Dead Lions (8 page)

Lamb’s door was open. Catherine tapped, and they went in. Lamb was trying to turn his computer on: he still wore his coat and an unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth. He eyed them as if they were Mormons. “What’s this, an intervention?”

River said, “We were wondering what’s going on.”

Puzzled, Lamb stared at River, then plucked the cigarette from
his lips and stared at that instead. Then returned it to his mouth and stared at River again. “Eh?”

“We were—”

“Yeah, I got that. I was having a what-the-fuck moment.” He looked at Catherine. “You’re a drunk, so wondering what’s happening’s a daily experience. What’s his excuse?”

“Dickie Bow,” Catherine said. Lamb’s crack didn’t visibly affect her, but she’d been in the business a while. She’d been Charles Partner’s PA while Partner had run the Service; had filled that role until finding him dead in his bathtub, though her career had been interrupted by, yes, being a drunk. Along the way, she’d picked up clues about hiding emotions. “He was in Berlin same time as you. And died last week on a bus outside Oxford. That’s where you’ve been, isn’t it? Tracing his journey.”

Lamb shook his head in disbelief. “What happened? Someone come round and sew your balls back on? I told you not to answer the door to strangers.”

“We don’t like being out of the loop.”

“You’re always out of the loop. The loop’s miles away. Nearest you’ll get to being in the loop is when they make a documentary about it and show it on the History Channel. I thought you were aware of that. Oh god, here’s another one.”

Marcus Longridge had appeared behind them, carrying a manila folder. “I’m supposed to give this to—”

Lamb said, “I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Longridge,” said Marcus.

“I don’t want to know. I was making a point.” Lamb plucked a stained mug from the litter on his desk, and threw it at Catherine. River caught it before it reached her head. Lamb said, “Well, I’m glad we’ve had this chat. Now fuck off. Cartwright, give that to Standish. Standish, fill it with tea. And you, I’ve forgotten your name again, go next door and get my lunch. Tell Sam I want my usual Tuesday.”

“It’s Monday.”

“I know it’s Monday. If I wanted my usual Monday, I wouldn’t have to specify, would I?” He blinked. “Still here?”

Catherine held his stare a little longer. It had become a matter between the two of them, River realised. He might as well not be here. And for a moment he thought Lamb might look away first, but it didn’t happen; Catherine gave a shrug instead, one in which something seemed to leave her body, then turned away. She took the folder Longridge was holding, and went into her office. The other pair trooped downstairs.

So, that went well, he thought.

But before River had been at his desk twenty minutes came a godawful noise from upstairs; the kind you’d get if you tipped a monitor off a high-enough desk that the screen shattered when it hit the deck. It was followed by the scattering rattle of plastic-and-glass shards spreading across the available space. River wasn’t the only one who jumped. And everyone in the building heard the oath that followed:

“
Fucking hell!
”

After that, Slough House went quiet for a while.

The film
was grainy, jerky, black-and-white, and showed a train at a platform late in the evening. It was raining: the platform was roofed, but water trickled down from misaligned guttering. Seconds passed while nothing happened. Then came a sudden onrush, as if a gate had been opened offscreen releasing a swarm of anxious passengers. Their jerky motion was due to the film skipping frames. Movements gave it away: the sudden appearance of hands from pockets; umbrellas folding without warning. Mostly, the expressions on offer betrayed irritation, anxiety, the desire to be elsewhere. River, who was good at faces, recognised no one.

They were in Ho’s office, because Ho had the best equipment. After Lamb had tipped his computer over while trying to insert
a CD—a piece of slapstick River would have given a month’s salary to have witnessed—he’d boiled in his room half an hour, then stalked downstairs as if this had been the plan all along. Catherine Standish followed a moment later. It might have been residual embarrassment which prevented Lamb from protesting when the other slow horses assembled in his wake, though River doubted it. Jackson Lamb couldn’t have defined embarrassment without breaking into a sweat. And once he’d given Ho the CD, and it was up and running, it was clear he expected them all to watch. Questions would follow.

There was no sound; nothing to indicate where this was happening. When the platform cleared the train began to move, and there were no clues there, either: it simply jerked into motion and pulled out of view. What was left was an empty platform and a railway track, onto which heavy rain fell. After four or five seconds of this, which might have been fifteen or twenty in real time, the screen went black. The entire sequence had lasted no more than three minutes.

“And again,” Lamb said.

Ho tapped keys, and they watched it again.

This time, when it stopped, Lamb said, “Well?”

Min Harper said, “CCTV footage.”

“Brilliant. Anyone got anything intelligent to add?”

Marcus Longridge said, “That’s a west-bound train. They run out of Paddington into Wales and Somerset. The Cotswolds. Where was that, Oxford?”

“Yes. But I still can’t remember your name.”

River said, “I’ll make him a badge. Meanwhile, what about the bald guy?”

“Which bald guy?”

“About a minute and a half in. Most of the others pile onto the train, but he walks up the platform, past the camera. Presumably he gets on board further up.”

“Why him?” Lamb asked.

“Because it’s pouring. If everyone else is getting on the train within view of the camera, that suggests the rest of the platform’s not covered. They’re all trying to stay out of the rain. But he’s not. And it’s not like he’s carrying an umbrella.”

“Or wearing a hat,” Lamb said.

“Like the one you brought in.”

Lamb paused a beat, then said, “Like that, yes.”

“If that’s Oxford,” Catherine said, “then that’s the crowd just got off the bus Dickie Bow died on. Right?”

Looking at Ho, Lamb said, “You have been a busy bee. Anything else you’ve made public I should know about? My dental records? Bank account?”

Ho was still smarting from being reduced to entertainments officer. “That’d be like asking a plastic surgeon to do your ingrown toenails.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m insulting you,” Lamb said kindly.

“I …”

“Because when that happens you’ll know all about it, you slanty-eyed twat.” He turned to the others. “Okay,” he said. “Cartwright wasn’t wrong. And it’s not often I get to say that. Our bald friend, let’s call him Mr. B, got on a train at Oxford last Tuesday evening. The train was headed for Worcester, but stopped several times along the way. Where’d Mr. B get off?”

“Are we supposed to guess?” Min asked.

“Yes. Because I’m really interested in pointless speculation.”

River said, “You got this footage from Oxford?”

“Well done.”

“Presumably other stations will have coverage too.”

“And aren’t there cameras on trains these days?” Louisa put in.

Lamb clapped. “This is fantastic,” he said. “It’s like having little elves to do my thinking for me. So, now you’ve established
those facts, which would have taken an idiot half the time, let’s move on to the more important business of me telling one of you to go check out such coverage and bring me an answer.”

“I can do that,” River said.

Lamb ignored him. “Harper,” he said. “This could be up your street. It doesn’t involve carrying anything, so you don’t need worry about losing it.”

Min glanced at Louisa.

“Whoah,” said Lamb. He looked at Ho. “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“Harper just shared a little glance with his girlfriend. I wonder what that means.” He leaned back in Ho’s chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “You’re going to tell me you can’t.”

“We’ve been given an assignment,” Harper said.

“ ‘We’?”

“Louisa and—”

“Call her Guy. It’s not a disco.”

The thing to do here, they all decided independently, was not waste a whole lot of time asking why that might make it a disco.

“And also,” Lamb went on, “ ‘Assignment’?”

Min said, “We’ve been seconded. Webb said you’d know about it by now.”

“Webb? That would be the famous Spider? Isn’t he in charge of counting paperclips?”

“He does other stuff too,” Louisa said.

“Like, ah,
second
my staff? For an ‘assignment’? Which is what, precisely? And please say you’re not allowed to give me details.”

“Babysitting a visiting Russian.”

“I thought they had professionals for that sort of thing,” Lamb said. “You know, people who know what they’re doing. Except, don’t tell me, this is Sir Len’s legacy, right? What a circus. If we’re that worried about him fiddling the books, why didn’t we stop him years ago?”

“Because we didn’t know?” Catherine suggested.

“We’re supposed to be the fucking Intelligence Service,” Lamb pointed out. “Okay, you’re seconded. I don’t get a say in the matter, do I?” The wolfish grin which accompanied this carried a promise of happier days, when he would have a say in the matter, and would say it loud and clear. “Which leaves me with this crew.”

“I’ll do it,” River said again.

“For Christ’s sake, this is MI5, not a kiddies’ playground. Operational decisions don’t turn on who says bagsies. I decide who goes.” Lamb counted them off from the right. “Eenie meenie minie mo.” At mo, his finger rested on River. He moved it back to Shirley. “Meenie. You’re it.”

River said, “I was mo!”

“And I don’t base operational decisions on children’s games. Remember?” He pressed eject, and the CD drawer slid open. He tossed the disc in Shirley’s direction, and it sailed through the open door. “Butterfingers. Pick that up and watch it again. Then go find Mr. B.”

“Now?”

“No, on your own time. Of course now.” He looked round. “I could have sworn the rest of you had jobs to do.”

Catherine arched her eyebrows at River, and left. The others followed, with visible relief, leaving only Ho and River.

Lamb said to Ho, “I might have guessed Cartwright would want to continue the discussion. But it beats me why you’re still here.”

“It’s my office,” Ho explained.

Lamb waited.

Ho sighed, and left.

River said, “You were always going to do that, weren’t you?”

“Do what?”

“All that crap about putting the kettle on, fetching your lunch.
It was a wind-up. You need us. Somebody has to do your leg-work.”

“Speaking of legs,” said Jackson Lamb, and raised his so they stuck out horizontally, then farted. “I was always going to do that, too,” he pointed out. He put his feet back on the ground. “Doesn’t make it any less effective.”

Whatever you thought of Lamb’s act, nobody ever accused his farts of lacking authenticity.

“Anyway,” he went on, unperturbed by his toxic gift. “If it hadn’t been for Standish, we wouldn’t have gone all round the houses.
Don’t like being out of the loop
, for Christ’s sake. Can’t blame it on the rag at her age. Unless pickling herself in booze all those years had a preservative effect. What do you think?”

“I think it’s pretty strange you’re so sure Bow was murdered when the post-mortem said his heart gave out.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, but I’ll let it pass. Here’s another one.” Lamb folded his right leg over his left. “If you wanted to poison someone without anyone finding out, what would you use?”

“I’m not really up on poisons.”

“Hallelujah. Something you’re not an expert in.” Lamb had this magic trick: he could produce a cigarette out of almost nowhere; out of the briefest dip into the nearest pocket. In its opposite number he found a disposable lighter. River would have protested, but smoke could only improve the atmosphere. It was improbable Lamb was unaware of this. “Longridge hasn’t brought my lunch yet. I hope the sorry bastard’s not forgotten.”

“So you do know his name.”

He regretted that as soon as he’d said it.

Lamb said, “Jesus, Cartwright. Which of us does that embarrass more?” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, and the coal glowed orange, half an inch long. “I’ll be in late tomorrow,” he said. “Stuff to do. You know how it is.” A thin cloud of tobacco
smoke turned his eyes to slits. “Don’t break your neck down the stairs.”

“Up the stairs,” River said. “Ho’s office, remember?”

“Cartwright?”

River halted in the doorway.

“You don’t want to know how Dickie Bow died?”

“You’re seriously gunna tell me?”

“It’s obvious, when you think about it,” Lamb said. “Whoever killed him used an untraceable poison.”

U
ntraceable poison, thought River
Cartwright.

Jesus wept!

On the tube, an attractive brunette sat next to him, her skirt riding up as she did so. Almost immediately they fell into conversation, and, getting off at the same stop, hesitated by the escalator to exchange numbers. The rest followed like tumbling dice: wine, pizza, bed, a holiday; first flat, first anniversary, first child. Fifty years later, they looked back on a blessed existence. Then they died. River rubbed an eye with a knuckle. The seat opposite became free, and the woman moved into it, and took the hand of the man next to her.

From London Bridge River went on to Tonbridge, which his grandfather inhabited as if it were a territory annexed after a lifetime’s battle. The O.B. could wander to the shops; pick up paper, milk and groceries; twinkle at butcher, baker, and post office lady, and none of them would come within a mile of guessing that hundreds of lives had passed through his hands; that he’d made decisions and given orders that sometimes had altered the course of events, and at other times—more crucially, he’d have said—ensured that everything remained the same. He was generally thought to have been something in the Ministry of Transport. Good naturedly, he took the blame for deficiencies in the local bus service.