People keep getting hurt. People keep dying.
And maybe she was one of them. Maybe she’d die inside, if they kept her here long enough. By the time they posted her back to Slough House she’d be a drooling wreck, scared by sudden movements and startled by passing noise.
Which might have been why—lying on her bed, the clock effortfully dragging its way to 9:26—when Shirley heard sounds downstairs, she sat bolt upright.
Afterwards, Whelan was never quite sure what tipped him over the edge. All afternoon the impulse had gnawed at him; the suspicion that things were not as he had relayed to Oliver Nash. The possibility that an alternative reading existed. Back in Schemes and Wheezes, there’d sometimes come a point when you had to ask, were you the player or the game? And was the mousetrap you’d just built one you’d walk into yourself? He had helped create a character once, a role for an agent to inhabit, who was the precise and perfect fantasy partner for a target of interest, an arms dealer. The chosen agent had occupied the role so completely that that was pretty much the last anyone saw of him, though it was thought he and the target were living happily ever after somewhere south of Rio. In the inevitable handwashing that followed Whelan had been tasked with writing a paper addressing the flaws inherent in the scenario his team had developed, along with what the minutes chose to term a “structured corrective.” In what was, for him, a rare display of ill-temper, Whelan’s addendum read, in its entirety, Don’t use humans.
An admonition which had been swirling round his head all evening. He had been used himself, that much was clear, and had registered no objection—the Service was called the Service for a reason, and he still felt the tug of its call to duty—but he worried nevertheless that he’d fallen into the backroom habit of forgetting that actual people were involved. In this instance, for example, what precisely was Sophie de Greer’s role? Was she in hiding, or had she been snatched? Would his involvement result in her rescue, or had he helped throw her to wolves? And whose wolves: Ours or theirs?
The list of who “they” might be was a long one. But then, the question of who “we” were could be equally knotty.
There was good cause to persuade himself that, having played his part, he should put it out of mind. He remained subject, after all, to Official Secrets legislation. Besides, if the information he had relayed to Nash had been acted upon, that was an end of it: de Greer would either no longer require, or be beyond the reach of, assistance. But information was bankable, and not always spent as soon as in hand. In which case it was possible that de Greer remained where he had traced her to: the San, in Dorset. And if so, it would be straightforward enough to verify that she was safe. He might no longer be active, but he still had a name; one that rang enough bells to open a door at a remote, hardly maximum-security Service facility.
Whelan had visited the San once, on a handshaking tour. It wasn’t such a long drive. Or it was, but making the effort would ease his conscience. And while it was true that, going by her photograph, Sophie de Greer was very attractive, it was almost equally true that this played no part in the decision he arrived at. Which was to put a jacket on, find his keys, and drive to Dorset.
It had been a door closing, nothing more, but it had happened without care. Someone had come in—or gone out—allowing the door to slam behind them, instead of easing it back into place.
Even during daylight, this would have been frowned upon. Would have wounded the hush.
Shirley hopped off the bed, wondering if she’d heard the first postcard from a rampage through the building. If someone had flipped their lid, and were even now running up the stairs, prepared to scream their excitement to the walls.
If that happened, she wanted to watch.
But when she peered down the corridor, there were no sideshows in evidence. Only the dull mumble of voices downstairs.
Dinner had been served at seven. At nine, the common room was locked. There was nowhere to go but bed. Whoever was still down there must be staff.
Except the staff knew to use doors quietly. If they knew nothing else, they knew that.
Shirley didn’t spend a lot of time weighing up her next move. If the minor ruction had been caused by one of the Nurse Ratcheds having a bad-care day, and if their meltdown involved, say, a bottle of something, or a line of something else, Shirley was more than prepared to keep quiet about it. She’d be silent as a fucking aardvark. Provided whoever it was slipped her a taste of the contraband.
Trainers on, she padded to the staircase. There was a floor-to-ceiling window at its head, and she could see her reflection as she approached. If she’d been holding a candle on a gravy boat, she’d have thought herself a ghost.