And here was Catherine, crashing his train of thought.
“I’m busy.”
“So I see. But this takes priority.”
He shook his head wearily. That was the trouble with being indiroddyspensable: you were first port of call for the pea-brained.
“There’s something Lamb needs you to do.”
Roddy adjusted his expression to read “Born Ready,” tried to crack his knuckles again, and winced.
“And if you can manage to listen without hurting yourself,” Catherine continued, coming into the room, “this is what he’s after.”
“She’s on a rooftop in Cheapside.”
“And is she planning unassisted flight?”
Nash said, “I’d have thought that unlikely.” Malahide’s company was beginning to grate, his demeanour towards those they’d interviewed so far—the hubsters whose worksheets showed recent one-to-ones with Diana—having proved borderline hostile. When challenged, he’d raised an eyebrow. “Gone native, old boy?” A salutary reminder, Nash thought, that you always had to be on one side or another in the Whitehall Kush.
He glanced at the memo he’d been handed by Josie. “A wine bar, Rashford’s?” He made it a question, though was aware of its existence, its name having made it popular with backbenchers. “She was picked up on camera, there’s a crew at the premises now.” He looked at his watch. “They’ll have her here by five.”
“And this wine bar has a rooftop terrace?”
“I think it’s clear she’s evading, ah, capture.”
“Like I said. An admission of guilt.” Malahide clasped his hands behind his head, and rocked back in his chair. “This famous window of hers, the one that frosts when you press a button. What do you suppose she got up to in her office when no one could see her?”
“We’re conducting a preliminary enquiry,” said Nash. “Not inventing scurrilous rumours.”
“If you say so,” said Malahide. “If you say so.” He sat up straight. “Well, I suppose we’d better put Sparrow in the picture.”
“Leave that to me,” said Nash.
He left the office holding his phone to his ear, but without making a connection.
As he passed Josie’s desk, unseen by Malahide, he made a follow-me gesture with his eyes, an invitation Josie accepted a few moments later.
“Remind. Me. Why. We’re. Running?”
This was necessarily a conversation Lech was having in his head because, well, they were running . . .
And the answer, besides, was obvious. Cheapside was about a quarter mile from Slough House, or, by car, maybe three times that. Add roadworks, traffic lights, and you were looking at a half-hour minimum.
“She’s on the roof,” Catherine had said, and Lech had wondered if this were like the joke about the cat, and she was gently breaking the news that Taverner was dead.
Louisa was way ahead, but she was a runner. Give Lech the streets after dark, he could pace ten miles and barely notice, but speed was a different story. Besides, there were people about, staring as he passed. Facial scarring made him the automatic villain. He was basically a trigger warning; a horror-meme waiting to happen.
Sod it.
A team of Dogs, Catherine had said. There for a Safe Collect—Taverner wasn’t armed, and was anyway unlikely to initiate a gun battle on the streets of London. Had he imagined it, or had Catherine laid a slight stress on unlikely? But whatever the outcome, this had to do with Sophie de Greer, and the last time he’d left Slough House on a mission involving her, Roddy bloody Ho had ploughed him down on a dark common. What delights awaited him today?
Panting round the long curve below the Museum of London he could see Louisa at the Cheapside junction, so ignoring the pain in his thighs he increased his speed, the pavement’s damp calligraphy blurring beneath his feet.
Roddy leaned back and made one of his expressions. He had several of these, and Catherine was familiar with all, but was never sure what he was attempting to convey, beyond some brand of superior weariness.
“So this Ronsakov—”
“Rasnokov,” she said. “Vassily Rasnokov.”
“What I said. This Ronsakov dude was at the Grosvenor two nights, only nobody knew it was him at first so he was, like, totally off radar.”
“。 . . Yes.”
“And Lamb wants to know what he got up to.”
“。 . . Yes.”
“In London.”
“That’s the size of it, yes. I’m sorry.”