“It’s best not to think in terms of time.”
“Not the most inspiring response. I was told I should just quit.”
“Who by?”
“Friends. Others on the hub.” Her gaze shifted from Louisa. “I mean, that was back on day one. Day two. They haven’t been in touch since. None of them have.”
“They’re worried it’s catching, being a slow horse,” said Louisa. “They’re shielding.”
“They can screw themselves,” Ashley said, her flat tone suggesting she was describing an uncanny ability rather than indicating a course of action.
Louisa didn’t feel like offering an alternative point of view. The number of people she was still in touch with at Regent’s Park was zero. Less than, if you counted unanswered voicemails.
She looked round the office, which hadn’t changed in any essential since Ashley’s arrival. It wasn’t the kind of workspace you’d try to personalise, because if you were someone who liked to personalise your workspace you’d be somewhere else, and also because it was the kind of workspace that would actively resist such attempts. Pot plants would wilt before your eyes, and photographs of loved ones fade in their frames, familiar shapes becoming ghostly presences, then absences, then blanks. A bit like your friends on the hub, on hearing the news of your exile.
What Ashley’s personal space might look like, Louisa didn’t know. She was young, and had barely cut her teeth at the Park before running foul of Lamb, so hadn’t specialised yet; was what the Park called wet material, ready to be moulded into whatever form it chose. As things had fallen that would be down to Lamb now, so the odds were good she’d end up a shapeless mess. That aside, all Louisa knew was that Ashley had grown up in Stirling: this nugget from her personnel file, via Catherine. And, Louisa suspected, there was a little money in the background. That or some badly hammered plastic. Because Ashley dressed well, and trainee spooks enjoyed a starting salary apprentice chimney sweeps wouldn’t envy.
Ashley, meanwhile, appeared to be waiting for her to justify her presence, so she said, “You’ve swapped desks.”
“Yes, well. It’s not like it’s in use.”
Louisa thought better of replying. Another reason for not making an effort with a newcomer was that newcomers didn’t usually welcome it. This was temporary, that was their mantra. This couldn’t be happening to them, so would soon stop. Wrongs would be righted, the curtain would fall. When it rose again, everything would be just the way it was.
“Anyway,” Ashley said. “I’m going back to the Park.”
She tipped the handful of fruit and nuts into her mouth.
“Of course you are,” said Louisa. “See you tomorrow.”
She headed down the stairs. Passing Ho’s office, she didn’t bother calling a farewell, her mild guilt at having played him—again—not being enough to warrant an apology. The way she saw it, Ho would do something offensive within the next little while, and the books would be balanced again. Having a dick for a colleague means never having to say you’re sorry.
Lech Wicinski was waiting in the bus queue opposite; the only one not wearing a face mask, though from a distance he looked like he was. Louisa crossed the road to join him.
“Wimbledon,” he said.
“We’re doing code words now?”
“That’s where she lives. You drove in, right?”
She had driven in, yes.
“So let’s go.”
“If you’re under the impression this decisive crap comes off as macho, you’re way off beam,” she told him, but he shrugged.
Her car was near Fortune Park, and three minutes later they were in it and heading back towards Aldersgate Street, where both noticed, but neither commented on, Shirley Dander, entering Barbican tube station. Shirley, who saw them but pretended not to, wasn’t catching a train; was heading, rather, for the footbridge leading into the Barbican itself, where she followed the painted yellow line before dropping down to Whitecross Street. The food market had packed its bags, but she found the man she was after, who worked on one of the Thai stalls, in the pub on the corner. Shirley was one of his regulars, both for the food he provided during working hours and for the cocaine he supplied on demand, and the manner in which they greeted each other and shared five minutes’ gossip must have appeared, to a casual onlooker, like genuine friendship: they were good mates, these were brief times, but there were future meetings on the cards. When Shirley left, her wallet was lighter but her pocket reassuringly held a cellophane envelope, enough to keep her from hitting the ground for a few days to come, if she practised a little restraint.