Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(72)

Rashford’s was open to the public, but liked to give the impression it wasn’t. Occupying the third and fourth floors of a building on Cheapside, its sole entrance was sandwiched between plate-glass windows whose mannequins’ blank stares were aimed at the well-heeled passerby: winter coats their current garb. The door was propped open, but the red-carpeted staircase, with its polished brass handrail, seemed less an invitation than a glimpse of forbidden pleasure. Diana, who kept herself informed of who was drinking where, knew it had enjoyed a brief vogue between lockdowns, its speakeasy vibe chiming with the panicked pleasure-seeking of the times. This afternoon, it seemed deserted. The carpet swallowed any sound her heels might have made, but the staircase seemed full of empty echoes nonetheless.

At the top of the fourth half-flight were a pair of glass doors, and behind them a wide room, lit by dusty daylight and the one or two tassel-shaded tablelamps. A lone man sat in a red-leathered booth, absorbed in his phone. It wasn’t too late to turn and run. Judd was barely trustworthy, and might have decided to play a joker. The Dogs could be heading here even now. But she pushed through the doors regardless and found herself standing by a long, curved bar. Its tender moved sleekly towards her, dropping the cloth he’d been holding onto a tap. “Good afternoon, and how can I help you?” Though the way he said it, the look he gave her, he already knew.

“I’m looking for.” The name escaped her. Her memory was a series of corridors, lined with lockers; keys hung in each, with labels attached. Nathan. “Nathan.”

“Ms. Huntress?”

That sounded right.

He’d done this before, she could tell. Had an envelope prepared, tucked under the till. She wondered, briefly, what strands tied this man, or this bar, to Peter Judd; bound them tightly enough that it only took a phone call and there was cash to hand. “Thank you.”

“No problem. And let Sir know we look forward to his company again soon.”

Feeling more like a joe than ever she went back through the glass doors, envelope in hand, and stopped on the landing to make a quick count: five hundred, in tens and twenties. Had she not done that, she’d have met them on their way up: three of them, by the sound of it; their tread muffled on the staircase carpet. Friends or colleagues, out-of-towners or local wetheads: any of these would be making noise. Would be laughing with each other, already picturing that first glass being passed across the polished bar.

Diana turned and headed up the next flight.

At the top of which was a second bar, shrouded in darkness, its doors locked. There was no more red carpet; a sign reading staff only was taped to the wall beside the next flight of stairs. Someone had made a sad face out of the O. The crew of three—face it, they were Dogs—went into the lower bar; she could hear Nathan greeting them over-enthusiastically as she moved quietly upwards. There were two doors at the top. The first warned about unauthorised admittance, and was locked. The second opened, but was a cupboard. She saw brooms, a pail, a ziggurat of cleaning fluid bottles, and a plastic-wrapped palette of light bulbs, their ghostly faces Munch-like in the gloom. A metal box on the wall probably shielded fuses. If it did, and she pulled wires about, she might set off an alarm, and in the ensuing confusion grow wings, or become invisible. But it was padlocked: a flimsy piece of hardware, maybe two quids’ worth. She looked in her bag, found a pen, slid it into the closed hoop of the flimsy padlock and pushed hard. The padlock broke. Dropping its parts into her bag, she opened the box to find, instead of fuses, several rows of keys, which, like those in her memory, were labelled; one read Roof. She took it, closed the cupboard, and paused before slipping the key into the first door’s lock. Voices. Nothing of clarity, though if Nathan were cooperating, the Dogs would already be standing next to her. The Roof key opened the first door, and she stepped through it onto another staircase, then locked it behind her. The noise as the tumblers fell was louder than a stolen goose.

She forced herself to wait in the darkness, breathing through her mouth to make less noise. Someone was coming up the stairs. The doorknob turned and the door rattled, Diana’s darkness momentarily broken by its outline, sketched in light. There was a pause. It happened again. Then the second door was tried, and its contents silently inventoried: cleaning fluids, broom, pail. Those mutely screaming lightbulbs. A metal rattle as the box was opened. She braced. Anyone on their game would join these dots: a locked door, a row of keys. A Dog discovering which key wasn’t there would kick her door down in a second or two. She counted them. And then someone was heading downstairs again. She gave it another moment, then found her phone. By its light she went up eleven stairs, unbolted the next door, and stepped onto a flat stretch of roof.

Diana hadn’t spent long in the dark, but London’s light was still at first staggering; buildings seen from unaccustomed angles, the smell of the Thames on the sunlit wind. She thought what every joe thinks, after a close encounter with discovery: I’m alive. And then she regarded the burner phone in her hand, with its single contact listed, and tapped out the only number she had by heart.

Catherine had the sense of following an instruction she’d written for herself, possibly in a dream. It’s not complicated. The phone is on his desk. Sometimes it rings. She was at her own desk, and Lamb was who knew where? If he’s out and it rings and I hear it, I’ll answer it. If I get there in time. And as she reached the receiver a strange thought occurred: How many more times would she answer a ringing landline? It almost never happened anymore.