A waitress, wearing a visor, was hovering before they were seated.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a G&T,” Whelan said.
If I ever drink again, it will be like this. No special reason, no special occasion. Someone will offer me a drink, and I will ask for a glass of wine. When I drink again, it will be like this.
Not right now, though.
“Just water.”
“Still or sparkling?” The waitress asked.
“Sparkling. Thank you.”
“Ice and a—”
“Yes.”
Whelan gave the waitress his full attention while placing his order, and Catherine remembered what else had been said about him: that while he had made much of his happy marriage, he’d had a roving eye. Something of a wandering car, too. A close encounter with an anti-kerb crawling initiative might have derailed him before those alligators had their boots on if he hadn’t managed to quash the police report, or mostly quash it. Lamb had scraped what was left together and used the information to ensure that, whatever else he did while First Desk, Whelan never messed with Slough House.
At least some of that was presumably on Whelan’s mind as they waited for their drinks, but he kept a tight lid on it, and in place of any more obvious conversational gambit recited a phone number.
When it became clear that he expected a response, she said, “That’s Lamb’s phone.”
“I know. On his own desk?”
“Where else?” she said, though it was a reasonable question. Had the phone annoyed Lamb, which it could easily have done by, say, ringing, there was no telling where it might have ended up.
“What I mean is,” he said, “if that phone rings, he’ll be the one who answers it, yes? Not you.”
“In general.”
“Why only in general?”
“It’s not complicated. The phone is on his desk. Sometimes it rings. He’ll either answer it or not, depending on what mood he’s in, and whether he’s even there. If he’s out and it rings and I hear it, I’ll answer it. If I get there in time.” It felt a little like explaining how stairs work. “I think that covers everything.”
“There was a call on Monday afternoon,” Whelan said. “To that number. At five forty-six. Did Lamb answer it himself?”
Catherine’s mind fed off static for a moment, as anyone’s would. “I imagine so,” she said. “I didn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“The call was from a Dr. Sophie de Greer.”
“Am I supposed to recognise the name?”
“She’s a government adviser, a Downing Street, ah . . .”
“Flunkey?”
Whelan blinked. He said, “That’s the last phone call she’s known to have made. Dr. de Greer hasn’t been seen since.”
Catherine lifted her glass to her mouth, felt the slice of lemon brush her upper lip. The sensation didn’t take her back, exactly, but it suggested that the door was always open. She looked around. Bars had not changed since they’d been her daily backdrop; or, more likely, they had changed and changed back again. The theme of this particular establishment was industrial chic, or possibly warehouse glamour. The furniture was solid and blocky, bulbs hung from the ceiling in metal bowls, and the visible pipework followed a schematic no sane plumber would have devised. The walls these pipes hung on were distressed, or that was the word whoever was responsible no doubt used. Call that distressed? she wanted to ask. I work between walls that make these look ecstatic. The glass in her hand felt heavy, but held only water. If she was ever going to fall, when the day came that she fell, it wouldn’t be with a Claude Whelan. Nor even with the Claude Whelan.
“I’m wondering if there’s any light you can cast on this for me.”
“You’d have to speak to Lamb.”
“I intend to. But not before I’ve done a little background.”
“I’m afraid I can’t offer any. I didn’t answer her call, and I’ve no idea what it was about.” She put the glass down. “Sorry not to be of more help. But if we’re finished . . .”
“Not quite.” He also placed his glass on the table, and spent a moment adjusting its position according to some quiet whimsy of his own. He’d started his career over the river, she reminded herself, among the weasels, who dealt in data rather than human intelligence, and as a result were considered tricky when it came to social interaction. Whelan had been an exception: on his first day at the Park he’d set the Queens of the Database all atizzy by wearing open-necked shirt and chinos. But it was as well to remember that you could deck a weasel out in tennis whites, he’d still be a weasel.