Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(94)

“Done yet?”

“Yes. No. You’re a fucking arsehole. Now I’m done.”

Lamb removed his cigarette and studied the glowing tip while it faded to grey. “Last time I saw Charles Partner, he was using the contents of his head as bubble bath. Being his blue-eyed-boy didn’t look so clever then, I can tell you. As for you, I’ve pulled your dick out of more slamming drawers than I can count. Any time you want me to stand back and watch, just say the word.”

“Where is she?”

“Like I said. Gone.”

“I need her, Jackson. I need her singing before that Committee. What if she goes back to Sparrow? Because right now, he’s got to be thinking about making her a better offer, and if that happens—and she takes it—what then? She’ll deny being a plant, I’m a lame duck, and the PM’s string-puller’s still in place, with a hard-on for the Service.” She was staring down at Lamb’s upturned face. “And once it looks like I’m on the skids, Judd’ll drop his China bomb, and that’s when they’ll send the carpet cleaners into Regent’s Park. Every decision made for a decade, every operation I’ve ever had a hand in, it’ll all be under a spotlight. And tell me this, how long do you think Slough House will last then? How long before questions are asked about your own career?”

Lamb was quiet for a moment. Then he squinted at his dying cigarette, and flicked it towards the nearest takeaway carton.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “If that happens, we might have a problem.”

It wasn’t much of a service station—a garage with a four-pump forecourt, and a car wash shrouded in darkness—but it had a shop which, alongside its array of pasties and sandwiches, had a mini rotisserie, and even more importantly was open. Shirley wouldn’t have been averse to a spot of ramraiding had it been otherwise, but Whelan might have objected. He’d been through enough trauma this evening, and even her aversion to vehicles travelling any less than slightly more than the prevailing speed limit had to be modified in face of this. Another triumph for her self-imposed programme of dignified silence; she’d barely mentioned their lamentable speed more than two or three times before they pulled up by the pumps.

“I don’t have any money,” she said, getting out of the car.

“I can get this.”

“Yeah, you’ll need to.” Because she didn’t have any money. Whelan obviously needed things spelt out.

There were no customers inside, and one bored youth at the till. While Whelan filled the tank, Shirley collected half a dozen chocolate bars, a family bag of Doritos, a two-litre bottle of Coke and the two least small roast chickens on the electric spit. She waited by a window while the youth dragged himself away from his phone to pack her catch in a cardboard punnet, and watched a motorbike pass at about half the speed it should have been doing. Whelan joined her as the boxed chicken was being placed on the counter, alongside a spork and, at Shirley’s insistence, seven sachets of barbecue sauce.

“Do we need a whole chicken each?” he asked.

She made a face. “Oh. Did you want one?”

There was no eating area so they went back out, where Whelan suggested that they eat before setting off again, or, indeed, getting into the car. Something about the smell: Shirley wasn’t paying attention. She was literally starving. There were children featured on charity envelopes who weren’t as hungry right now. Perched on a wall next to the car wash, she opened a couple of sauce sachets, squirted their contents over the first chicken, then pulled a leg free. Whelan seemed to be trying not to watch. He’d opted for a sandwich, cheese and pickle. Shirley gestured towards the Doritos in case he fancied a side, but he didn’t seem keen.

She didn’t normally open up like she’d done in the car, and had to put it down to the blow on the head. Still, getting stuff off her chest hadn’t felt bad. Maybe the touchy-feely types had a point, and it was good to share—especially with someone who didn’t share back. One-way therapy. Best of both worlds.

He said, “My wife left me.”

Shit.

After a moment, her lack of response growing awkward even to her, Shirley said, “So, what, she found someone else?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

That was annoying, when people did that: took a simple question and turned it into a fucking enigma.

He said, “She found God.”

Shirley couldn’t help it. “Ha!”

“It’s not funny.”

It was a bit funny. “Yeah, that wasn’t a laugh. I just thought, you know. God. Stiff competition.”

“I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

Shirley took advantage of the pause to toss a bone over her shoulder.

“She joined an order, a closed community. Nuns. It was supposed to be for a limited time, a retreat, but she hasn’t come back. And she won’t speak on the phone, or answer letters. No email, obviously.”

“Sounds like a cult.”

“Not really. They just live an enclosed life. Grow vegetables, that sort of thing. There are bees, I think.”

“Bees?”

“For honey.”

“Yeah, I know what bees do. I just didn’t know nuns were into that.”

“These ones are.”

Shirley had a vision of a nun in a beekeeper’s outfit, like someone going to a fancy dress party twice.