Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(73)

“Where is he?”

“I have no idea.” She’d heard Diana Taverner’s voice often enough to recognise it. “Can I take a message?”

Silence. Or not quite: for some reason Catherine could hear an airy nowhere breathing loudly in her ear.

Candlestub had been initiated, and in all likelihood—she did not, whatever her colleagues thought, have total recall of the Service handbook—she should terminate this call, then report it. First Desk was tainted. But there were occasional advantages to being a slow horse, one of which was, it was unlikely that anyone would follow up her actions, so instead, she waited for Taverner’s response.

“I need some help.”

She wished she’d recorded that. Diana Taverner, seeking her help. The woman who’d done her best, some years ago, to drive a double decker bus through her sobriety: Tell me, Catherine. Something I’ve always wondered. Did Lamb ever tell you how Charles Partner really died? Now could be the moment to discover what it felt like, pressing a heel down on someone else’s throat, but even as that thought stirred she was listening to Taverner, mentally prioritising the tasks ahead. Was it habit or weakness that made her act like this? In the end, she supposed, it didn’t matter. You played the part you were given, and it was never in her to be a bad actor.

The call over, she stood for a while in Lamb’s musty office, trying not to picture the possible calamities Taverner’s requirements might provoke.

Then she phoned Lamb, and put him in the picture.

“Okay, you can uncover your ears now.” Lamb put his phone away. “Where were we?”

“I was easing your First Desk out of a job,” said de Greer. “And you were offering congratulations.”

“That right? Could have sworn you mentioned a cup of tea.”

“You may have mistaken me for your housemaid.”

“Nah, she’s shorter, and wears a leather basque.” He stood abruptly and headed into the kitchen, leaving her no choice but to follow. “Attacking the Service was your brief, wasn’t it? Reminding Sparrow the Park’s a little too independent, with Taverner at the wheel.” He located the kettle, flicked its switch, and leaned against the counter. “So when Rasnokov let him know he was nursing a viper to his tits, he was nicely primed. Sparrow knew the Park would rip him to shreds first chance it got, so he went straight on the attack.”

De Greer reached past him, turned the kettle off, and lifted it from its base. “Sparrow already hated the Park. A smoking ruin, he called it.” She filled the kettle at the sink, then put it back and flicked its switch once more. “And he hates Taverner the way all weak men hate powerful women.”

“Only he tried to deal with you first,” said Lamb.

“He had people following me,” she said, dropping teabags into a pot. “They were so bad at it, I thought they were your people at first. Slough House.”

“Only they were even worse,” said Lamb. “Which, fair dos, I wouldn’t have seen coming either.” He opened the fridge, eyeing de Greer speculatively. “You look to me like a MILF.”

“. . . I beg your pardon?”

“Milk in first?” He removed a carton. “Or have I got that wrong?”

She took two mugs from a cupboard and set them on the counter. Lamb divided about a twentieth of a pint equally between them and the surface, and said, “You think he was planning on having you killed?”

“No. I think he was hoping to convince me to deny I was a plant.”

“How hard would that have been?”

“Maybe not as much as you might think.”

“Depends on what he was offering, right? Head girl in the PM’s pole-dancing troupe?” He reached for the kettle as it boiled. “And what would Rasnokov have made of that?”

“He’d have thought I was doing my job.”

“But instead you jumped into our arms when Sparrow’s thugs tried to snatch you.”

“If that’s what they were trying to do. They seemed a little . . . uncoordinated.”

“Compared to my lot,” said Lamb. “Who managed to get arrested and run themselves over.” Steam furrowed the air as he poured water into the pot. “Still, better the dickheads you know. Bring that.” He marched back into the sitting room, leaving de Greer to carry teapot and mugs.

By the time she’d done so, Lamb had kicked his shoes off and arranged himself on the sofa in what might have passed as an alluring pose in someone with inoffensive socks. “Your disappearance must have given Sparrow a fright. One thing worse than having a tarantula appear in your cornflakes is having it vanish again. I mean, where the fuck’ll it show up next?”

“If you’re trying to flatter me, you’re not doing a very efficient job.”

“I leave seduction to the professionals. Speaking of which, you planning on screwing Bachelor? Because the excitement might kill him. And you could get him to do whatever you want by just dropping ‘hand-job’ into the conversation.”

De Greer lifted the teapot and filled both cups.

“But here’s me bimbosplaining,” said Lamb. “Anyway. Sparrow recovered, because next thing we know he’s playing the waterproof card and sending a former First Desk out looking for you. Which puts Taverner in the hot seat. So far, so very Westminster. When you’ve got a guilty conscience, scream loudly and point at someone else.”