Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(29)

“Thank you. When you come to approach your own retirement, I’m sure you’ll make necessary arrangements for your comfort and prosperity. Why think less of others?” He made a sudden bow. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to, what’s that expression? Make some rounds. But I hope we chat again before the evening’s over. It’s been most charming to meet you. A human face, after all this time.”

“It’s been good to meet you too.”

“And do relay to your Mr. Sparrow that I trust his association with Dr. de Greer is working out to his satisfaction. It was most interesting, our discussion about her work. I can see that, in the right hands, her talents would pay dividends.”

She had to hand it to him: his timing was immaculate. He’d made his bow again, was off across the room greeting others before she could make a reply.

The poets had finished with the caviar tray and had moved on to a young man bearing a salver of smoked salmon. Diana was reminded of seagulls she’d seen, ripping sandwiches from the hands of tourists. She deposited her glass on a passing tray, and didn’t look back to see if Rasnokov noticed her leaving, but would have put money on it.





Champagne and salmon, caviar and blinis, canapés stuffed with olives.

Or the last slice of pizza fished from a grease-drenched box, and garnished with extra cheese and onion, or at any rate, accompanied by crisps of that flavour.

Even with his face a scarred mask, it was possible to read Lech’s disgust as he watched Roddy Ho shovel this delicacy into his mouth. “I think you’ve just invented the Unhappy Meal.”

“All part of my five-a-day.”

Lech stared. “You’re aware that’s not just counting how many things you eat?”

Ashley said, “Lamb stole my lunch.”

“Yeah, if Slough House had a coat of arms, that’d be its motto.”

“Does anyone know if he ate it?”

“That would be his usual approach,” said Louisa. “Why? What was in it?”

“. . . Nothing.”

They were in Roddy’s office, and on Roddy’s screens was the continuing coverage of the reception at the embassy, this consisting largely of the drivers of various limos moodily smoking. Moodily was how the slow horses read it, anyway, though it was possible this was a nuance bestowed by black-and-white footage. On Bayswater Avenue evening had fallen, as it had on Aldersgate Street. One of the office’s overhead bulbs had blown so the room was dimly lit, and a draught penetrated the cardboard shield covering the broken window. This stirred the dominant odours: the pizza Roddy was eating, the black tea in Lech’s mug, the whispers of long-smoked cigarettes that pervaded Slough House, a constant reminder of their onlie begetter, Jackson Lamb.

Who had had left ages ago. He might come back, of course—Louisa half-believed he slept in his office—but for the moment he was off the premises, having departed in Catherine’s wake. Louisa would have been home herself by now if not for the ever-recurrent fear-of-missing-out that all slow horses were prey to; well, all bar Roddy Ho, who was constantly at the centre of events, if only in his head. And it was possible, she told herself, that among these visitors to the Russian embassy—the liggers and lackeys, hungry for party food and propaganda—she might just spot one Alexa Chaikovskaya, absurd as that might sound. But was it? She’d be old now, seventies at least, but that was hardly a stretch for these former KGB types, some of whom seemed to undergo living mummification, still wheeled out on parades when slippers and a nice cup of cocoa would have been a kinder fate. Chaikovskaya had been a colonel in the eighties, and might have gone on to greater heights. Not that Louisa was up to speed on ranks in the Russian machine. River Cartwright would have known.

Someone was leaving, appearing as a shadow on one of Roddy’s screens, silhouetted in the embassy’s doorway. A woman, not the one on Louisa’s mind, but recognisable nevertheless. Lech said it first: “Lady Di.”

“Why’d you call her that?” Ashley said.

Louisa and Lech shared a look. “Because everyone does?”

“No, they don’t. Why would they?”

“. . . Because her name’s Diana?”

Their mutual incomprehension would have made everyone present uncomfortable, if that number hadn’t included Roddy Ho.

Onscreen, Taverner stepped inside a cab.

“Black car,” Roddy murmured under his breath.

“Why would she be there?” Louisa asked.

“It’s an official function,” Lech said. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

“I thought she hated that kind of thing.”

“Gotta fly the flag, I suppose.”

“Why did Lamb want us watching this anyway?” Ashley said.

“Did he say he did?” Lech said.

“Well, no, but . . .”

“But he knew we would, once he’d asked Roddy to hijack the coverage.”

“Yeah,” said Louisa. “You think it’s Taverner he wanted us to clock?”

“What, because he reckons she’s up to something dodgy?”

“To be fair, she usually is. Though I’m having trouble imagining it having anything to do with the Russians.”

“On the other hand, there she is,” said Lech. “Strolling out of their embassy.”