Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(74)

“They prefer to think of it as reframing the narrative.”

“Whatever they call it, it’s done the trick. Because the Park’s overflowing with Biro-bashers, and according to my Miss Havisham, Taverner’s hiding on the roof of some wine bar off Cheapside.” He slurped some tea, and scowled. “That’s gunna taste better coming back up.”

“The teabags are very old.”

“Anyway, point is, you’re in demand. Diana needs you to prove you’ve not been waterproofed, and Sparrow needs you so he can, yeah, reframe your narrative. Well, that or bury you somewhere. And as for me, you know what I want?” Lamb put his cup down. The hand that had held it was now wielding a cigarette. “I want to know why you made that little startled movement when I said Rasnokov burned you. Because if that was always the plan, then why the surprise?”

“I wasn’t surprised.”

“But you twitched.”

He pulled the lighter from his breast pocket, and tossed it at her. She caught it, shook it, clicked it, and lit his cigarette. Then said, “How many of these do you get through?”

“I’m supposed to keep count? They’re called disposables for a reason.”

She clicked again, and as the flame burst into life held it up, so she was staring straight into it. An act of self-hypnosis, perhaps. She said, “How much do you know about Rasnokov?”

“My Top Trumps set’s out of date. But I know he can plot round corners.”

She laughed softly. “This was never Rasnokov’s plan, Mr. Lamb. Back when he was what you’d call a joe, he had a handler. And it’s her he still looks to for his brightest ideas.”

“‘Her?’”

“My mother.”

Through the window, a figure appeared in the mews: John Bachelor. For a moment he wavered on the threshold, as if keeping balance on the cobbles were as much as he could focus on. And then he reached out and knocked on the door, and Sophie de Greer faded back into the nervous, twitchy victim he was expecting before going to let him in.





Catherine said, “And that’s your mission. Should you decide to accept it.”

“Leg it to Cheapside, locate Taverner, extricate her from . . . malefactors, and get her to Chelsea,” said Louisa.

“That’s right.”

“Except she didn’t say ‘malefactors,’” Lech suggested.

“No,” said Catherine. “She didn’t say ‘malefactors.’”

“And what’s in it for us?” asked Louisa.

“I’m tempted to suggest Taverner’s undying gratitude. But I think we all know the concept’s alien to her.”

“What’s Lamb say?”

“He said, ‘This is going to be good.’”

Louisa was at her desk; Lech by the window. Catherine had closed the door behind her, and stood regarding the pair of them. She didn’t appear to be enjoying the moment, probably because she knew what their response would be.

“So what are we waiting for?”

She said, “I should remind you that it’s only a few days since your last adventure. And,” looking pointedly at Lech, “you’re still walking like somebody stole your stretcher.”

“A bit stiff, that’s all. Besides, that was Ho’s fault. And he’s not joining us, is he?”

“No,” said Catherine. “Lamb had something else in mind for Roddy.”

Of all the reasons Diana had for wanting to run Sparrow’s head up a pole, here was number one: that she’d been forced to enlist the slow horses for aid and succour. The only upside she could see was they’d be bound to fuck things up, and the way things stood, even that wasn’t actually an upside.

She was on the roof. On the street below, a black SUV—a Service car—was illegally parked outside Rashford’s door, its team, bar the driver, now in the building. Theoretically this should have been a source of gratification—her boys and girls on the hub could track a warm body through London’s streets as easily as if she had a red balloon tied to her sleeve—but just once, she’d have found ineptitude welcome. Because the Dogs were here to take her back to the Park, and from that moment on she’d be officially suspended, a career limbo from which few emerged intact. And if she were relying on Slough House for rescue she’d be better off with an actual red balloon, one she could float away on.

Meanwhile, she was still carrying her secret mobile, and the last thing she needed to be found in possession of was a link to Peter Judd. Stepping back from the edge, she was removing the sim card when the mosquito buzz that had been nagging away in the background penetrated her consciousness.

Looking up, she saw the drone hovering twenty yards overhead.

This doesn’t get covered in the style mags, but good-hair days bring their own problems. Running a comb through his locks, Roddy offered his reflection a steely glance, then mussed himself up again and activated the engaging, puppyish grin. Then tried a steely/tousled combo, which was a bit of a mixed message frankly, before opting for the side-parting/puppyish look.

Check. It. Out.

Roddy Ho is in the house.

He’d decided, after some magnificent brooding on the matter, to nix the phone call and go for Zoom. Play to your strengths, dude—he’d be an idiot not to put the goodies on the counter. Face it, he’d dazzled her during the audition; she’d seen the role, not the man, and figured him for some charismatic crumbly. Her bolshiness had been down to understandable disappointment. Only fair to let her see what lay beneath the Hobi-Wan robes. And let’s not forget what you’re playing for: Any woman desperate enough to dress up as a cartoon character is looking to get laid.