Bad Actors Read online

  Books by Mick Herron

  The Oxford Series

  Down Cemetery Road

  The Last Voice You Hear

  Why We Die

  Smoke & Whispers

  The Slough House Novels

  Slow Horses

  Dead Lions

  Real Tigers

  Spook Street

  London Rules

  Joe Country

  Slough House

  The Slough House Novellas

  The List

  The Marylebone Drop

  The Catch

  Other Works

  Reconstruction

  Nobody Walks

  This Is What Happened

  Dolphin Junction: Stories

  Copyright © 2022 by Mick Herron

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Soho Press, Inc.

  227 W 17th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Herron, Mick, author.

  Title: Bad actors / Mick Herron.

  Description: New York, NY : Soho Crime, [2022] |

  Series: The slough house novels ; 8

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021049127

  ISBN 978-1-64129-337-2

  eISBN 978-1-64129-338-9

  Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6108.E77 B33 2022 | DDC 823’.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021049127

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Paul.

  And for Emily, Thomas and Matthew.

  People deceived by bad actors do wicked things for good reasons.

  —Bryan Appleyard

  BAD ACTORS

  The woods were lovely, dark, and deep, and full of noisy bastards. From his foxhole Sparrow could hear the grunting and thrashing of combat, of bodies crashing through foliage. Some things breaking were branches, and others might be bones. Sound travelled more cleanly in the countryside. This might not be true but it was interesting, which mattered more. Sound travelled more cleanly, so what he was hearing could include the fracturing of legs and fingers as well as splintering twigs. His foxhole wasn’t constructed; was simply a ditch in which he’d secreted himself while the opening sallies played out. The initial clash of armies was where you lost your cannon fodder. Once the dumb meat had been carted from the field, war passed into the hands of the thinkers.

  Something clattered overhead, in a tree’s topmost branches. Only a bird. Meanwhile, battle continued: two forces of roughly equal size, blatant weaponry outlawed but anything that came to hand regarded as fair use. Sticks and stones for instance—and any experienced foot soldier had a favourite stick, a favourite stone, within easy reach when the starting whistle blew. Time, date, place, courtesy of social media. The old days, when you just rocked up to a car park near the stadium a few hours before kick-off, all of that was buried in history books and Channel 5 documentaries. Sparrow himself had been a toddler. Interesting, though: people thought, because they didn’t see football fans rucking in public anymore, that it didn’t happen. Just knowing that much about human nature was like having a big shiny key.

  It was an education in itself, exploring the depths of other people’s ignorance and gullibility.

  Some shouting in the near distance now. Nothing as coherent as words: just the familiar Esperanto of grunt and injury, the outward expression of a hatred that was absolutely pure and totally impersonal. Amateur violence signalled national character. Just as the French variety, with its short jabs and rabbit punches, seemed as crabbed and hunched as French handwriting, so English violence had the hallmarks of a ransom note: capital-lettered and often misspelt, but getting the message across. As for Italians—today’s opponents—they rucked the way they sang, their brawling round and bold and big-voiced, and if not for a relatively small turnout, they’d wind up kings of the woods today. Benito—the new Benito, whose predecessor had interestingly withdrawn from public view—would have led his troops away rejoicing. But that didn’t, from what Sparrow had seen so far, look likely.

  For his own part, his interest was clinical. Untethered to any football team, he was nevertheless fascinated by the loyalties they inspired, regardless of history, abilities and triumphs, or lack thereof. By the Till I Die tattoos supporters sported. This was a self-fulfilling promise, one that couldn’t be reneged on without expensive laser treatment, and demonstrated the kind of drive that pre-empted second thoughts. And once you got a handle on it, you could steer it in any direction you chose. Aim it at a rival set of fans or . . . elsewhere.

  From deep among the trees Sparrow could feel an approaching beat, not as stealthy as it thought it was, and underneath that a more primal rhythm, one close to Sparrow’s heart. In the breast pocket of his camo-gilet, in fact: the thrumming of his mobile phone.

  With the unhurried ease of a gunslinger he slipped it free of his pocket. “You pick your moments.”

  The crashing came nearer; the sound of a large, urban type imagining it was possible to be silent in a wood.

  “Oh, you know. Day off. I like to get close to nature.”

  Excuse him a moment, he thought but did not say, and instead of listening to whatever his caller said next, fastened the phone into a Velcro-secured sheath at shoulder level, so he could speak and be heard and mostly hear, a long-established set of priorities. That done, he settled into a crouch and wrapped both hands round the stubby branch from which he had stripped all unnecessary twigs and leaves.

  “Okay, this is the usual daily bullshit, nothing to worry about. Just because there’s a problem doesn’t mean we need a solution. We simply reframe the narrative. Hang on a sec.”

  A figure crashed into Sparrow’s clearing and halted, scanning the terrain. Being of average height he was easily four inches taller than Sparrow, an advantage in most hostile situations except those where both parties have testicles but only one is wielding a club. Sparrow’s caught the newcomer sweetly in the crutch. He made a noise like a baby seal and collapsed in a heap.

  “Yes, or dispense with the narrative altogether. This time tomorrow it’s yesterday’s news . . . No, I’m fine. Just doing some stretches.”

  While his caller launched into a soliloquy, Sparrow focused on his immediate situation: weapon in hand, fallen warrior at his feet, trees everywhere . . .

  Planet of the Apes.

  He prodded his would-be attacker with a foot, eliciting a groan, then noticed the silence on the line.

  “. . . Yeah, still here. And I have ideas, don’t worry. You know me. Ideas is what I do.”

  Which was as well, because Anthony Sparrow had some work-related issues of his own that he’d rather his caller didn’t know about. Some, though, might be alleviated by discussion with Benito once the more aggressive aspects of the afternoon’s agenda had been settled. The fact that you were mortal enemies didn’t mean you couldn’t do business. If that were the case, you’d never get anything done. Besides, Benito was a fellow alpha. Sparrow mostly worked among malleable idiots, so it was something of a pleasure to negotiate on his own level.

  Speaking of malleable idiots . . .

  On closer inspection, he noticed that his victim wasn’t one of Benito’s crew at all, but on Sparrow’s own side. Still, there he was, prone and useless, and Sparrow holding a club.

  His caller was still talking, so he tapped a finger against his phone three times, a signal both knew meant the conv
ersation had passed all useful purpose. Then waited a moment.

  “Not at all. What I’m here for.”

  He waited some more. And then:

  “Yes, prime minister. See you in the morning.”

  And, call over, Sparrow raised his club and brought it down as hard as he could, and then again, and again, until this anonymous creature was where all his opponents ended, dumb and dusted at his feet.

  Act II

  Chimp Politics

  The wind, with its hands in its pockets, whistles a tune as it wanders down the road—a jaunty melody, at odds with the surroundings—and the theme is picked up by everything it passes, until all of Aldersgate Street, in the London borough of Finsbury, has joined in. The result tends towards the percussive. A bottle in the gutter rocks back and forth, cha-chink cha-chunk, while a pair of polystyrene cartons, one nestled in the other’s embrace, whisper like a brush on a snare drum way up on the pedestrian bridge. A more strident beat is provided by the tin sign fixed to the nearest lamppost, which warns dogs not to foul the pavement, a message it reinforces with a rhythmic rattle, while in the Barbican flowerbeds—which are largely bricked-in collections of dried-up earth—pebbles rock and stones roll. By the entrance to the tube there’s a parcel of newspapers bound by plastic strips, whose pages gasp and sigh in choral contentment. Dustbins and drainpipes, litter and leaves: the wind’s conviction that everything is its instrument is justified tonight.

  And yet halfway down the road it pauses for breath, and the music stops. The wind has reached a black door, wedged between a dirty-windowed newsagent’s, visibly suffering from lack of public interest, and a Chinese restaurant offering the impression that it’s still in lockdown, and plans to remain so. This door, irredeemably grimy from the exhalations of passing traffic, is a sturdy enough construction, the only gap in its armour a long-healed wound of a letterbox, impervious to junk mail and red-lettered bills, but a door is only a door for all that, and the wind has blown down bigger. Perhaps it considers rendering this supposed obstruction into dust and matchsticks, but if so, the moment passes; the wind moves on, and its orchestra goes with it. The shake and rattle and roll starts to fade, the theme toyed with one last time, then dropped. The wind is going places, and this grubby stage isn’t big enough to hold it. It’s heading for the brighter lights; for the stardom that waits, somewhere over the rainbow.

  So the black door is left unshaken and unstirred. But just as it never opens, never closes during daylight hours, nor is it about to yield now, and anyone intent on entry must take the stagedoor johnny route, down the adjacent alley, past the overflowing wheelie-bins and the near-solid stench from the drains, through the door that sticks in all seasons, and then, once inside, climb stairs whose carpet has worn thin as an actor’s ego, and whose walls boast mildew stains, and lightbulbs that are naked and/or spent. It’s dark in here, a bumpy kind of dark, with sound effects provided by rising damp and falling plaster, and the offstage antics of vermin. The stairs grow narrower the higher they go, and the paired offices that lurk on each landing are furnished with shabby props, scratched on every surface and torn in all the ways they can tear—nothing capable of being damaged twice has been damaged only once, because history repeats itself, first as tragedy then as farce, and here in Slough House the daily grind is of such unending repetition that the performers can barely tell one from the other. More to the point they’re not sure it matters, for the role of a slow horse, as this troupe are known, is to embrace unfulfilment and boredom; to look back in disappointment, stare round in dismay, and understand that life is not an audition, except for the parts that are, and those are the parts they’ve failed. Because Slough House is the end of the pier, the fleapit to which Regent’s Park consigns failures, and these would-be stars of the British security service are living out the aftermath of their professional errors. Where once they’d dreamed of headline roles in their nation’s secret defences, they’ve instead found themselves in non-speaking parts, carrying spears for Jackson Lamb. And given his oft-stated advice as to where they might put these spears, none of them should anticipate a return to the bright lights any time soon.

  Which doesn’t stop them hoping, of course.

  The wind’s tune has faded, and Slough House is as quiet as a mouse—it twitches and rustles, scratches and squeaks. Come morning its scattered cast will reassemble, and as in any office, familiar scenarios will play themselves out once more: the passive-aggressive feuding, the mind-crushing boredom, the ill-disguised hostility, the arguments over the fridge. None of this will ever change much. But as in any office most of those involved expect it to, as if some larger drama is about to begin, one that will erase their previous errors—missed cues, mangled lines, early exits—allowing the spotlight to fall on them at last. It’s a reason for turning up, anyway; the possibility that their attendance today will mean they won’t have to be here tomorrow, and that their future, instead of this endless tedium played out against broken furniture, will be one of shining triumph, in which everything comes out right. Even those who no longer believe this act as if they do, because otherwise, what would be the point? It’s a small enough world without accepting that it’ll never get larger. Better to go along with the fantasy that any moment now the curtain will rise and the lights dim.

  That any moment now, there’ll be some action.

  Louisa Guy rolled her shoulder, swung from the hip, and punched Roddy Ho in the face.

  That felt good.

  Let’s do it again.

  Louisa Guy rolled her shoulder, swung from the hip, and punched Roddy Ho in the face.

  This time, Ho’s head went flying backwards into the gloom, landing on the grass with a damp thud, before rolling twice then coming to a stop, eyes down.

  Which was satisfying, but also annoying. Once you’d knocked a head clean off, you could never get it to stay on again.

  Louisa looked up at the early morning sky, its long clouds seemingly motionless overhead. She was on the back lawn of her apartment block, where one or two lights were coming on, her fellow-dwellers showering, breakfasting, getting ready for the off. Some would save the shower for the gym, get their workouts over before dressing for the day, but Louisa didn’t belong to a gym. Gyms were expensive. Louisa ran instead, though this morning had opted to take Roddy Ho—or his stand-in; a department store dummy she’d boosted from a skip the previous weekend—and give him an education. It was only the second time she’d indulged herself this way, and it was disappointing to think it might be the last, but fair’s fair, there was an argument that Roddy’s stunt double was taking the method approach. She was pretty sure if she punched the actual Roddy Ho repeatedly, his head would go flying from his shoulders before long.

  And when you thought about it, it was really Lech Wicinski who ought to be pounding Roddy to dirt this week. Then again, Lech was still too sore to be handing out punishment beatings.

  She collected the broken parts and took them upstairs; showered, dressed, etc; and was soon behind the wheel, a piece of toast clamped between her teeth, heading for work. She’d used a gym regularly back in the by; the Service gym not far from Regent’s Park. It occupied hidden levels below a local authority swimming baths, and on its mats, free of charge, agents in good standing could have the shit beaten out of them by experts. This wasn’t as much fun as it sounded, but did have an upside: after you’d spent an hour being thrown around like a bag of wrenches, the expert explained what moves you might make to improve your situation. Louisa had generally come away feeling more capable than when she’d gone in.

  But the key phrase in all of that was “in good standing,” and slow horses were so far from standing well they had trouble lying down. Following her transfer to Slough House, the first time Louisa had tried to access the facility her card tripped the scanner, causing visible tension to the guard on duty, tension that relaxed to amusement once he’d clocked her ID. “Seriously?” he’d s
aid. “You’d have more chance with a Starbucks card.” Nobody had been around to explain what move she might make to improve her situation, though shooting him in the head suggested itself. Unfortunately the nearest guns were on the level she’d just been refused entry to, so she’d had to walk away unconsoled.

  What made this bad story worse was, it had happened what felt like a lifetime ago, and things hadn’t changed much since. And things kept on not changing, with unvarying regularity. Even when events occurred that shook the windows—like the Russian hoodlums’ toxic rampage six months back, or the Wimbledon outing, just three days ago—they folded up so small, they might as well not have happened. When you asked What next?, the answer was always: The same. So you woke up next morning and were back in the office; there were extra stains on the carpet, occasionally a missing colleague, but you got used to that. Slough House absorbed differences, leeched them of flavour, and spat them out again; sometimes you were driving to work, sometimes you were driving home, but the space between was so dispiriting, you hardly cared which. On your way there, on your way back, you were still denied entrance to the gym.

  Some had this lesson waiting—Slough House had a new recruit. One who fell into that rapidly increasing demographic, the too-bloody-young. Ashley Khan might have been in primary school when Louisa joined the Service, and acted like she still was. No one likes being here, Louisa felt like saying. It’s not necessary to remind us you’re unhappy. But Khan sulked as if there were prizes involved, and what had never been the most clement working environment had a new storm cloud in its skies. True, none of them were exactly rays of sunshine—Jackson Lamb was extreme weather on his best day—but having a new colleague was a challenge, a reminder of how bad things had felt at the start, and how bad they still were. Nothing you could do changed this. Because that was the deal with Slough House: you had all the self-determination of a clockwork fundamentalist.