, which self-identified as white, though would have passed for pasty grey. It was a scene that might have been playing out in any British city, any European town, though if you looked upwards, over the heads of the furious, you could only have been in London, among London’s beautiful buildings, framed by London’s starless skies.

Not far off – up Regent Street, just this side of Portland Place – a black cab hovered, its passenger having requested it to wait while he made a phone call.

‘I watched you on the news,’ he was told.

‘It’s important to remember the camera adds pounds.’

‘I suppose you’re expecting my thanks.’

‘Oh, I never expect thanks. I simply expect repayment, in due course.’ Peter Judd shifted in his seat, so he could see himself in the driver’s mirror. Put his free hand to his jowls, and gripped. His face tightened in response, and he became several years younger. Hmm. ‘They were wondering if you’d be available for an interview.’

‘I’d be delighted.’

‘I said no.’

‘You what?’

‘You’re not ready, Desmond. You don’t mind Desmond? I’d use Flinty, but I’d sound like an idiot, or a sportsman. Which yes, I know, same thing.’

‘… What do you mean, not ready? I’ve been giving interviews for months.’

‘To spotty interns on freesheets, or virgins from websites. Channel Go is hardly Newsnight, but its presenters can at least conduct a grilling without falling off their desks. So if, for instance, you should reveal your understanding that Downton Abbey was written by Jane Austen, you’re unlikely to find them agreeing with you. As happened in that Q&A with, what was it? The Little Englander?’

‘A New England.’

‘Thank you.’

On Oxford Circus, with no apparent triggering event, a protestor whose red sweater was visible beneath his high-vis tabard hoisted a newspaper dump bin, earlier stacked with Evening Standards, at the curved glass window of a clothing store.

It bounced off, to jeers, and some laughter.

Judd released his chin, and his face resumed its current age.

Flint said, ‘So you’re saying I need a crash course in general bloody knowledge before I’m allowed to lay out my vision for the future of this country?’

‘It wouldn’t hurt. But no, what I’m saying is, we need to be sure that the agenda you’ll be called upon to address will be focused on those issues you’re happy discussing. Rather than on anything which might reveal any, ah, gaps in your hinterland.’

‘Bloody cheek!’ That this sounded to Judd’s ears a token protest was no surprise. Token protests were the bedrock of Flint’s campaigning history. ‘And I suppose you have an idea as to how to set that agenda?’

‘I always have ideas, Desmond. It’s why I’m in such huge demand.’

‘It sounds like you’re in traffic.’

‘I am,’ said Judd. ‘I’m in a cab watching your troops perform their evening manoeuvres. Extraordinary. Like watching the Home Guard morris dancing, with malicious intent.’

‘Why do you never say anything I can understand first time?’

‘Blame my schooling. But let’s try this – you might want to get down here.’

‘I was there earlier. And it’s a peaceful protest. As usual.’

‘Yes, well. It is at the moment,’ said Peter Judd, as the red-sweatered mastermind on the corner collected the dump bin and threw it at the window again. ‘It is at the moment.’

White walls meant a clean conscience, Catherine liked to imagine. Back in her worst days, in that Dorset retreat where the Service sent its damaged people, she’d had fevered nights; dreams of being trapped inside a glass house, whose shifting rooms offered no escape. And during the days spent coming to terms with her new reality – my name is Catherine, and I’m an alcoholic – she found herself longing for bare, unvarnished shelter; somewhere with no traces of her previous life, or anyone else’s. Somewhere she might be brand new. Vacant possession.

Well, here it was.

The mews cottage Lamb had led them to, on a cobbled lane near Cheyne Walk, had the white walls she’d dreamed of; white walls and little else. The kitchen was functional – a fridge hummed; an oven waited – but there was no furniture, no carpets, no art; only windows, each framing a view that perfectly matched the time of day. It was a blank canvas, with no regrets. A small house, but one that seemed pure and unsullied. Not yet stained.

‘Well, fuck a number of ducks,’ said Lamb. ‘Someone spent a lot of time on all fours for the keys to this pad.’

Louisa, Lech and Shirley checked it out: two rooms upstairs, plus bathroom; kitchen and sitting room down. Approaching two million quid, Louisa thought: like everyone who’d recently bought property she’d acquired an estate agent’s gene, impossible to switch off. Lech and Shirley, both London renters, viewed it as they would a palace or a cathedral; somewhere they might get to visit, but short of revolution, meteor strike or raging zombie virus, nowhere they’d ever live. Lamb, meanwhile, had perched in the sitting-room’s window recess, where the incoming light etched a golden thread round his bulk. Henry VIII, Catherine found herself thinking. Minus the finery, obviously. But with the same propensity for getting his own way, and not much caring who faced the blade.

Roddy Ho had found an outlet in the corner, and was charging his laptop. This was possibly at odds with the going-dark scenario, but he’d roll his eyes at any suggestion that his online presence might be detected. That was the thing about Roddy, thought Catherine. He couldn’t open a door without hurting himself or offending a woman, but give him a keyboard and he could skip a fandango with his eyes shut.

The others reappeared. The house was clean, as advertised: no bugs, no tripwires.

‘What about the neighbours?’ asked Louisa.

‘We’ll tell ’em we’re rat-catchers, and might be here a while,’ Lamb said. He turned to the others. ‘So – Dildo Baggins and Captain Coke. Been sandbagging tourists, I gather.’

‘It was an accident.’

‘We thought he was Park.’

‘Well, according to Taverner he wasn’t, which means you two shat in your porridge. So you might as well start planning your leaving party. I can’t come, by the way. I’m drinking in my office that night.’

‘We were going to return his stuff,’ Shirley sulked.

‘Is that the highest priority right now?’ said Lech. ‘I mean okay, we screwed up. But people are dying.’

‘River’s still not called in,’ said Louisa. ‘Nor has Sid.’

‘Cartwright’s gone dark,’ said Lamb. ‘So either he’s remembered his training, or someone’s pulled his blinds down. We’ll find out which when he turns up or his corpse starts to smell. Meanwhile, I’ve got my own problems. Anyone got a light?’

Catherine said, ‘Just for once, could we try not polluting the air?’

He stared at her as if she’d just invoked an impossible creature, like a unicorn, or a secret vegan. ‘And how would that help?’

‘We’d all breathe more easily.’

‘Help me, I meant.’

‘You don’t seem surprised Sid’s alive,’ Louisa said.

Lamb had conjured a cigarette from nowhere, but tucked it behind his ear. ‘I’m more surprised some of you are. She was the only one of you smart enough to look both ways crossing the road.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Mention it. Of course, she’s also stupid enough to turn to Cartwright for assistance. Bit like seeking Prince Andrew’s advice on choosing your friends.’

‘Editorialising aside,’ Catherine said, ‘do you have a next move planned? Because if all we’re going to do is lie low, we might as well sort out sleeping arrangements.’

‘Happy to share with anyone,’ said Lamb, raising a buttock and farting long and loud.

Ho said, ‘Three rooms, six of us. We should probably pair off.’

‘In your dreams,’ Louisa told him.

Lech said, ‘There’s a team of GRU killers out there knocking off slow horses past and present. Maybe that’s what we should be focusing on.’

‘Hashtag-face has a point,’ Lamb conceded. ‘Anyone care to contribute? And remember, there’s no such thing as a bad idea.’ He retrieved the cigarette from his ear. ‘Just the time-wasting fuckwit who offers one.’

Shirley said, ‘How many of them are there?’

‘How many clowns fit in a car?’

‘GRU crews operate in pairs, don’t they?’ Catherine said. ‘And these attacks have been spaced out. First Kay. Then Struan, a couple of weeks later.’

‘If there was more than one pair, they could have done them at the same time,’ said Louisa. ‘And given us less warning.’

‘I didn’t know these people,’ said Lech.

‘Yeah,’ said Louisa. ‘But let’s pretend we care.’

‘No, I’m making a point. They were before my time. And there’s no record of me being in Slough House anyway. Because Taverner had us wiped at the same time I joined.’

‘Before my time too,’ said Shirley.

‘So you want to know who’s gone dark?’ Lech said. ‘Me and Shirley. Because if they’re using out-of-date records, they’ve no idea we exist.’

‘And that’s what comes of supportive leadership,’ said Lamb. ‘Anyone would think you were strategic thinkers, instead of a bunch of useless no-hopers.’ He levered himself off his perch. ‘Our Moscow murderers are operating from Molly’s file, which doesn’t include Butch and Sunglasses here. So yeah, we have the advantage that they care even less about you than the rest of us do. Of course, that only stays an advantage until you both go to prison for mugging a tourist.’

‘Seriously, he was not a tourist!’

‘He was hanging around in a public toilet,’ Shirley said. ‘Probably cottaging.’

‘Which would make it a hate crime,’ Lamb said sorrowfully. ‘And time’s up on that sort of thing.’

‘So how do you propose playing this advantage?’ Catherine asked. ‘And please don’t say you’re sending Lech and Shirley out against a pair of trained hitmen.’

‘Be a good way of using them up, wouldn’t it?’ said Lamb. ‘But no, that wasn’t my first thought. My first thought was—’

‘River and Sid,’ said Louisa.

‘My first thought was, there must be a takeaway round here somewhere. But I suppose, once they’ve snuck out and got me some food, they can go round up the missing.’

Louisa said, ‘You can borrow my car. So long as Shirley doesn’t drive it.’

‘What’s wrong with my driving?’

‘Your lack of basic motoring skills.’

‘I’ll need drink, too,’ Lamb said. ‘And a lighter.’

Louisa scribbled the O.B.’s address down, and explained to Lech where her car was, while Shirley fidgeted. Roddy had returned to his laptop. Catherine watched all this with the sudden sense that it was beyond familiar. Even Lech, the relative newcomer, slotted in: his obvious damage plain to see; the other stuff bubbling inside him, looking for an outlet. She remembered J. K. Coe, and the direction his long-buried trauma had sent him, and thought It doesn’t help – putting them all together in one place, fastening them up in Slough House, didn’t help. It just provided them with the opportunity to nurture old bad habits, or foster new ones. But it was a little late to make that observation. Lech was taking the keys from Louisa, Shirley all but tugging at his coat hem. ‘Don’t mug any strangers,’ Lamb advised as they left, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

‘Sneaked, by the way,’ she said.

‘… What now?’

‘It’s “sneaked”. Snuck’s not proper English.’

‘Do I look like I give a feaked?’ said Lamb.

They settled down to wait.

Don’t leave your kill in the open. He couldn’t remember whether that was Bond, Bourne or The Lion King, but it seemed a rule, so they’d half-carried, half-dragged Jane’s body back to her car. The track seemed twice as long as it had been, and the night twice as noisy, and when a vehicle slowed on the road beyond the trees both their hearts moved up a gear, pounding in unison. Halfway there Sid fell: she was fine, she was okay. She clearly wasn’t. So River hoisted the body onto his back, and staggered the rest of the way solo. Getting a corpse into a boot looked easy in a movie, but Jane’s sodden clothing got twisted on the locking mechanism. She’d gone waxy to the touch, and looked foreign in a way she hadn’t while alive, as if the role she’d been playing had drifted away in the water. This was the kind of thought it would be best not to share. He got the clothing untangled at last, and the body slumped like a bag of vegetables. Death was a savage bastard, robbing both giver and given of grace.

Jim – that was what Sid called him – was just a shell. The letter opener embedded in his jaw took a while to lever free.

‘We should put him in the boot too.’

Except Jane was occupying most of it, and the effort required to fold her more compactly was beyond them. So he just freed Jim from his seat belt, and let the body collapse to the floor.

‘It’s a bit obvious.’

Sid’s voice was a faraway niggle.

‘Can’t be helped. And nobody will see it while the car’s moving. I’ll take this one, you take mine. You okay to drive?’

But she wasn’t.

‘We need to get back to the house. I’ll call Lamb, he’ll talk to the Park. They’ll deal with it. But we can’t leave them here. Anyone might come.’

And probably would, given time, but it made no difference. Sid’s hands were trembling madly. They couldn’t have handled cutlery, let alone a steering wheel.

‘Okay,’ River said. Plan B: he’d let the Park know where the bodies were. But even before he could look for his phone he remembered Catherine’s text, the one events had erased from his mind.

Blake’s grave. Now.

‘Shit.’

Sid said, ‘Oh. Is something the matter?’

‘Very funny … We’ve gone dark.’

‘We?’

‘Slough House. Probably something to do with this pair.’

Another car was approaching, its headlights grazing the trees. Sid flinched but the car didn’t slow. The darkness it left behind it seemed heavier for its passage.

‘Okay,’ said River again. ‘We leave them here. Get home. I’ll contact Lamb from there.’

Once they weren’t standing next to a vehicle whose passengers were dead.

It was far from ideal, but the whole evening had been like that. When he got behind the wheel he realised his own hands were trembling too, the hands he’d used to hold a woman’s head underwater. Until she died. He started to say something, but stopped. Wasn’t sure what it would have been.

‘River?’

‘That knife belonged to Beria,’ he said.

‘… Knife?’

‘The one you took from the study.’

‘Oh.’

‘My grandfather paid a lot of money for it.’

‘… Who’s Beria?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Tell you later.’

His headlights picked out the killers’ car when he turned them on. But you’d have to be standing close, peering through the window, to make out the body within; you’d have to open the boot to find the second. He started up and left the scene, heading for the O.B.’s.

In a different car with the same destination, Shirley had opened the glove compartment. ‘Hey, Sunglasses! Lamb called us Butch and Sunglasses.’

‘Yeah, I think you were meant to be – forget it.’

She put them on. They covered half her face. ‘Do I look like J-Lo?’

More like Jeff Goldblum, Lech thought. In The Fly.

They’d eaten on the move, after having delivered a metric ton of Indian takeaway to the mews house. In keeping with Louisa’s restriction, Lech had refused to countenance Shirley’s offer of driving ‘just until we’re clear of the city’, because, her opinion, ‘it’ll be quicker that way’. For one thing, he pointed out, she was way over the limit. And for another thing, there didn’t need to be another thing. Because she was way over the limit. He still wasn’t sure his argument had hit home, but the fact that he held the keys, not her, was the clincher.

The O.B.’s house was outside Tonbridge, Kent. The rain had moved west, and rush hour was over; all in all, there were worse ways of spending an evening, were it not for the company, and his awareness of impending doom.

Still with the shades on, Shirley said, ‘How much trouble do you think we’re in?’

‘Well, we mugged someone in a toilet and the whole world seems to know about it. So quite a lot.’

‘At least we didn’t kill him.’

‘The fact that you see that as an upside worries me.’

‘It’ll be all right.’

She sounded confident.

Lech said, ‘Gut feeling? Or do you know something I don’t?’

‘We’re Slough House, not Park. Lamb’d sack us if he felt like it, wouldn’t need a reason. But he won’t let Taverner.’

‘Yeah, one small thing? Taverner’s his boss.’

Shirley just laughed.

She toyed with the sunglasses, letting them dangle from her ears, cupping her chin. ‘What’s it like?’

‘What’s what like?’

Shirley waggled her fingers in front of her eyes, like a celebrity signposting fake tears. ‘Having your face mashed up.’

‘Empowering. You should try it.’

‘Do you wish you hadn’t?’

He’d hit rock bottom the day Lamb had handed him the razor. In case a third way occurs to you. Other than stitches or surgery. The latter was out of his salary bracket, and stitches would have left his face looking like a sampler made from a tabloid headline. So what did that leave, wrapping bandages round his head like the invisible man? Actually, that might have worked. But no way was he going into this with Shirley, so he just grunted, and concentrated on overtaking the sixteen-wheeler in front. Spray misted the windscreen. ‘You didn’t know this Sid woman, then?’

‘Nah. She was dead before I started.’

‘Or not.’

Shirley shrugged. ‘She was shot in the head. She might still be alive, but I doubt she’s the person she was.’

Lot of that about, thought Lech. He said, ‘You think Lamb’ll go to bat for us, then?’

He could hear her alcohol intake in her laughter. ‘Lamb with a bat in his hand. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near.’

Lech felt much the same about Shirley and any blunt object. Sharp ones, he’d done as much damage to himself as anyone was likely to.

She said, ‘But Taverner was taking the piss, wiping Slough House. So yeah, I think he’ll nobble her. Not ’cause he wants to keep us. Just to stop her taking us away.’

He thought: And this is the world I move in now. Where decisions are based, not on the greatest good or the most just cause, but simply on fucking up the opposition, even if the opposition’s your own side.

Rifling through the glove compartment again, Shirley had found some chewing gum. ‘Do you ever get déjà vu?’

‘I feel like I’m about to.’

‘We should check the boot,’ she said. ‘See if Louisa bought a new monkey wrench.’ And when Lech raised his eyebrows, said, ‘You never know.’

At the third time of trying, the dump bin went through the window, and the resulting scatter of glass was accompanied by a roar of approval from the Yellow Vests, as if the windowpane had been all that was hemming them in. En masse they swept onto the road, causing traffic, which had been grumpily processing past, to come to a halt; a line of buses and taxis, taxis and buses, soon blocked both Oxford and Regent streets, while cycle-drawn hansoms took to the pavements. From a distance it might have seemed like a celebration in progress – Victory Over Europe Day, perhaps – but in the immediate area, a violent undercurrent was palpable. One broken window wasn’t such a mess, in the scheme of things. But it seemed like a start.

Oddly, a TV crew had been in place throughout, though Yellow Vest gatherings were barely newsworthy these days; were just another street hazard, like wobbly paving slabs or charity muggers. But Channel Go had sent a van earlier in the evening, and its crew were on the street, filming the commotion. From the cab window Judd watched them weaving through the crowd with interest, not least because one of them had just the kind of legs he admired: long, and attached to a woman.

Noise rose and fell, like a wave breaking over silt.

‘Meter’s still ticking, guv,’ the driver said.

‘I’m immensely glad that you reminded me of that. But it’s of no importance, I assure you.’

‘Your money.’

‘And soon to be yours.’

This promise gladdened the driver’s heart, or at least loosened his tongue. ‘Interested in these jokers, are you? The Yellow Vests?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Yeah, no, I say jokers, but they’ve got a point. It’s the voice of the people, you get down to it. I mean, it’s been a joke, hannit? These last few years? A flippin’ circus. It gets you wondering, who are the government to tell us what to do?’

‘A strikingly acute question. And now, I have a favour to ask.’

‘Anything you say, guv.’

‘Stop talking. And step outside for five minutes. I’m about to take a meeting.’

Which commenced twenty seconds later, when Desmond Flint joined him.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked, climbing into the cab.

‘I know,’ Judd beamed. ‘Almost as if your people had a mind of their own.’

‘I mean – this wasn’t … A peaceful gathering. That was my instruction.’ He closed the door. ‘But this, this … The police are lining up on Oxford Street. This’ll make us look like criminals.’

‘As so often happens when laws are broken,’ said Judd. ‘But do stop worrying. Here.’

He handed Flint a silver flask. Flint took it, uncomprehending.

Judd said, ‘The Home Secretary is unlikely to order the police to move in without the PM’s say-so. And since he has a way of being hard to find when decisions are called for, we have a little time.’

‘This was deliberate. A troublemaker. None of my doing. This is the work of one of those, what did you call them? An Asian something?’

‘Victoria’s Secret Agents,’ said Judd.

‘… What?’

‘Just my little joke. Agents provocateurs.’

‘And you said they’d been dealt with. That you’d persuaded MI5 to withdraw them. But now this happens. And there are TV crews, for God’s sake!’

Judd said, ‘Take a drink. Calm your nerves.’

Flint looked at the flask, then raised it to his mouth. Swallowed and said, ‘And you’re making jokes. I thought you were going to be my political saviour. Just earlier today you said that. And here we are now, and my movement, the movement I started, looks minutes away from building a bonfire in the middle of fucking London! And what have you done in the meantime?’

‘Well,’ Judd said, ‘I arranged for someone to throw a bin through a window.’ He held a hand up to forestall interruption. ‘And I know what you’re going to say. That can’t have taken more than a phone call. But you have to know who to call. That’s where the expertise comes in.’

‘… You are out of your bloody tree, mate! You are mad as a box of Frenchmen!’

‘And the same person I called to borrow a bin chucker from arranged for the first of those TV crews to be here. Channel Go. I think I mentioned them earlier. Now, be a good chap, take another belt of that rather special brandy, and run a comb or something through your hair. Because it would be best if you made your play before they do light actual bonfires. The optics would be a little, what shall I say? Reminiscent of darker times?’

‘… What you on about?’

‘Channel Go isn’t here to film a riot, Desmond. It’s here to film you.’

‘… Me?’

Judd nodded in the direction of the increasingly restless mob. ‘Oh yes. You wanted an opportunity to shine, didn’t you? Well, that’s what I’m giving you.’ He leaned across to open the door of the cab. ‘Your destiny awaits. You can thank me later. Here, take this. Oh, and leave the brandy. There’s a good chap.’

He made no attempt to hide the thoroughness with which he wiped his hip flask before drinking from it. But Desmond Flint had left the cab by then, and had far too much on his mind to take offence.

River pulled into a lay-by half a mile short of home, and Sid handed him his dismantled mobile. He inserted the battery and powered up.

‘If you’ve all gone dark, won’t Lamb have disabled his phone too?’

He remembered the last time Lamb had switched Slough House’s lights out: he’d gathered their mobiles and posted them down a drain. On the other hand, Lamb was freer with other folks’ possessions than he was with his own. But ‘Soon find out’ was all he said.

Lamb answered on the seventh ring. ‘What fresh bollocks is this?’

‘Me.’

‘Not dead yet, then.’

‘It would seem not.’

‘And Baker?’

‘I’d probably have mentioned it first thing.’

‘So you’re breaking protocol why, to tell me you finally got her knickers off?’

‘Someone came for her. Two someones.’

‘And …?’

River said, ‘They’re no longer a problem.’

‘Well, treat my billy goats rough.’ Lamb paused. ‘Okay, good. Unless they were just pollsters or window cleaners or something. You wouldn’t be the first pair to go to town on a passer-by tonight.’

River didn’t know and didn’t care. ‘There’s a car. It’ll need tidying away.’

‘So now I’m your valeting service.’

‘Jackson, I’m not in the fucking mood.’

‘That’s clear. I assume you’re calling from nowhere?’

The middle of. River said, ‘I thought it best to put some distance between us and the …’

‘Recyclables,’ suggested Lamb.

‘Yeah. So, are we still dark? Or can I get the Park to do their thing?’

‘No. Just get back where you started from. Wicinski and Dander are heading there now.’

‘And then?’

‘And by then I’ll have a plan. Are the, ah, empties likely to be noticed any time soon?’

‘Let’s hope not.’

‘Yeah. When did hope ever let us down?’

Lamb disconnected.

Sid said, ‘Well, anyone eavesdropping on that’ll assume it’s just another Wednesday evening.’

Her voice was stronger.

River said, ‘He knows you’re alive. Probably always has done.’

‘He sounds like he hasn’t changed.’

‘No. If anything, he’s more so.’

‘What were those names he said?’

‘Wicinski and Dander. Lech and Shirley.’

‘And he’d already dispatched them to the O.B.’s. So he was worried about you. Us.’

‘Not sure worry comes into it.’ He removed the battery from his phone once more. ‘It’s all a game. He’s just shifting pieces round the board.’

‘Isn’t that what your grandfather used to do?’

‘There’s no comparison.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Barely common ground, even.’ He scowled quickly, for no reason. Then asked, ‘You all right?’

Sid looked at her hands. They’d almost stopped shaking. She said, ‘There was this voice I kept hearing. In my head.’

‘That’s okay. We all get them.’

‘Shut up. It was … I thought of it as my bullet. The one I was shot with? It was like it talked to me.’

River pulled away, his eyes on the dark road ahead. ‘Okay,’ he said again.

‘Only it kind of drowned. When she was holding my head in the lake.’

Tt Tt Tt. Pp Pp Pp.

‘Not a peep since.’

Qq Qq Qq.

River drove on. The road had grown familiar again: the usual bends, the usual straights. The patch of trees ahead were squared off where they overhung the road, remodelled by the regular passing of a bus. ‘I’m not an expert. But maybe that’s what happens, maybe traumas … cancel each other out.’

‘Seriously? You’re not an expert?’

‘Yeah, shut up.’

‘Because that sounds like seven years of medical school talking.’

River said, ‘You sound fine. Maybe you should walk from here.’

She smiled, and looked down at her hands again. ‘Thanks. By the way.’

‘No need.’

‘She’d have killed me.’

‘I know. But you did pretty good yourself.’

Sid said, ‘I’m not sure good’s the word I’d use.’

‘You or him.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘And I don’t ever want it to be you again.’

He pulled aside to allow an oncoming car to pass, and they rounded another corner, and then were home.

Catherine said, ‘They’re alive, then.’

‘The night is young.’

Louisa said, ‘“Recyclables”? “Empties”?’

‘It seems our hit squad caught up with Romeo and Juliet, and wonder of wonders, came off second.’ Lamb shook his head. ‘Good job I’m not a gambling man. I’d have lost the house.’

‘And they’re both okay?’

‘’Spect so. What am I, NHS Direct?’

‘It’s over then,’ said Catherine.

‘Yeah, sure it is,’ said Lamb. ‘Someone sics a hunter-killer crew on me, I’m basically just happy to call it bygones.’

Roddy said, ‘I was hoping to see some of that action myself.’

They all stared, and Louisa said, ‘You do realise you said that out loud?’

Because there were no tables, the floor was a mess of foil trays and cardboard covers, plastic knives and forks. In place of the new-paint smell that had lingered like a not-yet-broken promise, the mingled aromas of baltis and bhajis, dhansaks and dhal had taken over, along with – because Shirley had fetched Lamb a plastic lighter – cigarette smoke. Catherine had retaliated by opening the window. Lamb had glared at her as if this were the first skirmish in what might turn out a prolonged war.

Louisa said, ‘And you know who this someone is?’

‘His proxy was a Dog called Tommo Doyle. But the man himself’s some kind of media playboy. Like a Bond villain, without the cool name.’

‘Which is …?’

‘Damien Cantor.’ He looked at Ho. ‘Box of tricks all powered up, is it?’

‘Always,’ said Roddy.

‘Except when it isn’t, you mean. Okay, go fetch me Damien Cantor.’

Roddy looked momentarily confused.

‘Information relating to him,’ Catherine explained.

‘And tell him to be quick about it,’ Lamb said.

But Roddy didn’t need that translated, and shuffled off to his laptop.

‘I’ve read about Cantor,’ Catherine said. ‘He’s the Channel Go man. Pegged as the new Branson.’

‘Haven’t we suffered enough?’

‘He wields a lot of influence.’

‘And tried to buy more by selling Slough House.’ Lamb found another cigarette. ‘So pardon me if I don’t rush to take out a subscription, or whatever you have to do to watch the fucking telly these days.’

‘Does Taverner know he sold us out?’ Louisa asked.

‘Yeah, but he’s currently got her bollocks in a mangle. And she hasn’t worked out what to do about that yet.’

Catherine said, ‘If Diana Taverner’s been compromised, she’s not fit for office.’

‘And if being compromised got you the sack, we’d have vacant desks from here to Number Ten,’ said Lamb. ‘Not that that’s a bad idea. But I barely have time for a quiet smoke, never mind cleaning the orgiastic stables.’ He adopted a martyred expression, lit his cigarette, and – presumably out of habit – threw the lighter over his shoulder. It disappeared through the open window. ‘So let’s deal with one bastard at a time, shall we?’

‘Oliver Nash is chair of Limitations,’ Catherine persisted. ‘We should talk to him.’

‘Nash is a bureaucrat. If I want my bins emptied, he’s who I’d trust to put the bin-emptying contract out to tender. But Taverner goes to the mats, which is what you want First Desk to do. And besides, we’ve had our moments.’

‘Didn’t she once try to have you killed?’

‘I didn’t say they were good moments.’

Looking up, Roddy Ho said, importantly, ‘Cantor lives in the Needle.’

Louisa, who had memories of the Needle, said ‘Lives there?’

‘It’s where his offices are. But he’s got an apartment too.’

‘It’s like having my own personal Yellow Pages,’ said Lamb. ‘Or, you know. Just Pages in his case.’

‘So what exactly do you have in mind?’ Catherine asked. ‘Bearding him in his den?’

‘Isn’t bearding when you marry the Earl of Wessex? He’d probably sooner I killed him.’

‘If you’re planning a murder, the rest of us are leaving. I mean it.’

‘And there’s that moral high ground you love.’ Lamb reached for the whisky Lech had furnished, which he had received with the grace of a minor royal being offered a turd. ‘Must be cold up there. Explains the late-onset frigidity. Does he have family?’

Ho said, ‘Married, two boys. But they live in Hove. He lives here, mostly.’

‘Sensible man. Well, I say sensible. But cutting deals with Russian intelligence? What’s he doing, running for office?’ He uncapped the bottle. ‘No, I plan to reach out to our Mr Cantor. Let him know he’s playing with the big boys.’ For a moment he studied the whisky’s label, frowning, as if troubled by the ordeal ahead. Then he tipped the bottle and poured a glassful into his waiting mouth.

That done, he said: ‘And as it happens, I’ve just the man for the job.’

11

CAREFUL EDITING MADE IT seem heroic: Desmond Flint, approaching the mob swarming Oxford Circus.

Police were massing on the approach roads, but focusing their attention on calming traffic, rather than crowd dispersal. Nor had there been violence, broken window aside. But there was noise and heat and movement; that mixture of anger and unwarranted triumph that can turn a pub quiz into a war zone. From a distance, it wasn’t clear where the lines had been drawn. A bus driver had opened his door to engage in what might have been debate, might have been an exchange of threats: it was hard to tell. But what was certain was that this was an interim stage, a balancing act; as in any other circus, a tightrope was being walked. And one slippery moment might bring the tent down.

So into the spotlight walked Desmond Flint. His first steps seemed hesitant, but something changed the nearer he drew, as if he appreciated that the next few moments would define him ever after. He’d never be mistaken for Gary Cooper – he was a man for whom ‘match ready’ meant a fridge full of beer and a new battery in the remote – but he walked taller the last twenty yards, his strides longer. He developed purpose.

There was speculation afterwards as to where he’d laid his hands on a megaphone – did he take one everywhere, just in case? – but he brushed the question aside, saying only ‘Someone put it in my hand,’ never adding who or when; never mentioning Peter Judd. And when the camera caught him raising it mouthwards, the resulting image became a photoshopped meme: Desmond Flint facing a tank in Tiananmen Square, planting his foot on the Moon, standing on a balcony in papal white. You all know me – it’s Flinty.

As Judd remarked later, ‘History has an open-door policy. Any fool can walk right in.’

Flint’s appeal to the crowd appeared in several British newspapers the following day, though the punctuation differed in each.

‘You all know me – it’s Flinty. And I’m proud to be standing here wearing the same vest as the rest of you. The vest of the British worker, us who dug these very roads, built these very buildings all around you. The heart of London, this is – the heart of what used to be a great and proud empire. And I know why you’re angry, why you feel like kicking off. I do too. I do too. Because that birthright, that word “Great” that comes before Britain, we’ve seen it trampled in the dirt, haven’t we? We’ve been lied to and talked down to for years. And I’m as angry about that as you are, trust me. Because I’m one of you, and you all know that. We’ve stood shoulder to shoulder, we’ve drunk from the same flasks of tea. Nights like this, and worse nights too – nights when it was cold and wet, and it was only our knowledge, only the knowledge that we were doing the right thing, kept us out here, making sure our voices would be heard. Heard all the way down the road there, at the BBC – which ought to be ashamed of itself, pretending to speak for Britain – and all the way in the other direction too, in Westminster, where the fat cats spend their days with their noses in the cream. And we’re going to keep doing that, brothers. Yes, and sisters too. We’re going to keep doing that, and the day is coming when they’ll stop pretending to listen and actually open their bloody ears. And when that happens, I’ll be the one letting them know what we’re demanding. And you trust me to do that, don’t you? You trust me to see you right!’

In the pause he allowed here, a heartbeat’s silence filled the streets before the response arrived: a muttering that grew to a roar, accompanied by the stamping of feet, and the slapping of hands on the sides of cars and buses. Up the road, leaning against his taxi, Peter Judd nodded, appreciating the timing. You couldn’t call it oratory. But it was getting the job done.

‘Thank you. Thank you. I can’t tell you what it means to me, to know I’ve got your support in the battles that lie ahead. Because that’s what’s important. But right now, right this moment, what I want you to do is call it a night. I want you to call it off now, this legal gathering of like-minded citizens, and go back to your homes. I’ve been assured you’ll be allowed to leave peacefully, just as I’ve been assured that the police will be looking very carefully for those saboteurs, those victorious agents of provocation, who came here tonight to deliberately cause misrule. Not our people. Not our message. These people are the enemy, and they came here to make it seem as if we were the violent ones, that our protest is violent. Which it isn’t. It isn’t. We only want to have our voices heard. But for now, for right now, we need to make it clear that it’s us who’s the victims here, us who’s seeking justice. And we won’t allow our movement to be sullied, tarnished, by the enemy within.’

The unknown ‘victorious agents of provocation’ were another cause of speculation in the press, and the assurances Flint spoke of were as mysteriously sourced as his megaphone. But by the time the questions were asked, the answers had lost relevance. Once you have them by the headlines, as Judd had been known to observe, their dicks will surely follow.

‘That’s right. Just pack it away, now. It’s been a good evening’s work, because we’ve shown we won’t be treated like dirt, and we’ve shown how calm we can be when we’re provoked. So we can hold our heads high now, and we’ll be back, won’t we? We’re all coming back. Thank you. God bless. God bless.’

Channelling a televangelist for some reason, but it didn’t matter: the rousing cheer it produced put a seal on events. The crowd began to disperse. A few vests paused to nod to Flinty, or clap him on the back, but nobody tarried long. That would have been to tempt fate; to take what felt like victory and hold it to the light. Some things are best not examined closely.

Though there were several TV crews in place by this time – and dozens of phones had captured Flint’s address – only Channel Go had been there for the moment that started the disturbance, the breaking of the window. But although that small piece of action featured prominently in the channel’s coverage, at no point did the camera get a clear view of the troublemaker’s face.

And while the red sweater was recovered from a bin once the crowd had dispersed, its wearer was never found.

The two cars arrived at the O.B.’s at much the same moment, River having just put his complaining vehicle out of its misery as Lech’s headlights peeped round the curve in the opposite direction, sculpting a long green shape from the darkness. Sid gripped his elbow. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, recognising Louisa’s car, and only mildly perturbed when he saw that it contained Lech and Shirley. ‘They’re with me.’

The four converged on the lane, and River, conscious that he and Sid were both wet and damaged, made brief introductions.

Shirley said, ‘So you’re the dead chick.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No, I meant it in a good way.’

Sid looked at River. ‘Slough House hasn’t changed, then.’

‘Not so you’d notice.’

Lech said, ‘Maybe we should take this inside? I’m presuming that’s your house?’

Mine, yes, thought River. It had taken a while, but felt true now: this was his house. He led them round the back, shuffling broken glass aside with his foot as he held the door. Lech, he saw, was carrying a mobile. ‘I thought we’d gone dark.’

‘Situation’s fluid. You know there’s a GRU team out there?’

‘We noticed.’

They went into the study, Sid automatically heading for the O.B.’s chair. She snapped the standard lamp on, and the room adopted a soft yellow sheen, a cosiness that felt unreal after the evening’s events. As if they’d reassembled on a stage, having murdered the supporting cast in the wings. River, standing by Sid, noticed she smelled of lake water. He must do too.

Lech said, ‘You’ve been swimming? Or mud wrestling?’

Sid said, ‘They found us. Found me.’

‘Okay …’

‘And they’re no longer a problem,’ said River.

‘Hey, cool,’ said Shirley.

Lech raised an eyebrow.

‘You think we’re kidding?’

‘I’m just getting to grips,’ Lech said. ‘I’m an analyst, not a field agent.’

Shirley had found the melted gun. ‘Did this just happen? Or is it one you prepared earlier?’

River took it from her and put it on its shelf. ‘They came after us. And they’re both dead. In a car. Back the way we came from.’

‘They died in a car?’

‘They’re dead in a car,’ River clarified.

Something in his tone dissuaded even Shirley from seeking details.

‘So what happens now?’ Lech asked.

River could feel his body complaining: new-born bruises waking up. Stretched muscles, thudding aches. He’d held the woman’s head under water until she’d ceased to be. That was something he’d have to live with, and he guessed he was up to the task: she’d come to kill him, Sid too. It was the very definition of self-defence. So yes, give it time, he’d climb over that memory, but here and now he could feel the aches and pains of their struggle, and all he wanted was sleep. On one level, he was grateful to Shirley and Lech for coming; grateful even to Lamb for sending them. On another, he wanted everyone except Sid to fuck off and leave him alone.

But what he said was, ‘We’d better collect that car. Before anyone finds it.’

In the dimly lit room, Lech’s facial scarring looked like ten o’clock shadow. ‘Collect it and then what?’

For a moment River thought about pushing it into the lake, letting it settle among the weeds. A movie-solution, which in real life would end in a half-submerged fiasco, a crowd of onlookers, and everybody wet. ‘Bring it back here,’ he said. ‘Once we’ve gone light again, the cleaners can take it away.’

The best kind of problem was one that highly trained specialists would turn up and deal with.

‘I’ll drive,’ Shirley said.

‘You’re still drunk,’ said Lech.

She made a so-what? face, but he wasn’t looking, so she turned to River. ‘How messy are they?’

Instead of answering, River took Sid’s hand. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

‘I’ll wait here.’

A glimpse of the old Sid showing through, he thought.

Shirley said, ‘And what am I supposed to do?’

‘There’s a kettle, there are tea bags,’ River assured her. ‘You’ll think of something.’ He let go of Sid’s hand, and he and Lech went outside. He was cold; could usefully have changed into dry clothing, if he’d had any. Brief, vivid snapshots of the struggle by the lake kept bursting into mind. He flinched involuntarily, and to cover up asked, ‘What happened back in town?’

There was a pause long enough that River figured he wasn’t the only one who’d had an interesting evening. Then Lech said, ‘Lamb had a showdown with Taverner. Now we’re safe-housed.’

‘Everyone all right?’

‘We left them eating an Indian takeaway.’

‘Did you keep the receipt?’

‘Gave it to Lamb,’ said Lech. ‘Why?’

‘No reason,’ said River, deciding this wasn’t the time to explain that expenses claims filed through Lamb were a lost cause.

The drive felt shorter this time, though Lech wasn’t approaching the mad speeds River had reached. Several times, they had to pull into the side to allow an oncoming car to pass. He’d got lucky, River thought, on his earlier journey. Just the one near-collision. And only two assassins. Could have been worse, which it was about to be. Because as Lech turned into the parking space among the trees, his headlights caught movement: there were now three other vehicles there; two in the far corner, and one beside the car containing the bodies. Around it, three shapes had gathered.

‘Oh shit,’ said River, and remembered the hide. ‘Birdwatchers?’

‘Uh, not exactly,’ Lech said. ‘I think they’re dogging.’

I’ve just the man for the job, Lamb had said, so Louisa was heading into the underground again, alongside drinkers and filmgoers, the theatre crowd, late-shift retailers, and those with cleaning and maintenance jobs, heading from one place of work to the next. You could always tell day from night on the Tube, she thought. Lighting was constant, temperature didn’t much vary. But you could always tell day from night.

Roderick Ho was with her, not because she needed back-up, but because Lamb wanted rid of him.

Waiting, she scanned ads for banks, for estate agencies, for online services. Credit was available, at rates set by Satan. She thought of Lamb’s face on the phone to River; that pause when River told him the hit team was dead. No details, but River had no gun, and improvisation was messy. Meanwhile, people went to and from work, and stopped out late for a drink, and sank deeper into debt. She had a foot in both worlds: owned her own flat, drove her own car, had shot a few people. But she never had money over at the end of the month, her pension forecast wasn’t rosy, her team had gone dark, there were bodies somewhere, and Lamb had a plan up his sleeve.

A train was approaching. She glanced at Roderick Ho, engrossed in an ad for bathroom fittings, which featured, inevitably, a barely clad female. He’d answered no when Catherine asked who remembered Kay White, who remembered Struan Loy, but Louisa would bet he remembered Sid Baker. Sid had been smart, and while that wasn’t likely to figure among Ho’s priorities, she’d been a looker too, and that ticked his box. Roddy was a looker himself, but only in the active sense: when a woman wandered into view, he looked. Sometimes, she’d noticed, his lips moved, as if he were adding a silent voice-over. In some ways she’d like to hear that, but in many more ways wouldn’t. What happened inside Roderick Ho’s head was best kept secret, like a nuclear launch code, or the PM’s browsing history.

The train stopped, and as they boarded Louisa said, ‘Probably best if we don’t sit together.’ With a quick movement of her head, she indicated the other travellers. ‘You never know.’

Roddy nodded wisely. He’d been going to suggest the same thing. They didn’t call it the underground for nothing. Well, it was under the ground, but even so: exactly the territory you’d find the opposition lurking. You had to be sharp to spot a pro, mind. Case in point, Roddy himself: black hoodie, black jeans – classic, but blended in. Edgy undercurrent, because you couldn’t switch that off, but it wasn’t like he was making it obvious; not like he was sporting a branded baseball cap … There was a poster on a council building near his home, something about fostering children. ‘Not all superheroes wear capes,’ it read. Well duh, thought Roddy. Spider-Man? Captain America? Sheesh. Who writes this stuff? But anyway, yeah, there was an underlying truth there: you didn’t have to dress the role, you just had to play the part. Always be alert, that was the key. Always bring your A-game. Like earlier, when he’d lured that tail into Lamb’s trap – they’d only got this far because he’d done that. The Rodster on all cylinders as usual, ensuring Lamb got the outcome he needed, and now working the underground with the same silent dedication: never a moment’s downtime. Dude has no off button, they probably said about him. Dude is like permanent. Though now he thought about it, a branded baseball cap might be cool. There was a place near him, they did T-shirts and stuff, he could probably get them to slap a slogan on some headgear. Spook at work. Little private joke, because everyone would assume he was wearing it to win cool points, never realising that beneath the outward flair lay constant vigilance.

Someone was kicking his foot. ‘Hey!’

‘… Huh?’

‘It’s our stop.’

Up the stairs and out of the station. It was full-on dark, and the streets had fallen into alternative ownership, those who were deferential by daylight having less reason to play meek now, given that any civilians still abroad had either spared all the change they were likely to, or long since grown blind to those asking. A few middle-aged men in yellow vests passed, discussing the events of their evening, the name Flinty featuring largely. Soon Louisa and Roddy were off the main drag, most of whose restaurants had perspex canopies sheltering pavement tables, and into the back streets, whose terraces were a mixture of shared-residential and business premises, the latter with posters pasted on their doors: made-to-measure tailoring. Gold bought. Cleaning services. A shop window displayed a collage of property cards: flats and houses to let. The next door along was the one they were after.

‘What was his name?’ Ho asked.

‘Just ring the bell,’ she told him.

Late to be a social call, which meant he might be out, might be in bed, but he was neither; was coming down the stairs, she could hear his tread. And remembered how Lamb had described him, so wasn’t fazed when he opened the door and looked up at them.

‘You’re Reece Nesmith?’ she asked.

‘Who are you?’

‘I think you’ve met our boss,’ she said. ‘Can we come in?’

‘So. How does it look from here?’

‘Here’ was a hotel hard by the BBC, one Peter Judd favoured for its bar, fifteen floors up. Its views of London suited him, especially after dark, when they revealed the city as gleaming clusters of power and influence; a collection of properties arrayed for the delight of those with the altitude to appreciate them. Which he was now doing, large brandy in hand.

Desmond Flint gave the question some thought. ‘It looks … expensive.’

Judd laughed. ‘You’ve got that right.’

‘Out of the reach of the ordina—’

‘Oh, please.’ With a hand on the other man’s shoulder, he encouraged him into an armchair. ‘Those who’ve settled for ordinary have only themselves to blame. And anything expensive can be bought and sold. Like the man said, we’ve established what you are, we’re simply haggling over the price. Which brings us rather neatly to tonight’s events.’ Judd sat in the facing armchair, London to his left. ‘So. How was it for you?’

Flint looked around again before answering. If he didn’t feel at home yet, he was starting to relax. Presumably the brandy helped. He said, ‘It felt … different.’

‘In what way?’

‘Just different.’

‘I see. Let me explain. You’ve been used to telling those people to do what they already want to do. And you’ve proved good at that, but it’s a bit like pitching in baseball. All you had to do was chuck the ball. Tonight you had to dissuade them from doing something they’d clearly have enjoyed. That’s more like bowling in cricket. It requires skill and ability. So yes, it felt different. Because you were wielding actual power, rather than simply pointing which way the wind was blowing.’

‘So what you’re saying, they might have just ignored me.’

‘That was always a possibility.’

‘And what would have happened then?’

‘To you? To me? Or to all the lovely plate glass on Oxford Street?’

Flint waited.

Judd sipped his brandy, nodded in approval, and said, ‘If they’d ignored you, I’d be enjoying a much livelier view right now, that’s for sure. As for the rest, I imagine you’d be in the back of a van, a lot of windows would be no more, and whatever credibility you’ve amassed in the eyes of the public would be similarly in pieces, and impossible to put back together again. That enough detail for you?’

‘You bastard.’

Judd looked modest.

‘They’d not have got out of hand if you’d not put someone up to it.’

‘Oh, come on. Left to themselves, they’d have cooked and eaten each other. It’s one thing to play the sentimental card for an audience, Desmond, but don’t wave the dignity-of-the-working-man flag with me. There’s never been a working man who wouldn’t bury his shovel in his neighbour’s head for a free pint of beer and a fuck. So yes, I applied a little petrol to the flames, but that was a matter of scheduling rather than outright interference. And as of tonight your stock’s in the ascendant, so let’s not worry about what might have been. And listen, because this is important, you’re not holding your glass correctly. Cup it like this, in your hand. See? Warms the brandy. You want it blood temperature.’

Desmond Flint adjusted his hold on his brandy glass, and said, ‘How does that mean, my stock’s in the ascendance?’

‘Ascendant. It means the newspapers will be queuing up. Question Time is already in the bag, I imagine. They’re awful star fuckers at the Beeb, don’t you find? All of which puts us in the right place to take the next step. And look for the right ring to throw your hat into.’

‘You’re talking about standing for election?’

‘That I am.’

Flint was shaking his head. ‘I’m not one for elections. Nor are my supporters. The reason we’ve taken our argument onto the streets is because we’ve lost faith with politicians. Broken Britain starts at the top, any fool can see that. Parliament’s a busted flush.’

‘Ah yes, your supporters. They’ve got you this far, which is nice of them, but you’ll soon find you won’t need their approval quite so much. Obviously you’ll want to stay true to your roots and all that, but the only way to climb the beanstalk’s by looking up. And that means appealing to those who until now have seen you as beneath their notice. And that kind of approval comes, in the first instance, at the ballot box.’

‘But I’ve said—’

‘And I’ve listened to your objection, given it due consideration, and filed it under I for ignore. How are you liking the brandy?’

‘I’m— It’s fine. It’s fine.’

‘Good answer. It is fine. It’s not magnificent.’ Judd paused to confirm his judgement, rolling the liquor round his mouth before swallowing. ‘Not magnificent. Now, I said election, you immediately jumped to Parliament. I was actually thinking of the mayoralty.’ He paused again. ‘That means mayor,’ he continued.

‘Of London?’

Judd emitted an involuntary snort of laughter. ‘Ha! Good one! … Oh, you were being serious. Well then, yes, London. London mayor. A big, ah, ask, but we have two years to prepare, which is more than Shaw gave Higgins, so we shouldn’t be too downhearted.’

The blank look this provoked might have disheartened a less confident man, but Judd simply smiled and raised his glass. ‘Two years,’ he said again, and held the pose until Flint joined in the toast.

Later, after Flint had left, Judd ordered a second brandy and applied himself to the view once more. He’d suggested that this would be livelier had Flint’s appeal to the mob gone unheeded, but in truth, a few statue-topplers apart, he doubted a British mob’s ability to vent its rage properly. There’d have been smashed glass and torched cars – a few broken heads, a few cracked ribs – but it would have soon dissipated in an orgy of petty theft. Looting was the British mob’s default mode, and what began in principled outrage would inevitably end with high street showrooms ransacked. Actually, Judd approved. Depend on the British character – be generous, and call it human nature – to back away from revolution in favour of a flatscreen TV or two: instead of aristocrats lined up against a wall, you had magistrates working overtime for a few weeks, some hand-wringing columns in the broadsheets, and then it was back to counting down the shopping days to Christmas. But still, times were changing. Not so long ago, the notion of a Desmond Flint even standing for London mayor, let alone being in with a shout, would have brought the average Islington dinner party to climactic levels of self-congratulatory derision; but now, when the time came to announce his candidacy, you’d hear the foreboding the length and breadth of the liberal left. The status quo had been shattered, whether through greed, idealism, malice, or sheer stupid incompetence hardly mattered any more, and while the formerly complacent were still weeping over their losses, there were opportunities galore awaiting those prepared to rejig the shards.

‘Here’s to rejigging,’ he murmured to himself, raising his glass to his lips. It wasn’t magnificent, was merely fine, but it was early days yet.

Dogging. River didn’t know much about it, except that it happened: people watching strangers having sex in parked cars. There might be more to it, but you’d have to have taken part, or known people who had, to grasp the fine detail, and no one he knew had ever indulged. Or if they had, it had never come up.

‘Which one’s the car?’ Lech asked.

River pointed, and Lech pulled up a few yards parallel, causing those gathered in the parking area to stir, attention snagging on this new arrival the way movement attracts zombies. Most were huddled in the far corner, where a car rocked in response to internal activity. The group round the body car – Jane in the boot, Jim in the back seat – were two men and a woman, each in outdoor gear. Just popping out for a walk, dear, River imagined them saying. Just heading down to the bird hide.

Unsurprisingly, there was little sign of internal activity in this vehicle, but the trio seemed entranced regardless.

Killing the engine, Lech said, ‘You’re a mess.’

‘Style tips welcome. But maybe later?’

‘Don’t be an arsehole. I meant, let me do the talking.’

He got out, and River followed.

It was dark, and the ground pitted and rough. One of the men had a torch, but held it down, so it acted as ambient glow, not floodlight. He had his back to Lech and River, but turned as they approached. The other two, a man and a woman, were standing on the other side. They might have been a couple.

Lech said to the lone man, ‘Anything good?’

The three exchanged glances, then looked away. There was an etiquette, River supposed. Small talk not encouraged. He felt wary about getting close, his hair dirty, his face banged about – people who looked like they’d walked into trouble looked like they’d walk into more – but they didn’t much bother with him. It was Lech they focused on, all three backing away as Lech bent and peered through the car window. After a moment, River did the same.

Jim’s body was as he and Sid had left it: prone in the gap between front seats and back. A dark lump showing white at the hands and face; the latter stained perhaps, or just in shadow. River was trying to see this as a stranger might – a passing citizen, your friendly neighbourhood sex aficionado – but Jim seemed pretty dead however you looked at it.

The woman spoke softly. ‘We were wondering. Just … Should we call someone?’

‘Anonymously,’ one of the men offered. ‘We could just … leave. And call it in.’

Lech stepped back. ‘He’s corpsing,’ he said. ‘You’ve never seen it before?’

‘… “Corpsing”?’

‘Sometimes called deading. It’s what it sounds like.’ He’d adopted the patient tone you’d need when talking to an infant. ‘You lie still as you can, hardly breathing. Sometimes you fake a wound.’

‘I can see blood.’

‘There you go.’

‘But I mean, he actually looks dead.’

‘Yeah, he’s a good one.’ To River’s ear, Lech sounded expert. Let me do the talking. Fine by me.

‘How long does he stay like that?’

‘Long as it takes,’ said Lech.

‘I’m not sure,’ the first man said again. ‘I still think we should make a call.’

‘Yeah, that’ll go down well. Because either he’s dead, and you three have been staring at his body for however long it’s been. Or he isn’t, and all’ll happen is you’ve fucked up everyone’s evening.’

‘There’s no call for language.’

There was shuffling, some shared wordless worry.

Peering through the window again, Lech said, ‘Look, if you’re too vanilla, that’s fine. But we’ve come a long way, so if you don’t mind.’

They fell quiet, and clustered round the car. River was counting his heartbeats: eight nine ten. Faster than they ought to be. He wondered if anyone could hear, then thought: yeah, well. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen, your heart beating faster? In the circumstances?

He heard a zipper being undone.

After another twenty seconds, one of the men said, ‘This is doing nothing for me.’

Lech, sounding gruff, said, ‘There’s activity in the corner over there. Maybe more your thing.’

Glances were shared.

The woman said, ‘I’m a bit of a traditionalist.’

Lech shrugged. ‘Takes all sorts.’

‘So I’ll just …’

She backed away, then turned and walked towards the group in the far corner.

‘Yeah, think I’ll join her,’ the first man said.

The second man moved away moments later, but stopped and looked back. ‘He’s pretty convincing. I’ll give him that.’

Then River and Lech were alone.

‘Nice work,’ River said at last.

‘I’m going to need to disinfect my head.’

‘Was that you, by the way? With the zip?’

‘Worked, didn’t it?’

‘Because I can give you a moment if you—’

‘Fuck off. Got the keys?’

River had the keys.

‘So get in and drive away.’

River got into the dead man’s car while Lech returned to the one they’d arrived in.

Some of those congregated in the far corner watched as they left, but most had other things on their mind.

12

THERE WERE CRIMES, THERE were high crimes, there were treasonous acts, and there was the downright unforgivable.

‘When I find out who stole my lighter,’ Lamb said, ‘there will be consequences.’

The early light of Chelsea had crept along the lane, crawled up the safe house’s walls and drainpipes, and was now checking out its uncurtained rooms, filtering through the takeaway smells and overnight odours. The only company it found was in the front room: a muted gathering. Louisa occupied a corner where she sat cross-legged, a half-arsed yoga position, the notion of which – half-arsed yoga – was projecting crazy images onto her tired brain, while Catherine, next to her, might have been kneeling: her long dress made it hard to tell. Whatever, her expression was calm and unruffled. There are times when recovering addicts achieve levels of serenity denied the rest of us, thought Louisa. The bastards. As for Roderick Ho, he’d been dispatched to find another lighter, or matches, or anything capable of producing flame, which would save Lamb the trouble of having to travel all the way into the kitchen to light a cigarette from the hob, and the rest of them the pain of having to hear about it.

In the circumstances, she thought, Reece Nesmith III was handling himself pretty well. Especially given the greeting Lamb had offered, its tone suggesting that Reece were the principal cause of inconvenience rather than its current object.

‘Well, if it isn’t the incredible shrunken man.’

Reece glared. Back in his own place he’d seemed vulnerable, viewing Louisa and Ho as if they were the vanguard of a hooligan brigade. Dropping Lamb’s name had changed his attitude: if he hadn’t been keen on renewing that acquaintance, he’d evidently wanted to hear what Lamb had to say. Enough, anyway, to boot up, adding an inch and a half, and wrap himself inside a donkey jacket. On the Tube, whose passengers now included Yellow Vests heading home from Oxford Circus, it was as if he’d acquired an extra layer, one which hostile looks and muttered cruelties bounced off, the same way friendly glances did. You’d need it, Louisa thought. You’d need that invisible shield.

‘So I’m here,’ he said to Lamb. ‘What do you want?’

‘Nah, I’ll wait till everyone’s back. Save me the bother of explaining things to two sets of idiots.’

‘So I just hang about until you’re ready to talk?’

Lamb beamed. ‘There. And they say midgets are slow on the uptake.’ He regarded the unlit cigarette in his fist. ‘Where the hell has Double-Ho Nothing got to?’

‘Please don’t let him hear you call him that,’ Catherine said.

‘You think I’ll hurt his feelings?’

‘I think he’ll think you mean it.’

Reece said, ‘It’s like I’ve wandered into a circus.’

‘Glad you feel at home,’ Lamb said. ‘Who’s this?’

The others tensed, but it was a full six seconds before they heard a rapping on the door. Catherine made to get up but Louisa beat her to it. It was Lech Wicinski and Shirley Dander, the latter looking rough and sleep-tousled, as if she’d grabbed some kip in the car, and been sandbagged by a hangover on arrival. Lech, though: it was hard to tell about Lech. It occurred to Louisa that having grown himself a hedge, he was learning how to hide behind it.

‘How’s River?’ she asked as she followed them into the sitting room. And then, a beat behind, ‘And Sid?’

‘Bit bedraggled. All right, though.’ Louisa waited for more, but Lech shrugged. ‘He was fine. I barely met her. Shirley spent some time.’

Shirley said, ‘She didn’t remember much about it. Being shot in the head, I mean. But she’s got a groove there.’ She indicated on her own head where it was. ‘Sort of cool, actually.’

‘And they’re not hurt?’

‘Well, they’d obviously been in a fight. But so were we earlier.’ She nodded at Lech. ‘And we got no sympathy.’

‘You beat up a stranger,’ Louisa said. ‘It’s not really the same thing.’

‘He wasn’t entirely a stranger. Lech had already met him.’

Lamb said, ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s wanton acts of violence. Why aren’t that pair with you?’

‘They’re not ready to come back.’

‘“Not ready”? If I’d known I was arranging a minibreak, I’d have charged a commission. What did you do with the empties?’

This was for Lech, who said, ‘Left them in their car, at Cartwright’s house. I assume it’s secure.’

‘Why not call the Park?’ said Shirley, still looking mutinous, and fidgeting with something. ‘Isn’t cleaning away bodies their job?’

Catherine said, ‘You’re aware we have a civilian in the room?’

‘I wouldn’t worry,’ said Lamb. ‘This is going way over his head.’

‘… Does the term “punching down” mean anything to you?’

‘Be reasonable. If I punched up, I’d miss him by a mile.’

Reece said, ‘Can we move on to fat jokes now?’

Lamb looked hurt. ‘There’s no need to get personal.’

Lech said to Reece, ‘We haven’t been introduced. Lech Wicinski,’ at the same time as Shirley asked him, ‘Are you a new recruit? Because you’d fit right in.’

‘That’s not a real challenge,’ Lamb said. ‘And if you’re finished with the small talk, could we get on point?’ He paused. ‘Small talk? Anyone?’

Catherine shook her head wearily, and tried again. ‘Should we really be discussing this in front of Mr Nesmith?’

‘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.

He got up, stretched, poured another cup, then spent a moment gazing at the city: its skyline a tourist magnet, its weather a systems glitch. But Jesus, the money pouring through it, day after day. Even on the domestic level. This apartment, forty floors up – the perfect bachelor pad, though he never let his wife hear him call it that – the maintenance charge alone would cripple a prince. But it was worth it for this view, which wasn’t just what you could see, it was knowing how few shared it. Sure, there was a viewing platform, but that was just to show people what they didn’t have. There was a sense in which this encouraged them to dream huge dreams, but there was another much bigger sense in which it told them to fuck off. Cantor approved of a system which had allowed him to get rich, but he also believed in pulling the ladder up afterwards. If everyone succeeded, nobody did. Anything else was basically communism.

His phone rang, intruding on philosophy.

It was lobby security, the morning guy – Clyde or Claude or something – and was he expecting a visitor? Claude or Clyde looked like a prop forward for Western Samoa, and hadn’t sat an IQ test to get the job, but seriously: it was seven o’fucking clock in the morning. He’d have to be having a Viagra-induced emergency to be expecting a visitor.

‘Did they give a name?’

‘Sir, he says he’s from …’

Muffled dialogue took place.

‘Sir, he says he’s from a Diana Taverner?’

Okay, thought Cantor. That’ll add flavour to an already spicy morning. ‘Thank you, Clyde. Send him up.’

‘It’s Clifton, sir.’

‘Yeah. Send him up. The flat, not the studio.’

The lifts were fast, but not that fast. Cantor had time to finish his coffee before his visitor arrived.

There’s a sense in which any leader in a field feels closer to her opposite number than to her immediate colleagues. There’s another, more important sense in which she wants to mince that opposite number into bite-sized chunks and strew them in the path of hungry beasts, but still: talking to Vassily Rasnokov, Diana Taverner couldn’t help but feel that there was a level on which they understood each other better than anyone else. Rather like her relationship with Jackson Lamb might be, if she and Lamb were on opposing sides. So, rather like her relationship with Jackson Lamb. Though she and Lamb had yet to reach the point where they were counting each other’s dead.

‘You’ve put a team across our borders, Vassily.’

‘A “team”?’

‘Again.’

‘We allow freedom of movement to our citizens, Diana. Surely you remember what that was like? And there are many beautiful things to see in your country. All those church spires. Who could blame anyone for wanting to spend their leisure time visiting your fabled attractions?’

‘Please. They’ve not been admiring our architecture, they’ve been painting our walls.’

‘I’m not familiar with the expression.’

Like hell he wasn’t.

Diana was on the roof. The phone wasn’t a burner, exactly, but it was one she only used for calling Rasnokov – current First Desk at the GRU – and she never did that in her office. Around her, below her, the city was making those incoherent early morning noises, sometimes ascribed to traffic and the raising of metal shutters, which meant it hadn’t yet decided what day-face to wear; the happy, sunny, get-things-done one, or the grubby, sullen, no-eye-contact glower.

She knew how it felt.

Rasnokov said, ‘We also are concerned about a regrettable murder within our borders. A young woman, a secretary with the GRU, was killed right here on the streets of her own city.’

‘A secretary,’ said Diana. ‘Is that right?’

‘I’m sorry, do I have that idiom correctly? You are asking for clarification?’

‘No. I understand.’

‘I’m pleased to hear that. She was apparently the victim of street crime, which raised suspicion among the investigators, as this is much rarer here than in your West. Much, much rarer. So they examined the case closely, and came to the conclusion that this murder was carried out by foreigners. Foreign … mercenaries? I think there’s a more accurate term.’

‘Hitmen.’

‘Yes, thank you. Foreign hitmen. You can imagine the distress. To have a citizen cut down by foreign criminals, professional assassins. Our president was most concerned that such activities should not go unchecked.’

‘And was he reminded that the action was not unprovoked?’

‘The president remained focused on the details. A grave insult had been paid to an arm of our national security. Such insults must receive the appropriate response.’

‘Which is where we came in. That incident was itself a measured and appropriate response to an outrageous act. You damn well know that.’

Rasnokov did not reply. Diana filled the gap by walking to the edge of the building and looking down. She liked to think she had a head for heights, but there was something about watching people far below, people who imagined themselves unobserved, that provoked dizziness.

She stepped back.

‘And to continue along this path, this repeated exchange of appropriate responses … Where’s that going to lead, do you think? Anywhere good?’

The silence continued.

It was going to be a long day. The boys and girls on the hub had been at it all night, combing through CCTV, ANPR, whatever they could squeeze from GCHQ, but the team responsible for dropping Kay White off a ladder, burning up Struan Loy, and frightening Sidonie Baker into the shadows had vanished from sight. The last time a pair of the GRU’s worst and wildest had broached UK borders, they’d arrived bearing sequentially numbered passports. That might have looked like a schoolboy error, but felt, in hindsight, like a two-fingered salute. The current model had been less openly abrasive, and, murders apart, hadn’t left a footprint. Or not one the hub had yet identified.

Rasnokov spoke at last. ‘We have no listening ears?’

‘None this side, Vassily.’

He hesitated again. ‘It is perhaps fair to say that the decision to … How can I put this? The decision to visit your marvellous cathedral was taken over my head. And might better have been left untaken.’

That he was saying this surprised her, but not its import. Rasnokov was as capable of brutal thuggery as the next man, but he’d never struck her as mad. And the original attack had been set in motion by a madman.

She said, ‘And you can’t have expected us to leave it at that, Vassily. We’ve already spoken of how such actions amount to insults.’

‘There was speculation that your Service lacked the necessary resources to indulge in such an extravagant response.’

‘Then your speculations are out of date, aren’t they? We’re not as strapped for cash as you imagine.’

‘“Strapped for cash”?’

‘Short of money.’

‘Ah, yes. “Strapped for cash.” I like that.’

‘Happy to help. So what about your current … tourists? Were they also wished on you from on high?’

She took his silence for assent.

It was going to be a long day, yes, but there was a glimmer of hope here. If she could tie a ribbon round the GRU hit team, she’d be able to focus on her other problems. Making truce would mean allowing the Russians to walk away, of course, but this wouldn’t be a public humiliation: the unnewsworthy deaths of a few former spooks hadn’t created the waves that the murder of a citizen had. Nobody missed a slow horse.

Jackson Lamb aside, that was. But she could deal with him later.

Rasnokov said, ‘Our current tourists. It might be fair to say that in this day and age, a time of environmental concerns, such holiday-making is uncalled for. The costs to the planet are too high. It might have been better had they too stayed at home.’

She took a breath. ‘So call them back.’

‘That would be one solution. Though I worry that their passage home might not be a smooth one. So many hold-ups occur these days. Major inconveniences.’

‘Things aren’t as bad as they were. You might find that their journey is untroubled.’

‘That would put everyone’s mind at rest. But I have to ask, what sort of premium would be charged for such a guarantee?’

It was good of him to offer, and saved her raising the question herself.

She said, ‘Well, Vassily, I always find it interesting to look at other people’s holiday snaps, don’t you? I wonder if you have any to share?’

Cantor said, ‘No way.’

He waited.

‘No way are you a spook.’

Reece Nesmith III said, ‘I never said I was.’

Cantor’s apartment looked like a movie set: the furniture matched; the bookshelves were colour-coded; artworks occupied shelves, and the kitchen area featured a marble countertop big enough to skate on. But mostly there was the view. London was huge, and from here you could see all of it: its towers and bridges, its ups and downs, its pains and its profits. You could see London’s edges from here. You could see where London ended.

And in a movie, Reece thought, this would be the lair of a villain who might be able to arrange just that.

And now Cantor was clicking his fingers, retrieving a memory. ‘But I know you. I do know you. You were hassling Bud.’

This was true. Bud Feathernet was the Channel Go news anchor, whom Reece had tracked via Twitter to a restaurant, and badgered in a booth; he’d told him about Andrey, how Andy had been murdered on the orders of Russia’s president. If that wasn’t a headline, what was? But there was a chasm Reece was unable to throw his story across. Andy had been the kind of journalist who ended up dead. Feathernet was the kind who’d end up hosting a chat show. And on the evening in question, he was the kind who’d had Reece thrown out of a restaurant.

‘He mentioned it at morning briefing. Some freak kicking off while he was trying to have dinner. Not the way to win friends and influence people.’

‘He wouldn’t listen.’

‘Course he wouldn’t. Look, if your boyfriend hadn’t been Russian, we might have had a story. And if he’d been your girlfriend. But frankly, my viewers wouldn’t give a shit. You’re an American, you’re gay, you’re a dwarf. Put it on YouTube.’ Cantor was on his feet, playing the height advantage for all it was worth. ‘Now, you told Claude you have a message from Diana Taverner.’

‘I think his name was Clifton.’

‘Yeah, because that’s what’s important, that we get the names of the staff right. That was a lie to get you in, I see that. And the only reason I haven’t kicked you back downstairs is, I want to know how you knew which name to drop. So talk.’

Reece said, ‘I’m not from Taverner. But I do have a message.’

He was getting into this. He’d spent weeks hammering on doors that wouldn’t open, telling his story to people who wouldn’t listen. The most attention he’d had was from Jackson Lamb, and even he hadn’t cared. People die. You should get used to that. But suddenly something was happening. He’d been handed a lever and told to pull it. It wouldn’t bring Andrey back, but would hurt those responsible for his death. That’s what Lamb had said, anyway.

‘He’s not going to be frightened of me,’ Reece had said.

‘No,’ Lamb agreed. ‘I mean, he might worry about tripping over you. But you’re hardly gunna have him quivering in his socks.’

‘So what am I supposed to be doing?’

‘Softening him up,’ Lamb had said.

‘What message?’ Cantor asked.

Reece said, ‘You had your man steal information from Regent’s Park. About a particular department of the Service. And you passed that information to Russian intelligence.’

‘Russian intelligence? Get out of here.’

‘Well, you probably pretended you didn’t know that’s who they were. But you certainly knew, when you handed the information over, where it would end up.’

‘Just supposing you weren’t talking nonsense. How do you know any of this?’

‘Oh, I hear stuff other people miss. You might have noticed, I keep my ears close to the ground.’

This with an internal middle-finger salute to Jackson Lamb.

Cantor had picked up an empty coffee mug and seemed to be weighing it in his hands. ‘Is this some weird kind of blackmail threat? Because Taverner isn’t going to make waves. I’m in the inner circle. You know how that works?’

Reece thought: stick to the script. Tell him what Lamb wants him to hear, and get out. It doesn’t matter whether he believes you. You’re simply sowing the seed.

He said, ‘Taverner ordered the Kazan hit.’

Cantor looked startled, but not so much he dropped the cup. ‘I know. I was at the after-party.’

‘This made people in Moscow very mad.’

‘Good.’

‘And now they’re using the information you gave them to take their revenge. They’ve been murdering the people in the file you passed on.’ Reece leaned on each word equally: ‘British Secret Service agents.’

Cantor had gone pale. ‘I don’t think so. I’d know about it if that was happening.’

‘Only if Taverner wanted you to know. And this is not something the Park wants in the headlines. But that doesn’t mean they won’t act on it.’

‘What does that mean – “act on it”?’

‘Join the dots. You’re responsible for the murders of several Park employees. You think the inner circle’s small enough they’ll let you get away with that?’

‘This is bullshit.’

‘Which bits? The part about you having your man steal that file? Or the bit where you handed it on to your Russian contacts?’

‘Okay. Time for you to go now.’

But Reece had one last shot to fire. ‘You know what’s funny?’

‘All of it,’ said Cantor. ‘It’s one long fantasy.’

‘No, what’s funny is, Taverner wants you toasted both sides. But that Russian crew leaving bodies everywhere? As far as they’re concerned, you’re their best mate. Better hope they reach you before the Park does.’

‘Fuck off.’

Before he reached the door, Reece said, ‘I wouldn’t stand too close to those windows. Regent’s Park hire some pretty sharp shooters.’

He was confident you’d need a tank to break that glass. But it wouldn’t hurt to have Cantor think there might be one nearby.

Diana remained where she was after ending her call, adding a cigarette butt to the cairn on an air vent’s flat top. The day was settling on its mood: sunny with grim intervals. Her own outlook was pretty much the inverse. It would give her no pleasure to call off the hunt for Moscow’s hit squad. Amnesty was too big a concession, even if their victims were ex-Slough House, too lowly for a Spook’s Chapel send-off. There should have been retribution. And if Lamb found out about the deal she’d just agreed there probably would be, even if disproportionate and wrongly directed.

But there was sunshine too. Cantor was hers now. If she’d thought she’d get away with it, she’d have let Vassily Rasnokov think she didn’t know who’d stolen the Slough House file, but that wouldn’t fly. If Rasnokov thought Diana incapable of discovering that much, he’d have been too busy pissing himself laughing to take her call. So there was no chance she could turn Cantor round and use him to feed Moscow a bullshit buffet. Instead, she had Cantor himself, because Rasnokov had holiday snaps all right – everyone took holiday snaps. Rasnokov had sound and vision of Cantor handing the stolen file to his Russian new-media exec pals, because Moscow Rules and London Rules shared this much in common: once you handed over secrets, you became the product. Cantor would have found out the hard way that you never feed a cat just once. You feed a cat, it owns you ever after.

The same sets of rules said you never burned an asset either, but Rasnokov was old-school Spook Street. No way would he leave his crew out in joe country, even when the crew were a pair of assassins, and the mission one he hadn’t believed in. He wanted them brought home, because that was what you did. You brought your joes back, or buried them yourself. If that cost you an asset, so be it.

And hidden in there was another ray of sunshine: Rasnokov’s admission that he’d not have sent his crew into the field if he hadn’t been pressured from above.

That was more than sunshine; it almost promised a summer. But while the glimmer of a crack in Moscow’s walls was a fine thing to contemplate, there was also the possibility that Rasnokov wanted her to believe that such a crack existed; had given her a glimpse of it simply in order to get his joes back. So yes, she’d think hard on that, but not right now. She had other eggs to boil. Her back to the view, she took out her main phone and rang the first number on her contact list.

‘I need to see him,’ she said.

And then, moments later, ‘Four o’clock. Yes. Thank you.’

She put the phone away.

Next, she’d call off the search for the hit squad. This would cause muttering, but First Desk didn’t have to listen, she just had to give orders. And if everyone else fell in line, then, grim intervals or not, she could come out of the far end of today back on top.

Just so long as nobody fucked things up in the meantime.

13

A HANDWRITTEN NOTICE PASTED TO the window offered thanks, blessings and farewells to friends and customers, and then said the same thing over again, presumably, in, presumably, Polish. That much Shirley Dander had taken in before getting down on her knees. Roderick Ho stood to one side, pretending to speak into a mobile phone, while she got busy with what Lamb had assured her was a set of global skeleton keys, good for any standard-issue lock; an assurance that, so far, had proved as sound as one of his motivational homilies.

‘Bastard thing.’

Into his phone, Ho said, ‘I’ve given my instructions. I expect them to be acted on immediately, capisce?’

‘Supposed to be blending in,’ Shirley muttered. ‘Not dicking out.’

Because it was a busy midweek morning Roddy Ho had opted for camouflage, and as well as his phone was holding a clipboard Catherine Standish had found. This made him look, Shirley claimed, like a nervous driving instructor, to which Ho had retorted that he was, in fact, as chilled as …

Minutes passed.

None of these damn keys fit.

‘… Samuel L. Jackson’s drinks cabinet.’

‘What?’

‘That’s how chilled.’

‘You’re supposed to be on the phone. Not talking to me.’

Roddy said into his mobile, ‘Nah, no one important. Just some underling whose arse needs kicking.’

‘Like that’s gunna happen.’ Shirley had had haircuts that had done more damage than Ho was capable of.

The next key was also a failure.

‘Is it opening again?’

‘… I’m sorry?’

‘The shop.’ It was an elderly woman wheeling a shopping basket. ‘Old Miles’s.’

Shirley looked at Ho, who was supposed to be running interference, but was too wrapped up in his imaginary phone call. Then again, it might be the most meaningful encounter he’d had in a while. He’d probably end up arranging to meet himself for a drink.

‘Health and Safety,’ she said. ‘Just entering to check for … subsidence.’

‘Ooh, are we about to fall down a big hole?’

‘I’d not be surprised,’ said Shirley, as the current key clicked sweetly into place, the way a jam jar lid comes loose. ‘Probably best to be far away.’

Roddy said, ‘Okay, gotta run. Hang cool,’ and ended his call.

He followed her inside, closing the door behind them.

The shop had only been shut a day or so, and yet an air of finality had dropped on it like a dust sheet. Emptied of goods, the shelving looked rackety and unstable, as if a heavy finger might bring it down, and the space on the counter where the till had sat for decades was seven shades lighter than the surrounding surface. Shirley shook her head. She rarely entered a shop more than two years old. And that retailer’s sweet spot, the gap between opening-day bargains and closing-down sale, she made a point of avoiding.

There was a door behind the counter, leading to the stairs Lamb had mentioned, and Shirley headed straight for it.

Roddy Ho put his clipboard down and followed. She had, he thought, taken long enough to get them in. Lamb would have expected this; when handing her rather than Roddy the skeleton set he’d bestowed upon the latter the ghost of a wink, discernible to no one. You’d be past that lock like a greased ghost. But let’s give someone else the chance to shine. Nice gesture, but men were just better at the practical stuff – facts and stats, dude. Facts and stats. Three more doors off the landing, two of them open. Time to take charge. Holding one commanding hand up to halt Shirley, Roddy put the other on the knob of the closed door. Twisted and pushed in one swift movement.

‘Locked.’

‘Yeah, try pulling?’

He pulled, and the door opened on an empty toilet.

‘Ho,’ she said, ‘you’re as stylish as a man-bun.’

The other two rooms were also empty, with bare floorboards that moaned underfoot, and a lingering odour of cigarettes. In the back one there was a steel shutter over the window, padlocked in place. That was good.

‘Okay, gimme the stuff.’

Ho slipped his rucksack from his shoulders.

Shirley unzipped it and got to work.

The studio was buzzing, everyone hyper about the morning broadcast – London had a new hero, the riot-quelling Desmond Flint, and only Channel Go had his number. Already they were trailing an exclusive interview, Peter Judd having promised them an on-air sit-down with his man before the week’s end; one that would demonstrate that UK politics’ former Mr Angry had emerged from his chrysalis; was a man with wise things to say about the mood of the country, and gumption enough to get stuff done. Already Cantor had received calls from the broadsheets, looking at ‘expanding the coverage’, meaning riding his coat-tails. Yeah, right. But his heart wasn’t in it, unable to shake his early morning visitor.

I wouldn’t stand too close to those windows. Regent’s Park hire some pretty sharp shooters.

It was stupid, pathetic, an obvious ruse. No way would Taverner be looking to cancel his account. Sure, he’d rubbed her up the wrong way, and yeah, Tommo Doyle had lifted a file from Regent’s Park’s archive, but that was just gamesmanship: Taverner knew that. And maybe he’d passed that file to some foreign media contacts – okay, Russian media contacts – but business knew no borders, and favours were made to be traded. The uses to which shared knowledge might be put couldn’t be laid at his door. Besides, these windows were high: you’d need a helicopter. You’d need a satellite. Simply put, he was too tall to fall. He was out of reach.

‘Damien? Someone trying to reach you.’

‘… Huh?’

‘Caller on line one.’

He punched a button. ‘Cantor.’

‘Mr Cantor?’ The voice had a guttural quality, as if the words were being dragged past an obstruction in the throat. ‘How good to speak to you.’

‘Who is this?’

‘This is your new best friend, Mr Cantor.’

‘My new best friend,’ he repeated.

‘Yes. And I’m calling to let you know how much shit you’re in, and how best to avoid it.’

Trying not to think about windows, Cantor sank into his chair and listened.

When it was done, Lech slipped his phone into his pocket and looked at Louisa. ‘Well?’

‘How’d he take it?’

‘Like he didn’t believe a word I said.’

‘Well, that’s what he’d want you to think either way.’

‘Spoken like a spook,’ he muttered.

‘Glad to hear it.’ She raised her own phone. ‘My turn.’

At 10.43 – Catherine happened to be looking at her watch – Lamb started coughing, and didn’t stop for eight minutes. There wasn’t a lot she could do. He presumably accepted these fits as a lifestyle tax, so why shouldn’t she? Rinsing a takeaway cup, she filled it with water, placed it by his elbow and let him get on with it.

At 10.51, she said, ‘Feeling better?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘That was your version of an aerobics workout, was it?’

‘Just the body’s way of expelling bad matter.’

‘How does it know when to stop?’ She handed him a tissue. ‘When did you last see a doctor?’

‘I think it was William Hartnell,’ said Lamb. ‘Have I missed much?’ He dabbed his face, picked up the cup, drained half of it, realised what it was, scowled, and drained the rest. ‘Where’s the lawn ornament?’

‘If you’re referring to Mr Nesmith, he left.’

‘Did I tell him he could go?’

‘You might be mistaking him for someone who works for you.’

Lamb thought about this, then nodded. ‘Yeah, I can see how that might happen. He had that miserable-loser look.’

‘And yet he fulfilled his mission. Is what you’re doing wise, do you think?’

Lamb, who had found a cigarette to soothe his frame, paused in his hunt for a lighter. ‘You’ll have to narrow it down.’

‘Well, that, obviously. But I meant this game you’re playing with Cantor. He’s the Park’s problem, not ours. And I don’t imagine Taverner plans to let him walk away scot-free, do you?’

‘Well, it’s true I like to win in the long term,’ Lamb said. ‘But I like to win in the short term too. Besides, Taverner’s got more problems than you know. She can’t settle Cantor’s hash until she’s sure she won’t get caught in the blowback.’ He produced his lighter just as his phone rang, and stared at it for a moment as if unsure where the noise was coming from. Then pulled the phone from his pocket. ‘What?’

It was Ho, Catherine surmised. Lamb had a particular expression he wore when forced to listen to Ho; it was the same one he wore when forced to listen to anyone else, only more so. When Ho finished, Lamb said, ‘So what you’re telling me is, you did what I told you to do. How come you can’t just say that?’

He listened for another moment.

‘Oh, I see. No, perfectly good explanation. Thanks.’

He ended the call.

Catherine raised an eyebrow. ‘“Perfectly good explanation”?’

‘That was Dander in the background. Apparently Ho’s a dick.’

‘I’m so glad the team-building’s working out.’ She paused. ‘No word from River yet.’

‘Yeah,’ said Lamb. ‘But I imagine there’s been some debriefing going on. If you get my drift.’

‘I just wonder if he’s coming back at all.’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’

‘Whatever happened last night must have been traumatic. Coming on top of everything else – his grandfather’s death, all the havoc round here – he might have had enough.’

‘Huh.’

‘He nearly packed it in last year. He came this close.’

‘He’s a spook. It’s in his blood.’

‘And now Sid’s back in the picture.’

‘Hence my debriefing comment,’ said Lamb. ‘You see, what I was getting at was— Ah, what now?’

It was another moment before Catherine heard it: someone at the door. With a key, so it could only be Diana Taverner, who duly appeared a moment later, pausing in the doorway, shaking her head.

‘This was in showroom condition yesterday.’

Lamb shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I blame the younger generation. It’s like they still expect their mums to tidy up.’

‘I sometimes wonder how you survived under cover. You’d think the Stasi would just have followed the chaos.’ Diana turned to Catherine. ‘How do you put up with it?’

‘I took a long hard look at the alternative.’

Diana said, ‘Fair enough,’ then nodded in dismissal. ‘Adults in the room.’

‘She stays,’ said Lamb.

‘I don’t think—’

‘She stays.’

Diana rolled her eyes, but went on as if Catherine weren’t there. ‘I spoke to Rasnokov. He’s calling his dogs off.’

Lamb’s expression gave nothing away.

‘So you can vacate this place.’

‘Just when I was getting comfortable. What does Vassily get in return? Let me guess. Safe passage for the pooches.’

‘It’s a no-mess outcome.’

‘Except for the blood on the walls. And isn’t that why things kicked off in the first place?’

‘Circumstances change.’

‘Meaning you’ve noticed what a balls-up you created when financing Kazan, so you’re dropping everything else to deal with that instead.’

Diana glanced towards Catherine.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Catherine. ‘I never pay attention when he’s sober.’

Lamb lit his cigarette, waggling the lighter as if it were a match. ‘Diana invited some celebrities aboard the good ship Regent’s Park. They paid for their passage and everything. And now they want a go at steering.’

‘That’s not going to happen.’

‘Yeah, but here’s a thing about pirates. They don’t take no for an answer.’

His phone rang again. Without taking his eyes off Diana, he tossed it to Catherine, who caught it. ‘Hello, Lech. Yes. But tell me instead.’ A pause. Then: ‘Thank you. I’ll let him know.’

Rather than throw the phone back, she held on to it.

‘So let me know.’

Catherine said, ‘Both calls have been made.’

‘Calls?’ said Diana. ‘You’re supposed to be dark. In fact …’ She made a show of looking round the room. ‘Where’s the awkward squad?’

Lamb snorted. ‘Trust me, awkward would be an improvement.’

‘What are you up to, Jackson?’

‘You might have declared an amnesty, but I haven’t. That file Cantor passed behind the curtain was stamped “Slough House”, remember?’

‘“Curtain”? Really?’

He blew smoke. ‘A good metaphor never goes stale.’

Diana Taverner shook her head wearily. ‘I can’t stress this enough. The last thing I need is help from you.’ She looked at Catherine. ‘Haven’t you learned to control him yet?’

‘I’m taking notes.’

Diana returned to Lamb. ‘Cantor’s up shit creek. Rasnokov has footage of him handing that file to his contacts. Sound and vision. Good for five years at least. So listen, I’m sorry about the dead, I really am. But there’s a greater good at stake here, so whatever you’re up to, pack it in. Rasnokov is looking to build bridges.’

‘He’s got a funny way of showing it.’

‘We all have political masters to work around.’

‘Speak for yourself.’ Ash fell into Lamb’s lap. He appeared not to notice. ‘But what the hell, you’ve won me over. You want safe passage for the hit crew, I won’t get in your way. In fact’ – he paused to stub his cigarette out on the floor – ‘I’ve probably got a box somewhere you could pack them in. That’ll save on costs.’

Diana stared. ‘What have you done?’

‘Exactly what you should have done. Taken them off the board.’

Catherine cleared her throat.

‘Well,’ said Lamb, ‘delegation. It’s the art of good management. So it’s possible Rasnokov’ll call your deal off, but don’t worry about Cantor. That’s in hand.’

‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’

‘Again, a good manager would call it initiative.’

‘Initiative … I’m First Desk, you stupid fat bastard! You answer to me!’

‘I’ll do that when you do your job. Which means not selling out your joes.’

‘Joes? Did you forget what Slough House is? It’s a punishment posting. No, screw that. It’s not even a punishment, it’s what we do when we don’t care any more. It’s where we send those we can’t be bothered to deal with, because that’ll just mess up the system. Your job’s to keep them from seeing daylight again, and that is all. End of story.’

‘Not quite,’ said Lamb. ‘You missed a bit out.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘It’s a department of the Security Service. Whose team, like it or not, work for you. Past or present. And when they die, that’s on your watch.’

‘Jackson—’

‘And mine.’

Catherine was clutching Lamb’s phone so tightly, it hurt her hand.

Diana opened her mouth to continue. Closed it again.

Lamb said, ‘You wanted Cantor’s wheels removed. Consider it done. And now you don’t have to deal with Rasnokov, either. Just tell him the next wet team he sends’ll come home the same way. Because you don’t build bridges over the corpses of your own crew.’

For a while, nobody spoke. The only sound was Lamb clicking his lighter again. But he didn’t have a cigarette to hand; he was simply making flames.

At last Diana said, ‘You plan to kill him too? Cantor?’

‘No,’ said Catherine.

‘Buzzkill,’ said Lamb.

‘We’re not going to kill him,’ said Catherine.

‘But he won’t come sniffing round the Park again,’ said Lamb. ‘You can take that as read.’

‘You’d better be right.’ Diana’s voice was taut as a cheese wire. ‘Now give me the keys to this place. And get back where you belong.’

‘Sure. And I’ll be taking my team with me.’

‘Now.’

‘Including Wicinski and Dander.’

‘Just give me the fucking keys.’

Lamb tossed her the fucking keys.

‘And close the fucking door on your way out.’

‘Forgive her bad manners,’ said Lamb, once they were on the street. ‘She still has those pirates to worry about.’

‘That little outburst, bad manners? She should take professional advice.’

Lamb had found a cigarette, but his lighter had disappeared again. He patted his pockets and said, ‘What does Sid being back in the picture have to do with it?’

‘I’d explain, Jackson,’ Catherine said, raising her arm for a taxi. ‘But I genuinely think I’d be wasting my time.’

The second conversation had worried him more than the first.

‘I’m calling from Regent’s Park, Mr Cantor. I presume you’re aware of the significance of that locale?’

‘The significance of … Yes. Yes, I’m aware.’

‘Good. Ms Taverner would like to see you here this morning.’

‘… This morning?’

‘Immediately. And in case you have difficulty finding us, there’s a team on its way to escort you.’

‘I—’

‘Oh, and Mr Cantor? Bring your passport.’

And the woman had disconnected.

(‘Passport?’ Lech had said.

Louisa said, ‘That’ll freak him, don’t you think?’

‘It would me,’ Lech admitted.)

Cantor was back in his apartment, having left the studio in a hurry. Call Peter Judd was his first thought. Judd was an ally – except he was Taverner’s ally too, or rather, he was an ally of whoever seemed most useful at any given moment, and as likely to offer succour to those in need as a poisonous snake. So no, don’t call Peter Judd. Pack a bag and think things through.

The marital home was a no-go; the first place they’d come looking.

Staying put was out of the question.

A hotel? But this was London, a city with more cameras than pigeons, and the Service had access to any CCTV system they chose. Showing his face in a hotel lobby would be as discreet as popping up on The X Factor. Leaving town was a better bet, but he couldn’t use his car …

He called upstairs. ‘I need a car, nothing fancy. On your own card, not the company’s. And I need it downstairs three minutes ago.’

‘Damien? Is there something going on I should know about?’

‘What you should know is, I need a car three minutes ago.’

He packed a two-day bag. How long could this take to sort out? Taverner was throwing a scare, that was all. The dwarf had been part of it – his story about the dead British agents? Hashtag didn’t happen. Taverner was punishing him for having flexed his muscles, that was all. Which meant the Russian voice, I’m calling to let you know how much shit you’re in, that was fake too, and Cantor was being made to jump at shadows.

What he jumped at next was his phone, again.

‘Damien? Your car’s on its way.’

‘When?’

‘It will be there before you’re downstairs. Damien, are you sure everything’s all right? Because you have a meeting scheduled—’

‘Cancel it. And get hold of Tommo. Have him call.’

Was he running? No. This was a strategic withdrawal, no more.

As he took the lift down, he thought of last night’s news footage being played right now, on screens all over London. The capital’s agenda, set by him. Taverner didn’t know what she was getting into.

Ground floor. There were people milling about, queuing for the tourist lift, and he had to push through them to get to Clyde – Claude? – who was holding a set of keys on a BMW fob. It’s round back, sir. Thanks. This taking seconds: he was starting to feel like he worked for the Park himself. He’d grabbed his baseball cap on his way out, and twisted it now so the peak faced backward. Street smarts.

The car was waiting as promised, and winked its lights when he clicked the fob. But before he could reach it a man was up close behind him, breathing into his ear.

‘You don’t want to get in that car.’

It was the voice from the first phone call, guttural, throaty, and its owner had a face to match: like he’d lost a fight with a kitchen blender.

‘Trust me. I’m on your side.’

Across the road a woman stepped out of the shadows and started towards them.

There was a traffic jam, because there were always traffic jams, because this was London. Perhaps there were cities whose streets flowed freely, but they’d belong to the world’s more repressive regimes, where state control extended to the driving seat, and you’d need permission to venture onto the roads. So the price you paid for freedom of movement was sometimes lack of movement; an aphorism she might find a use for one day, but meanwhile: screw this. Diana Taverner abandoned the cab and walked the rest of the way. She could use the thinking space.

She’d been ready to melt glass when she left the mews house, but there was no sense picking over what should have been. And there was always an upside, if you knew which angle to take. What Lamb did best was sit in his office, drinking himself into a waiting grave, but what he did second best, when he could be bothered, was cut his enemies off at the knees. In this instance that was only incidentally Diana herself, was principally Damien Cantor, so if nothing else Lamb’s meddling had saved her the effort. Because one way or the other, Cantor was a blown fuse, and whether that was because she had Rasnokov’s evidence of his wrongdoing, or because he’d had the fear of Lamb thrown into him, made no difference in the long run.

Besides, Rasnokov’s thugs were apparently dead, and whichever angle you examined that from, it was clear who’d achieved payback. And there was, too, that chink of light Vassily had let show, his hint that this vicious tit for tat had been wished on him from on high. A glimpse of weakness on his side matched by a show of strength on her own. That was the kind of balance she wanted to maintain.

So let that go, and all she had to worry about was her other battle front: the one patrolled by Peter Judd. Who thought he had her under his thumb, and who needed showing that he too would end up squashed like popcorn if he persisted in such a delusion.

The door to the club opened for her before she was up the steps, the members’ register waiting for her to sign. And no need to ask if Mr Judd had arrived, for there was his name two lines above, each letter fully formed, in a way that perhaps spoke of self-assurance and ego, but to her seemed schoolboyish. In the bar, ma’am, she was told. The bar was up one flight. She did five minutes’ battle prep in the cloakroom, then went to find him. Her plan: to come out fighting.

He was by the window, apparently absorbed in his phone, but looked up as she entered. ‘Diana.’ He rose, offered an embrace, and seemed amused when she sidestepped. From his phone’s screen Desmond Flint stared out, as if he were trapped there. She wondered if he yet appreciated that that was precisely the case.

‘And that’s why you wanted me to back off the Yellow Vests, isn’t it?’ she said, sitting. ‘It’s not that you didn’t want trouble, you just wanted it happening on your own terms. Which included having Desmond Flint on hand to calm it all down.’ She shook her head. ‘I have to confess, I didn’t see him as your stalking horse. He’s so … unprepossessing. Don’t you think?’

‘Now now. If it was a beauty contest, half the Cabinet would have lost their deposits.’

‘I wasn’t referring to his looks.’

A waiter hovered. Taverner asked for mineral water. Judd, whose balloon-sized glass just barely contained his gin, looked disappointed.

Taverner said, ‘I do hope you haven’t made a misstep. One thing that comes across quite strongly is that it’s his people, his core support, creating havoc in the streets.’

‘Denying that would be a problem. Owning it is not.’ This was Peter Judd in magisterial mode, dispensing hard-earned wisdom to his lessers. It needed a toga, really. ‘For every Radio 4-listening, liberal-voting vegetarian decrying the behaviour of the mob, there are two people in a public house thinking, that’s the way to do it. Desmond understands that.’

‘But if there’s one thing we should have learned by now, it’s that once you’ve incited the mob, you can’t turn it off again. And there’s never been a mob that didn’t end up eating itself.’

‘You have a lively imagination, Diana. You should write a novel. Or pay someone to write one for you.’ He took a sip of his G&T. ‘That’s how it’s usually done, I gather.’

The waiter arrived with her water, saving her the trouble of responding. When they were alone, Judd continued:

‘Besides, it would be a mistake to underestimate our Flinty. He may not know a fish knife from a soup spoon, but he speaks a language these people understand.’

‘You make him sound like Tarzan of the apes.’

‘I have no plans to parade him in a loincloth. But the analogy isn’t unfair.’ He leaned back. ‘Of course, had the crowd not heeded his words, I’d have had to resort to plan B.’

‘Which was?’

‘Throw him to the fucking wolves.’

‘But instead you’re grooming him for higher things. I’ve no doubt you’d enjoy being the power behind the throne, Peter, but you’ll be a long time waiting. It’s not like the last election didn’t return a decisive result.’

Judd swirled his glass. ‘Politics is a long game. And while it’s true the PM enjoys a commanding majority, he’s also a walking non-disclosure agreement who wouldn’t be the first irresistible force to find himself in close proximity to an immovable object. Best to prepare for that eventuality, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Sounds like the green-eyed monster speaking. But as long as we’re on the subject, you should know I’m seeing him this afternoon. The PM.’

‘Which you do at least once a week.’

She nodded.

‘So you wouldn’t be mentioning it if you didn’t have something up your sleeve. Please. I’m not one of those insufferable aesthetes who think women of a certain age shouldn’t bare their arms in public. Do share.’

Diana said, ‘I plan to tell him everything.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you? I mean everything, Peter. Full disclosure.’

‘I said I see. And loath as I am to borrow a line, I do hope you’re not about to make a misstep. You’ve been known to question my sense of loyalty, but next to the PM, I’m Greyfriars Bobby. If there’s any chance you’ll make him look bad, he’ll dump you overboard without a backward glance.’

‘I know. But I also know that he’s as keen on hogging glory as he is on avoiding blame. And as you so eloquently pointed out the other evening, there’s glory to be had here.’ She picked up her glass. ‘Kazan is an unspun story. It might be making ripples on the Dark Web, but there’s been nothing official from the Kremlin, because the Kremlin doesn’t want the world knowing it let its guard down, and nothing official from us, because officially it didn’t happen. But unofficially I can make it the PM’s triumph.’

‘“Prime Minister orders state-sanctioned murder”,’ Judd mused. ‘That would probably be his all-time second-favourite headline, Diana. Right after “Get off my fucking laptop”.’

‘I’m not talking about headlines, I’m talking about legends. It’s no secret the PM sees himself as Churchill reborn. It’s just that he’s had difficulty persuading anyone else. But this is his chance to look like a wartime hero, even if only in Whitehall’s back corridors. If it’s known among COBRA staff that he gave the nod on Kazan, well. Nothing he’d like more than to be thought a warrior leader by a roomful of generals. Who currently, you won’t be shocked to hear, regard him as a cross between a game show host and a cartoon yeti.’

Judd nodded, as if appreciating a chess move. ‘It’s risky, though. Could backfire. You’re sure that’s how you want to play it?’

‘A full admission that I dabbled in alternative sources of backing for an operation which ultimately plays to his credit. Yes, I think it’ll work. He’s been known to display a certain impatience with tradition himself.’

‘If by that you mean he’s been known to wipe his arse on the constitution, I’d have to agree.’

‘So our arrangement has ended. I know you’d planned it as a long-term thing, and I’m not ungrateful for the assistance. But you won’t be using me as a way of steering the Service, Peter. Not now, not ever again.’

Another nod. ‘There’s nothing I like more than seeing you in control, Diana. Gives me quite the rush of blood.’ He raised his glass, but instead of a toast said, ‘I have to correct you on one small matter, though. You used the words “full admission”. That’s not quite accurate.’

Taverner said, ‘What does that mean?’

‘I’m simply pointing out that you can’t give the PM all the facts about our arrangement because you’re not yet in possession of them. And once you are, well.’ He smiled, or at any rate revealed his teeth. ‘Once you are, I expect the PM is the last person you’ll be making full admissions to.’

He replaced his glass on the table.

‘I’ll order you a proper drink now, shall I? I think you’re about to need it.’

Sid woke alone, late morning, and spoke his name. No reply. She was about to call louder, but thought better of it. All was quiet, and as broken memories of yesterday assembled themselves in her mind – driving a knife into the man’s chin; drowning the woman in the lake – it seemed better to leave it that way. He was upstairs. Or had gone to the village for food. She was ravenous, she noticed. Food would be good.

But he wasn’t in the bathroom, as she ascertained quite swiftly; nor did he reappear in the study during her absence. Next thing she did was draw the curtains, and let the day in. It was like charging a battery – rooms left dark become crabbed and pokey. They need light to remember what they are. This was a simple formula to apply to herself, and hard not to touch a hand to the groove in her head while doing so. Her muttering bullet was gone; no Hercule Poirot voice in her head. It might return, but for now she was on her own.

On her own, back in the world, and with decisions to make.

She’d already made some. She would not be returning to Cumbria, for a start; nor resuming the identity she’d been assigned during her recovery. That had been a non-person; a shell she’d never filled. Nor had she been Sid Baker, or not so anyone would notice. She’d been a character absent from the stage, her dialogue mere gaps in the conversation. Action had been elsewhere. After yesterday, she didn’t want to see action again. But she thought she was ready to be Sid Baker once more.

Last night, she’d talked with Shirley Dander while River and Lech Wicinski had returned to the scene of the slaughter.

‘You’ve been living here?’

‘Staying here.’

‘But it’s full of books.’

Said as if this precluded anything Shirley might think of as living. Or perhaps even just staying.

‘Think of it as being well insulated,’ Sid suggested.

‘Did you kill them both?’

‘No.’

‘Did River?’

‘We got lucky.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Shirley. ‘Except they were professionals, know what I mean? The number of people who got lucky before you is zero.’

Which, as far as Sid was concerned, made her very lucky indeed. Though Shirley had seemed impressed.

Jane and Jim had been dispatched on a vengeance tour, titting the Park’s tat, as Shirley had put it with a Lamb-like leer; the Park’s crime having been to assassinate one of those responsible for last year’s outrage, a ham-fisted episode Sid had followed in the press during her Cumbrian interlude. The target then had been a pair of Russian ex-pats, but two British civilians had wandered into the line of fire, one of whom had died. The murder method had created headlines worldwide: the smearing of a toxic substance – Novichok – on a doorknob.

Well, if she was back in the world, this was the world she was in.

Shirley Dander had been jittery, and possibly high. Lech Wicinski’s scars were plain to see, but he was hiding behind them all the same. Min Harper was dead, as were others who’d come along after, but Louisa Guy was still a slow horse; Roderick Ho remained Roddy Ho, and Catherine Standish still carried the keys. As for Lamb, Sid could only assume he was unchanged, self-damage notwithstanding, because without Jackson Lamb there’d be no Slough House. Slough House was the stage and those were the actors, and all the time she’d been emerging from her head wound River had been living among them, mostly bound to the same old beat – the paperwork, the pointless chores, the soul-killing drudgery – but occasionally, just occasionally, finding himself on the sharp end too.

Which was an end Sid knew about. She’d found her own on a rainy pavement in London, years ago; had nearly found it again last night, hiding in this very room while the couple she and River later killed had rattled the doorknob at the front, tapped the glass round back, like evil figures in an adult fairy tale. Then spirited Sid away. We could finish it here in the car. Which will be messier, but we can do that if you prefer. Making an invitation of a death sentence …

She uncurled from the O.B.’s chair and stretched. A gust of wind shook the windowpane, and she startled at the interruption, an echo of last night’s haunting. The bell had rung, and then once more. And the flap on the letterbox had jangled, and Sid had imagined the pair taking it in turns to drop to one knee and peer into the hallway.

Life went quiet again, the only disturbance the faint rattling of a doorknob.

The thought broke the morning in two.

Rattling the doorknob …

Where was River?

There was a traffic jam, because there were always traffic jams, because this was London; a thought so familiar that someone might already have had it this morning. Cantor was lying flat on the back seat, being driven by the nameless man whose cheeks were ribboned with scars, a walking indication that bad choices produce bad outcomes.

A hooting horn provoked more hooting horns. This too was London: everyone wanting to be heard, even when they had nothing to say.

‘Are we being followed?’ he asked. The man made a foreign noise in reply, so he said it again. ‘Are we being followed?’

‘… Nyet.’

‘Who was she?’

He knew the answer, but needed to hear it anyway.

‘From Regent’s Park.’

So Taverner had sent someone to collect him.

Taverner wants you toasted both sides …

It was possible he’d made a tactical error.

The woman at the Needle couldn’t cross the road for traffic, and the scarred man had used the delay to hustle Cantor round the corner and push him into this car. Things could happen so quickly, they felt like a good idea. And now they were on the move again, albeit in a jerky, arrhythmical manner, Cantor’s head banging against the seat while he tried to reconstruct his earlier frame of mind: Taverner was throwing a scare, hoping he’d jump at shadows. But the shadows seemed solider now, and here he was, jumping at them.

A sharp corner, and a guttural apology from the front: ‘Excuse.’

Cantor said, ‘Where are you taking me?’

An audible shrug from the front seat. ‘Somewhere safe.’

‘Why?’

‘You help us. We help you.’

But I didn’t mean to help you, thought Cantor. I was just trading favours. I didn’t mean to end up hiding in a car, evading capture by the British Secret Service.

Bad choices produce bad outcomes …

The man spoke again. ‘There are no worries. My people and your people, they’ll iron out their difficulties. And then you’ll go back to making your news programmes, and helping my people too, yes? No harm done.’

‘I’m not … I don’t work for your people. I was doing a favour for a contact, that’s all.’

‘So you do more favours.’

‘No, that’s not … This has all been a misunderstanding. I’m not going to be doing any favours.’

There was silence. Then: ‘It’s not a good time to be telling me this. Not when I’m helping you.’

The car jerked to a halt. When Cantor peeped through the window a young Chinese man was hopping onto the pavement, as if he’d been safeguarding a parking space. ‘We’re here,’ the driver said. Here was Soho, a familiar street whose name evaded Cantor right that moment, his mind still reeling. He clambered out. There were people everywhere – London, London – but nobody was paying attention, or if they were, were doing so in a successfully covert way. There was an open door, leading into an apparently abandoned shop. ‘Quickly.’ So quickly it was: through the door, into an empty retail space. The young Chinese man had disappeared, but in front of Cantor stood a short, wide woman. ‘Upstairs,’ she said, in what sounded to Cantor like a bad-movie German accent.

In a similarly bad-movie way, he was getting a bad feeling about this.

‘What’s upstairs?’

‘No time for questions. They’re looking for you.’

The driver had closed the shop door and was leaning against it.

‘I just—’

‘Now.’

The stairs creaked. There was a small landing at the top: a toilet, two other rooms. The woman nudged him towards the back one.

‘A safe house,’ she said.

The scarred man had come up with them. ‘Yes. You’ll be safe here.’

Cantor said, ‘I need to make some calls. Just ten minutes to make some calls, and I’ll be on my way.’

He had his phone out before he’d finished speaking, but it was snatched by the square-shaped woman.

‘No.’

‘But I—’

‘No.’

He looked around. The floor was uncarpeted, and the window covered by a steel shutter. The only light was a bare bulb, swinging on a cord. No heating, no furniture.

And at his feet, newly screwed to the floorboards, a metal ring with handcuffs attached.

‘You’re safe here, provided you don’t wander,’ the man told him.

‘Which you won’t,’ said the woman. She dropped to her knees, and before Cantor could react had fastened the loose cuff around his left ankle.

‘What the hell—?’

‘Water,’ said the man, producing a two-litre bottle from behind the door.

‘And an empty,’ said a new voice. The woman who’d been at the Needle had appeared, holding another two-litre bottle, uncapped. ‘But I’m sure you’ll fill it.’

‘What are you doing?’ Cantor said. His mouth was dry.

‘We’re leaving you to ponder your actions,’ said the scarred man. His accent had gone, his voice softer.

‘People tell me I ought to do that,’ said the squat woman, getting to her feet. Her voice had also altered. ‘But I’ve never really found the time.’

‘Which isn’t going to be a problem for you,’ the other woman said. ‘Bags of that coming up.’

The young Chinese man who’d been holding the parking space had arrived too. He alone was hanging on to the B-movie vibe. ‘You picked the wrong guys to mess with, friend.’

The second woman tossed Cantor the empty bottle. ‘You can shout as loud as you want,’ she said. ‘But if anyone hears you, they won’t care.’

‘Who are you people?’

It was the Chinese man who answered. ‘We’re Slough House,’ he said. Then added, ‘Hasta la vista, baby,’ before following the others down the stairs.

Cantor pulled against the cuff, but it didn’t budge.

And the woman had been right about this much: Cantor shouted as loud as he could. But no one came.

He said, ‘I enjoy being a member here, don’t you?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘I rather think I’m about to provide an illustration. Do pay attention.’

The waiter arrived with a fresh G&T for Judd; a large Chablis for Taverner. She resisted the temptation to dive straight in.

I’m simply pointing out that you can’t give the PM all the facts about our arrangement because you’re not yet in possession of them …

‘I’m fond of that plaque in the lobby. The one that says this club was founded fifty-odd years ago by a chap whose name escapes me but has a VC attached. Lovely detail. If you’re going to tell a lie, tell a big one. Stick it on the side of a bus.’

‘Get on with it.’

‘Because we both know the club’s not twenty years old. And that its founder was one Margaret Lessiter, who, unless I’m mistaken, you were at college with. One of the brighter lights, no? Alongside that chap who crashed a bank and the conman’s daughter who pimps for royalty. Sterling year. I bet the gaudies are fun.’

‘I’m not sure either attend. What’s your point?’

‘That the badge doesn’t tell the whole story.’ He picked up his glass. ‘Take my own little enterprise. Bullingdon Fopp.’

The PR firm Judd had been running since he left the Cabinet.

‘The thing is, Diana, I needed start-up money. A life dedicated to public service doesn’t leave one overburdened with ready cash.’

‘Really. But your property portfolio weighs more than the average bungalow. Let’s not pretend your public service prevented you amassing a fortune.’

‘There’ll always be those who resent the enterprising. But we’ve moved past the moment at which your antennae should have twitched.’

Oh, they’d twitched.

Once you’re in possession of the facts, I expect the PM is the last person you’ll be making full admissions to.

She reached for her Chablis. You could drown in two inches of water, she knew. Two inches of wine was starting to look like an option. ‘You have backers,’ she said. Her voice sounded flat and unnatural, as if she were still in rehearsal. With luck, the director would soon shout Cut.

‘Whose names don’t appear on the paperwork,’ Judd agreed. ‘Discretion being the better part of investment. How many commuters know who owns the tracks their trains run on? Whose fuel keeps their lights on?’ He waved his free hand lightly: the walls, the floor, the ceiling. ‘Who owns half of central London, come to that? New builds and old? Doesn’t matter whose names are on the deeds.’ He leaned forward. ‘You know why national sovereignty’s so treasured by the great and good? Because they get a damn fine price for it when market conditions are right.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Forty per cent of my company’s initial funding came from overseas sources.’

‘Overseas.’

‘Quite a long way overseas.’

‘You used Chinese money to launch Bullingdon Fopp.’

‘Well, it was good enough for the steel industry.’

‘The company that organised backing for the Kazan operation.’

‘Among the various other uses you found for the money.’

‘Oh, you mad bastard.’

‘So a clean breast to the PM might be self-defeating, don’t you think? I mean, he’s made a career out of gaslighting the electorate, but there’s clear blue water between fooling others and being fooled. And discovering that his intelligence service carried out an unsanctioned hit on foreign coin, well. He hates to be shown up for the dick he pretends to be. You might not get the absolution you’re after.’

Diana was experiencing something like an out-of-body moment, as if she’d just detached from herself, and was floating in the ether, bombarded by raw emotions. Chief among these was shock. She was thinking about those visitors’ tours, designed to show strangers around the Park’s outer corridors. Had she really thrown the doors wider without knowing it? Burned down her own firewalls and allowed a foreign power in?

Judd said, ‘You’re tense. Take deep breaths, then finish your wine. It’ll help.’

‘You fucking maniac.’ Her voice was low, but she might have been shooting off sparks.

‘Careful. This is not a conversation you want overheard.’

‘You’ve put me, the Park, the whole fucking country in an impossible situation. This could start a war, you realise that? An actual full-scale war.’

‘And now you’re being melodramatic.’

What she was was homicidal. ‘Melodramatic? You’re telling me you put Chinese money into a Service op—’

‘No, Diana, I put money into a Service op, and money doesn’t recognise borders. So calm down.’

‘It’s beyond treason. It’s a fucking coup!’

‘Again, melodramatic. But finish your drink. We’re going in for lunch soon, and they’ve a rather nice Zinfandel breathing.’ He downed a healthy percentage of his gin. ‘My backers know nothing of our current, ah, angelic arrangement, still less of any involvement I might have had in your recent Russian adventure. So don’t worry. I have no plans to endanger national security.’ He smiled the way alligators do. ‘I am, if you like, my own Chinese wall. A perfect model of discretion.’

‘Which you’ll drive a bulldozer through when it suits you.’

‘The point being, it doesn’t suit me. Not as long as we’re on happy terms. An injunction you’re free to interpret as widely as you like.’

Her glass was shaking in her hand, not a huge amount, but enough that he’d notice. She took a swallow, wishing it were brandy, whisky, or something being served at a beach bar many decades away. ‘You wanted Number Ten,’ she said. ‘Always have done. Now your mirror image has got there instead and fouled your nest. And this is your revenge, isn’t it?’

‘Revenge? No, Diana, this is simply me being me. Nothing’s changed. I have plans, and you’ll help me achieve those plans, and nobody need know anything about it. I appreciate that you’re not entirely happy with some of those I recruited—’

‘Cantor’s been dealt with.’

‘Really? I was going to make the offer but, as always, you’re ahead of me. So, yes, we’ll be discreet, and we’ll be careful, and your angelic choir will sing in harmony when called upon to do so. My backers, who are purely businessmen, I assure you – nothing to do with the state apparatus – they’ll remain ignorant of any dealings we have outside the public sphere, and no breath of their financial association with the Service need ever trouble the air. Provided, as I say, that we continue on happy terms.’ He reached across the table, his palm open. ‘So. A moment of truth. The alliance continues?’

Diana finished her drink, not taking her eyes off him. There was a rather nice Zinfandel breathing in the dining room; there were no doubt other delights in store, and every step they took would be dictated by him from now on, until such moment as she could reclaim the initiative. It didn’t seem likely that this would occur within the next few minutes.

She had served for years under Ingrid Tearney, who had occasionally dispensed wisdom. If you can’t choose your enemy, choose your moment. In that spirit, and still not taking her eyes off Judd’s, she put her hand in his.

‘Excellent girl. Shall we go in?’

Like a gentleman, he allowed her to precede him into the dining room.

Sid found River in the kitchen. He had been to the village while she slept, and had returned with the usual provisions – bread, cheese, milk, coffee – all of which were neatly arranged on the kitchen counter, while River himself was on the floor. She found his phone in his jeans pocket, the battery in another. He was still dark, a thought she pushed away. This is how you insert the battery, she told her hands, which fumbled and dropped and had to try again. This is how you press the buttons. She’d called 999 before remembering there were protocols; numbers you called when a Park operative hit the ground. Not that River was Park, exactly, but once you’d hit the ground, the meaner distinctions dissolved. So she called the Park too, its number still high on River’s contact list, as if there’d never been a rift. Nerve agent, she said, toxic attack, and said it again when asked to clarify.

Then sank to the floor next to him. There were things you did, were supposed to do; recovery position, cardiac massage, oral resuscitation, any one of which might sign her own death warrant if she attempted them. Nerve agent. Toxic attack. Best advice: put on a rubber suit and stand somewhere in the next county. But instead she sank to the floor and held him, words circling her mind like wagons: don’t die don’t die don’t die; the useless instruction, prompted by love, that shatters on impact with reality. Everyone dies.

Sid Baker never knew how long it took the ambulance to arrive. But well before it did she could hear its ululation, as if an unleashed spirit were hurtling towards her, screaming through trees and howling through hedges, before finally coming to rest here, in the house that would do for its haunting: a house like many another, and only incidentally the one in which River had grown up – a house with ordinary windows, an intact roof, a garden that had once been loved, and ivy still growing around its poisoned door.

Afterwards the sound disappears, howling along the lanes, the roads, the motorway, all the way back to where it started, because endings swallow their beginnings eventually, so you can’t tell one from the other. Later the same day, or early the next – at any rate, long after dark has fallen – Louisa Guy is ruining a new pair of trainers, running in the rain that has descended on London like a punishment, and every slap of her feet on the unmetalled towpath finds an echoing thud in her heart. Don’t die. Meanwhile, in the grim kitchen of his current lodgings Lech Wicinski is making bread again, or at least thumping dough with his fists. In this light, which is harsh – an overhead tube which fizzes steadily, as if there were insects hatching within – his scars present as individual razor marks rather than the undifferentiated battleground they usually appear to be; here, now, he has a face like a first draft, all crossings out and scribblings over, which is nevertheless the finished text: as good as it’s going to get. What he thinks about this is impossible to determine, but what’s certain is that he continues to pound the dough long after it has reached the point where it should be allowed to rest; is as blindly intent on this activity as, some distance away, Roderick Ho is on his computer screen, the Rodster currently being ankle deep in blood on a blasted landscape, doing combat with recognisably humanoid forms wielding recognisably inhumane weapons, a gallimaufry of swords and pikes and axes, between whose swings and roundhouses Roddy weaves, or Roddy’s avatar does, this being a slightly tweaked version of Roddy 1.0 – taller, more chiselled of feature, more lustrous of hair, and significantly ripped: an Alpha male in an Omega world – he’s confident he’s got that the right way round. Don’t die, he instructs this other Roddy, knowing the instruction to be otiose, for the RodMan is an indestructible force, with moves as slick as Skywalker’s and dialogue to match, and a smile tickles his lips as he recalls his parting shot to Damien Cantor – We’re Slough House. Hasta la vista, baby – though it vanishes as he also remembers that Cartwright didn’t come home, and before he has quite finished processing that thought his avatar’s head is pirouetting across the cratered battlefield, skipping across mud and debris as slickly as if it were the dance floor Shirley Dander occupies, for Shirley is dancing again, or dancing still, because there is a sense in which Shirley never stops dancing; the dance of being Shirley continuing even while she sleeps, which she has been known to do, when she runs out of alternatives. Nobody is watching as she achieves lift-off, her unaerodynamic shape unhampered by gravity for a moment, and for that short space of time she is at ease with herself, as if it is contact with the earth that causes her dissatisfaction, leaving her in constant need of a series of minor highs. This one ends, as all highs do, but the dance continues, and as always when she dances Shirley’s lips move to the lyrics, as if she were mumbling in prayer, the way Catherine Standish is doing – words addressed to no one in particular, because all that matters, Catherine feels, is that they be spoken, for words released into the air acquire power, and the possibility is that when she says don’t die the world will bend itself to fit, though it is equally likely that the world will refuse to listen. Certainly, words spoken aloud have had no noticeable effect on Damien Cantor’s situation, since he remains where the slow horses left him, shackled to an iron ring in an empty room. He is dozing now, his head resting between two half-full plastic bottles, and his dreams are not unlike the images summoned up by Roddy Ho’s war game, full of noise and nuisance; disordered scraps of intelligence whose meaning remains as elusive as that of the tadpole scribblings left behind by Andrey, on scraps of paper marking pages in his books, a jumble of which Reece Nesmith III is now attempting to assemble into some sort of order. But some of Andy’s scribblings are in Russian, and others so illegible that they might as well be, and before long Reece hurls the scraps into the air again, making another brief paper snowstorm. You shouldn’t have died, he thinks; an admonition hurled into the past, so less likely to be heeded than one levelled at the present, but it needed thinking. Other thoughts are best tamped down before they’ve sparked, and this might describe Diana Taverner’s preoccupations as she slips out of bed and pads downstairs, where she finds the outside security lights lit – a fox is vacating the lawn, and she hears the scrabble of its claws on the fence. Diana is in an insomniac limbo, unsure if it is the end of one day or the beginning of the next, but whichever it is, she knows that bad things lie both behind and ahead of her. These bad things coalesce around Peter Judd, who has managed to compromise her so absolutely that she is in no position to refuse him anything, but no problem is insuperable, even if some solutions seem unpalatable at first glance. What’s important is that she maintain her composure, a resolution which forms in her mind at precisely the moment the security lights switch off, which is also, by curious coincidence, precisely the moment at which Tommo Doyle regains consciousness. His evening had started in an East End pub, and has ended in a skip, an itinerary from which a number of details are absent, though some are starting to emerge through a fog of pain. He recalls a fat man with swept-back greasy hair and bristling jowls, who struck up conversation with Tommo in the evening’s first pub and was still matching him drink for drink in the last, after which – it’s coming back now – the fat man led him up a blind alley and broke his legs. ‘Who’s the crip now?’ he’d asked, before dumping Tommo like unwanted furniture, the way debris from the O.B.’s house will be thrown into a skip, shortly after its facade has been dismantled brick by brick, frame by strut, to eradicate any trace of the toxic substance smeared there. The building will be shrouded in canvas like an artwork, the artists in question favouring hazmat costumes rather than smocks, and the contents of its one furnished room – armchairs and tables, curtains and carpet – will be junked, and the O.B.’s carefully collated books hurled into random bags and boxes. If any messages were encoded in their shelving, which seems possible given the mind responsible, then those secrets are gone forever, while the house itself is left to be badgered by the elements. If houses die, this one probably will. Others persist, despite encouragement to the contrary. Back in the present, on Aldersgate Street, in the London borough of Finsbury, Slough House has weathered another day despite having been wiped from the map. It remains an estate agent’s nightmare, all leaky drainpipes and flaking woodwork, but even at this late hour exerts a pull upon its occupants, one of whom approaches now, from an unexpected direction, and vanishes into the alley that leads round back. If it were possible to see through walls, a shadow might be viewed soon afterwards, a bulky shape attached to the glowing tip of a cigarette, and rising floor by floor, its heat and light leaving tiny scars in the air behind it. When this shadow reaches the top floor the cigarette expires, but another is lit from its dying breath. And while the smoker speaks no words aloud, the dark and empty rooms below take up an echo regardless, and for a while it whispers round Slough House, don’t die, until all that is left is its tail, die, and this persists for a while, die, die, and then it stops.