Real Tigers (15 page)

And catch yourself saying any of
that
out loud, he thought as he lifted his glass, and you can kiss the lovable-scamp image goodnight.

But none of this was making Sly Monteith appear, damn the man. He was milking the moment, obviously; the only time in his life he'd have the Home Secretary on hold. If he had any political sense he'd bank the credit, but Monteith had always been a second-rater, with the second-rater's habit of dropping rehearsed reflections into conversation. Ingrid Tearney had suggested he was a crony, which was a joke—Monteith would give his left bollock to be a crony—but he had at least proved useful today, his tiger team giving Judd the weapon he needed to de-fang Dame Ingrid. Cronydom, though; friendship; that was dangerous territory. How could you know someone would never turn out a liability? His glass needed refilling, and the cute waitress was nowhere in sight. Suppressing a sigh, he did the job himself.

Some kind of commotion was in progress on the street, vehicular squealing, and people hurrying past. You didn't expect that round here. Judd sipped wine, and found pleasure in the thought that he'd bent Ingrid Tearney to his will not an hour ago. That ridiculous Slough House: in itself, an unimportant anomaly, but any victory mattered. Tearney's reign as head of the Service would come to an abrupt end if he chose to make a stink about this morning's incursion into the Park, and forcing a policy decision on her served to underline her necessary deference. Besides, if his party stood for anything, it was for defending the right of the strong to flourish, which meant preventing the weak from taking up unnecessary space. Slough House was an excellent example of precisely that. But what was going on outside, and where had the staff vanished to?

Diners nearer the windows were craning forward to see what was happening. Without a clear view from his booth, Judd stood abruptly and dropped his napkin. Sirens were sounding, their distant, interlooping wails a disorganised commentary on city busyness. The irritation Judd had been feeling slipped into something less comfortable. He made for the door, aware that he was drawing glances: might be something, might be nothing, but there was never any harm in showing himself prepared for an emergency. The redheaded waitress was by the door, peering outside, all pretence at professionalism history. A few yards down the road lay a lump, obscured by people crouching round it.

“What's going on?”

“There's been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

The girl didn't know.

The sirens grew closer.

The lump was wearing a grey suit.

Someone was speaking into a mobile phone: “No, I swear, he was dumped here by a van. Guy got out, opened the back door, and unloaded him like he was a sack of rubbish . . . ”

Judd looked both ways, but saw no van.

“Took off like a bat out of hell . . . ”

The first police car arrived, and its occupants jumped out and approached the body at a run.

“Okay, okay, let's have some room here. Let's have some room.”

“Could everyone please back off, please.”

The first officer dropped to one knee by the body and began speaking urgently into his radio.

Judd's first thought was that this was Tearney's work; an emphatic declaration that she wasn't his lapdog. But that didn't survive long. If the Service she headed was this efficient, Monteith's tiger team would have been wrapped in chains and dumped in the Thames by coffee time.

“Did anybody see what happened? Could those of you who saw what happened give your names to my colleague here, and we'll be taking statements just as soon as—”

Judd shook his head, and stepped back into Anna Livia's.

“I'm ready to order,” he told the waitress.

“And your guest?”

“Won't be joining me after all.”

It meant he had the bottle to himself, of course. But gave him plenty to think about while he waited for his lunch.

PART TWO

true enemies

Y
ou could feasibly throw
a tennis ball and cover the distance between Slough House and St. Giles Cripplegate, but if you wanted your ball back, it might take a while. For there was no straight route through the Barbican, which resembled an Escher drawing assembled in brick by a spook architect, its primary purpose being not so much to keep you from getting where you were going, but to leave you unsure about where you'd been. Every path led to a junction resembling the one you'd just left, offering routes to nowhere you wanted to go. And set down in the middle of all this, like a paddle steamer in an airport, was the fourteenth-century church of St. Giles, within whose walls John Milton prayed and Shakespeare daydreamed; which had survived fire, war and restoration, and which now reposed serenely on a brick-tiled square, offering quiet for those needing respite from the city's buzz, and a resting place for poor sods who'd got lost, and given up hope of rescue. Today there was a book sale under way, with pallets of paperbacks laid on trestle tables along the north aisle, and an honour-box on a chair awaiting donations. A few moody browsers were picking over the goods. Apparently ignoring them, Jackson Lamb clumped past and sat on a bench in the nave, near the back. Three rows ahead, an old dear was picking her way through a private litany of petition and remorse. The way her shoulders trembled, Lamb could tell her lips were moving as she prayed.

Separating herself from the book-fanciers, Ingrid Tearney joined him.

He said, “Cripplegate. You think they had their own private entrance?”

“I expect they were beggars.”

“You're probably right. Probably both kinds. Lucky and poor.”

“I've heard a lot of things about you, Mr. Lamb. But never that you were one for whimsy.”

“I don't spend much time in churches. It's maybe rubbing off.” He raised one buttock off the bench, like a man preparing to fart, but reconsidered, and settled back onto an even keel. “I'm having a busy day. Half my team's gone AWOL, and now I'm missing lunch. What's important enough to let my takeaway get cold?”

“An hour ago, I agreed to close down Slough House.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don't seem bothered.”

“If it was going to happen, we'd not be sitting here. I'd be in my office, listening to Diana Taverner crowing down the phone.”

“Maybe I wanted to tell you in person. A perk of the job. It's not like your department's a jewel in the Service's crown, after all. It's more like a slug in its lettuce patch. There'll be few tears shed in the Park when the memo goes round.”

Lamb said, “I don't suppose you can smoke in here.”

The old woman glanced back at them, religious irritation on her face.

“It would be the work of a moment to put you all on the street. It's not just that what your team does is barely worth doing. It's that when they start doing things they're not supposed to be doing, the mess they make requires serious attention.”

Lamb nodded proudly.

“One of your operatives shot and killed a Russian citizen not long ago.”

“I remember,” said Lamb. “He's still upset he didn't get a bonus.”

“Slough House is supposed to be a punishment posting. Your . . . slow horses?”

“They get called that.”

“They're supposed to throw the towel in. Pursue opportunities more in keeping with their talents. Like local government, or petty crime.”

“‘Petty' is uncalled for,” Lamb objected. “They have weapons training.”

“I hope you're not making life easy for them.”

Lamb paused, and seemed to be contemplating the surroundings: old stone, quiet air, wooden benches. Hymnals were slotted into ledges in front of them, and motes of dust, some of which might have been breathed in and sneezed out by Shakespeare, danced in coloured shafts of light that beamed through the windows. It was almost cool, compared to the bakery outdoors. Compared to Slough House, it was a slice of Paradise.

“I think I can safely say I'm not doing that,” he said at last.

“Or too hard.”

He looked at her.

“Because overdoing the punishment, letting them know you relish putting the boot in . . . Well. That can be counterproductive, don't you find? The sort of thing that makes some people dig their heels in harder. Alpha types, I mean.”

“You've not met Roddy Ho, have you?”

“You keep deflecting.”

“And you keep going round the houses. Any chance of getting to the point? I have underlings to bully.”

“Peter Judd.”

“Our new boss, God help us all. What about him?”

“He's the one wants Slough House shut down.”

Lamb shook his head. “I doubt that.”

“Trust me. He just got through explaining it.”

“Trust you? There's a topic for another day. No, what Peter Judd wants is to wave his dick about. Metaphorically, for a change. And you're the one he's waving it at. Slough House just happens to be in the way. You're not seriously telling me you haven't worked that out for yourself?”

Again, the old woman looked back and glared. Lamb waggled his fingers in return.

Ingrid Tearney looked across at the book-browsers. They'd been joined by an elderly gentleman who'd taken a seat next to the honour-box. Whether this showed lack of trust remained open to question. He might have been planning a heist. She'd lowered her voice when she next spoke:

“I got that far, yes, thank you. It seems Mr. Judd has his eyes on a higher prize, and requires my cooperation. This little purge he's suggested is his way of showing me where the power resides.”

Lamb said, “Higher prize.”

He'd taken a cigarette from his pocket; one of his regular tricks. Few people ever saw him with a packet in his hands. He made no move to light it; instead rolling it between finger and thumb, as if telling a rosary of his own invention.

He said, “If he wants to bring down his own government he'd be better off concentrating on the chancellor. Coke and hookers were a quiet night in for that lad, back in the nineties. One good splash in the tabloids and he's history. The PM wouldn't last long after that. They've always been a buy-one-get-one-free package.”

“The trouble with leaks is, they're generally traced to their source. And if Judd wants the party grassroots on his side, he's got to be seen to be squeaky-loyal. No, he doesn't want to stage a coup, he wants to be acclaimed a saviour. While the leadership falls apart, he'll be glad-handing local worthies and organising charity balls. Not a hint of treachery in sight.”

“Charity ball,” wondered Lamb. “Is that like a pity fu—”

“We're in a church.”

“Fair dos.” He studied his virgin cigarette in puzzlement, then tucked it behind an ear. “Well, you didn't bring me here to play Chinese whispers. You've already let his tyres down, haven't you?”

“He punctured himself.”

“Tell me.”

Leaning closer, Dame Ingrid told him about the tiger team run by Judd's old school chum, Sly Monteith, and about how Lamb's department had been used as a wedge to prise open Regent's Park.

“So they took Standish,” Lamb said, his tone neutral.

“That's right. And sent a picture of her, bound and gagged, to your Mr. Cartwright as an incentive.”

“Unnecessary effort,” Lamb said. “Offering him a biscuit would have done the trick. So that was Judd's plan. How many ways did it go wrong?”

“Mr. Monteith's body was dumped on a pavement in SW1 about an hour ago.”

“And this came as a surprise?”

“The Service doesn't solve its problems with brute force, Mr. Lamb.”

“Maybe not in SW1,” Lamb agreed. “So who left him in the gutter? Let me guess. His own boys?”

“So it would seem,” Tearney said. “I had a rather unusual telephone conversation a short while ago with a gentleman who tells me he's, ah, now in charge of Mr. Monteith's enterprise. And that the goalposts have shifted.”

“The tigers weren't as tame as they pretended, then,” said Lamb. “What is it he wants?”

Dame Ingrid told him.

All our
problems would melt away if we could sit peacefully in a room. Catherine had heard that somewhere, probably at an AA meeting. Fractured pieces of wisdom, cobbled together from half-remembered axioms: put them together, and you had what passed for a philosophy, in the twilight world of the drunkard. And sober drunks could be just as dull as the real kind. Something else she'd learned at meetings.

Sitting peacefully in a room was what she was doing now, but it didn't feel like her problems were melting away.

It must be past lunchtime, she thought. The sun was high, and the heat stifling. The air she'd coaxed through the window tasted more summery than London air, with a sweeter tang, but she was enough the city girl to find it overpowering, and would almost have preferred it if that bus in the yard revved its engines, blasting noisome fumes into the atmosphere. Apart from anything else, country air reminded her of the voices.

The voices had come to her during her “retreat,” which had been spent in a perfectly comfortable, perfectly respectable sanatorium in the Dorset countryside; a hideaway for Service casualties. Among all those walking disasters—joes who'd done too much, seen too much, had too much done to them—she'd been far from the only drying-out drunk: it was a jagged brotherhood she'd joined, a shattered sisterhood. Everyone was a walking collection of angles, though the facility itself seemed to have had most of its edges smoothed away. Sudden noises were discouraged, but happened regardless. A tray would drop on a tiled, percussive floor, and the whole community would ring for minutes. When it struck her to wonder what havoc a fire drill would cause, she'd had to bite her tongue to keep from hysterics.

Her room had been about the size of the one she was in now. Through its window was a view of a smooth, very English lawn bordered by ash trees. Occasional twinned piercings in the turf indicated where croquet hoops had been fixed, but this game, being outwardly genteel but actually vicious, had been found too reminiscent of Service life to be a soothing pastime, and the hoops and mallets were disposed of. Those perfectly circular wounds in the lawn remained, a grassy stigmata just barely visible, and maybe they'd heal themselves, and maybe they wouldn't . . . There was no end to the spirals of thought that could catch you; carry you away like Dorothy in her tornado, and drop you into a brighter land where logic eased its grip. The sober world, on the other hand, remained bleached of colour. Even the lawn, even those ash trees, were grim and grey and lifeless. Well, of course the ash trees. Why else were they called that?

But in the absence of colour, new sounds arrived. The voices turned up that first week. It was as if a small crowd of people, forever out of sight, had an awful secret to impart to Catherine all at once, so what reached her was an unbroken mutter of syllables, never approaching clarity. They were her secret sharers, and from the start she had known they existed only in her own delirium, and that the secret they were desperate to share was that she would fall and break at the next opportunity. There was no sadness or triumph in this. It was simply what was bound to happen: ultimately she'd be waved away from this hospital-like seclusion and rejoin the world of noise and lights and sharp edges, where the first thing she'd do would be to open a bottle and jump in.

She'd clung onto this as the first real hope, during those early days. She could stand all of it—the cure, the recovery; the effort demanded of her to regain her pride and her knowledge of who she could be—provided oblivion remained a constant possibility. Even now, most mornings, that thought woke with her. The voices had disappeared in time, and the effort to become herself once again had succeeded in the sense that it remained her daily struggle, but she'd never entirely forgotten them; rather, she'd bundled them in rags and stowed them in the lumber room of her mind. This was not an accepted recovery tactic, but it had worked for her, so far.

And so lost was she in this memory that she gave a small cry when the door rattled, as if her long-ago voices had assumed corporeal form, and were arriving now to take her away.

“You all right?”

This voice was Bailey's.

Catherine composed herself, and stood. “I'm fine.”

He undid the padlock and let himself in, a manoeuvre complicated by the tray he was carrying. On it were a cardboard-packed sandwich, an apple, what looked like a flapjack tightly wrapped in cellophane, its price-sticker visible, a small bottle of water, a 25-mililetre bottle of Pinot Grigio, and a plastic beaker.

“Thought you'd be hungry,” he said.

He laid the tray on the bed.

Unable to take her eyes from it, Catherine gestured numbly towards the window. “There's a bus out there.”

“I know.”

“Why is there a bus out there?”

Even to her own ears, she sounded like she was reciting phrases from a teach-yourself-English book.

“The people who own this place, that was their tour bus, I think.”

“They have a band?” Images of an ancient movie swam briefly into focus. Pinot wasn't her favourite wine, but its sudden appearance had displaced previous pleasures.
Summer Holiday
. That was the film.

Bailey laughed. “They ran a tour company. Ferrying folk round local sights?”

“I don't even know where we are.”

“No, well. Everywhere's historical, isn't it?”

Catherine said something else. She wasn't sure what.

Bailey said, “Went bust, I suppose. This place used to be a farm. Now it's a holiday let. Next stop, it'll probably be a youth hostel.”

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

“Not long.”

“This isn't going to end well,” she said. “You're messing with serious people.”