Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(78)

“There,” said Roddy. “His Service file. Which gives me his age and his weight and his photograph. His career to date, his regular contacts, his family life, his pet dog. But guess what?” He asked a quick question, with fingers too fast for Ashley to follow, his search terms masked by asterisks. No results found. “None of that tells me what he was doing with two bottles of whisky on Tuesday night.”

“Are you always such a dick?”

“Are you always such a . . .”

She waited.

“. . . moron?”

“I’m a woman, I’m brown, I’m younger than you. Is that the best you can do?”

“Spreader,” muttered Roddy.

“That’s not a thing. Now. Rasnokov’s file can’t show us what he was up to Tuesday night, but what about stuff that’s not on his file? Because like I said, some of the data I found isn’t on the mainframe.”

“Aren’t, not isn’t.”

“What?”

“Data’s plural.”

“True,” Ashley conceded. “But also, and I can’t stress this enough, fuck off.”

Roddy sighed.

Then the alarm on his phone went off, alerting him to his Zoom call.

The stairs were reasonably wide, but there was an etiquette, post-virus: you didn’t start up them if there was someone coming down. So of the four people descending from Rashford’s, three weren’t expecting the newcomer to step onto the staircase, the fourth being Diana Taverner, who’d recognised Louisa Guy.

Who was weaving, as if drunk.

This wasn’t going to work for long, because while she could move drunk and sound drunk Louisa didn’t smell drunk. But it only had to get her up four steps, at which point she’d be level with Dog Two, who was behind Dog One: then she’d stumble, grab hold of one or the other and—well—as Lech had implied, plans weren’t a strong point. But once there was a free-for-all on the stairs, then whatever plan the Dogs had clearly wasn’t running to order either. And Louisa would at least have the element of surprise on her side.

Which remained true up until the moment Diana Taverner said, “Watch her. She’s Slough House.”

Louisa was barely out of sight before Lech approached the driver, saying, “This is Rashford’s, right?”

The driver glanced at him, looked away, and then looked back, something between horror and fascination painting his face.

“I mean, you’d think they’d put a sign up. It’s like they don’t want you to know it’s there.”

“I’m busy right now.”

“That’s weird because you don’t look it. Is this your job? Standing next to a black car?”

“I’m going to ask you to move away, sir.” He’d managed to recompose himself, but it was clear Lech’s appearance had touched a nerve.

Which was Lech’s only advantage, so far as he could see. The man wasn’t any taller than him but he was broader, and if violence broke out Lech was clearly going to get his arse kicked. Then again, Lech could have had six inches on him and it wouldn’t have made a difference: Lech had been an analyst back in the day, and while his training had included a certain amount of physical activity, Dogs were coached to a higher standard. On the other hand, Louisa’s instruction, Make sure he’s not watching the door, didn’t necessarily involve getting physical. He could just point in the opposite direction.

At, for instance, the traffic warden crossing the road, already snapping the SUV on her phone.

Lech said, “You know how, sometimes, there’s something you need to do, and then someone else comes along and does it for you?”

“What are you on about? Sir?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Lech.

“Is this your car?” asked the approaching warden.

The driver turned.

Lech moved away, towards Rashford’s open door, so he was the only one watching when Taverner came out.

A moment after Diana had spoken Louisa was flat against the wall, her right arm halfway up her back, and while the element of surprise had certainly made an appearance, it hadn’t done so in the way she’d expected. Which, come to think of it— But Louisa didn’t have time to think of it; she was busy being pinioned and shouted at.

“Are you armed?”

“Does she have a gun?”

“Check her shoes.”

My shoes? . . .

She was still puzzling over that when Diana hooked a foot round Nicola Kelly’s ankle and pushed her down the stairs.

And here was the element of surprise again. This time Louisa embraced it, throwing herself backward and dislodging one of the pair restraining her, who promptly tripped over the tumbling Kelly, and pushing the other back against the opposite wall, where they both teetered for a moment before they too succumbed to gravity, and joined the sprawl at the foot of the staircase. A mêlée which didn’t seem to inconvenience Diana, who picked her way past it untroubled, bending to retrieve sundry articles on her way.

When she stepped out onto Cheapside, in full view of Lech, she was carrying her bag, and also Kelly’s gun.

All she needed was a pair of shades, as Lech put it afterwards, and she’d be Bonnie Parker.

Diana emerged into sunshine feeling like Clyde Barrow. A slow horse—the one who’d been through the grinder—was waiting on the pavement, his jaw slack.