The Cedar Room
The Cedar Room
Rating: R
Spoilers for Spooks/MI-5 up to 'Traitor's Gate'
"Are you going to the funeral?"
Little Tom Quinn, with his bland, blameless face and marine eyes, had always been a good liar.
No, not a good liar, a great liar. Crown prince to King Peter. Yet he couldn't fool Harry with a single word.
"No."
* * *
The Black Swan, Oxford, 1992
Tom was drinking as if hangovers belonged in the same category as the tooth fairy in a pub where being gown rather than town was likely to end in broken teeth. He didn't much care. It was as good a place as any for a wake.
"Mind if I join you?" The voice came from behind him. North London accent and oddly familiar somehow.
Tom couldn't give an honest answer. "It's a free country," he grunted and knocked back the vodka chaser.
There was a soft laugh. "Yes, old son, I'm sure you think it is."
Tom gazed down at the dark, dented mahogany of the bar, his finger breaking the surface tension of a puddle of warm ale, pulling the sign for infinity out of it over and over. He'd been here an hour but he didn't feel drunker, just poorer. A bar stool scraped on the wooden floor, obscenely loud to his ears.
He looked across. "Dr Salter," he murmured, taken aback.
The other man rolled his eyes. "Oh please," he said scornfully. "Peter. I'm not here to talk about your thesis. You passed with flying colours by the way. Congratulations."
Tom was pretty sure that neither of them was supposed to know that yet.
Salter unzipped his leather jacket and pulled out a packet of Marlboro Lights and his wallet. He slid onto the bar stool with an easy grace, and shucked the jacket off his shoulders to reveal a very unprofessorial black T-shirt. "Shouldn't you be out with the Hoorays, whooping it up at some ball or other? Tuxedoed up and twinkling your toes?"
Tom shrugged. Susan had made it pretty plain she didn't want to see him. How many of 'their' friends were really her friends was not something he really wanted to find out tonight.
"What are you doing in this shithole, Tom Quinn?"
Tom cringed, glanced around the bar. Not one dirty look from the murky gloom of the bar. Salter grinned, tapping the cigarette packet so that one filter tip stood proud of the rest. Salter pursed his lips around it and with his left hand, sparked the zippo into an ostentatiously tall flame. "It's okay, this is my local."
"Here?" Tom asked, trying to keep a squeak of surprise out of his voice.
Salter nodded. "Beer's good. Company's better than at high table. More intelligent conversation, too."
He proffered a cigarette to Tom, who shook his head. "Of course, you don't," he said, slipping the packet back into his jacket. "Wise man. So what brings you to the Mucky Duck... is it love or money?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Jesus, you really are the strong, silent type." Salter waved to a barmaid, who seemed to know what he wanted without the benefit of actual words and began coaxing a double vodka out of the parched optics "Love or money? It's always one of the two."
Tom stared into his empty vodka glass for a moment, trying to puzzle out whether he was going to wake up any moment cocooned in sheets drenched in beer sweat, wondering why he was having a bizarre dream about his supervisor interrogating him in the Black Swan. He pulled his fingers across his eyes wearily and looked across at Salter.
"Both, I suppose" he murmured, though what he had with Susan wasn't really love and he didn't care about the money.
Salter nodded, apparently amused but sympathetic. He nudged a glass of vodka in Tom's direction and took a swig from his own, narrowing his eyes in pleasure. Tom nodded his thanks and drank.
"I heard about your scam."
A mouth full of vodka scorched a path down towards his lungs, bringing tears to his eyes. He tried not to cough but that would have meant not breathing for say, the next hour or two. For what seemed like five minutes but was probably less than 30 seconds, he whooped and choked. A large, warm hand pressed against his back and through the white noise of the coughing he heard Salter laughing.
"Bastard," he wheezed, but he wasn't really angry.
"Yes I am," Salter said, pressing a cold glass into his hand.
"I don't want any more vodka."
"It's *water*, you arse," Salter said. "Drink. It'll help."
Tom felt the threat of vomiting recede and the barbed wire around his throat ease. The pub's other patrons had turned back to their own conversations. He sucked in an ice cube and held it on his tongue for a while. Salter watched, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards and his eyes searching Tom's face.
"I thought it was brilliant," Salter said. "How much did you make, four grand?
Tom spat the ice cube back into the glass and pulled his scattered thoughts together. "It wasn't illegal. Technically. Not a scam."
"Not exactly cricket though, was it?" Salter said. "How much?"
"Six thousand, four hundred and sixty pounds on an investment of six hundred and fifty quid. I was club treasurer so it was pretty easy. It was just a bit of share-dealing."
"So what was the problem?"
* * *
"Are you going to the funeral?"
"No." Blunt, with no elaboration, like all the best untruths. Harry sighed.
After Tom had swept out of the office, allegedly on an errand. Harry stared at Zoe and nodded a head in the direction of his office. He ushered her in, closed the door and pressed a newspaper cutting into her hand. "Silly bugger's going to pay his respects," Harry snapped. "Try to make sure he does it from a safe distance, will you?"
"Should I take Danny?"
Harry made a soft impatient sound and flung himself back into his desk chair. "Does it really take both of you to hold Tom's hands and sing bloody Kum Ba Yah?"
"It could help, sir."
She didn't flinch at his sarcasm. Good girl. And it would do Danny good to have a few hours away from his punishment; make it all the harder when he had to go back to it. "I suppose so," Harry said. "I want all three of you back by 3pm."
* * *
Zoe unfolded the cutting, cheap newsprint blacking her fingers. Danny sliced through the traffic on the A13 in one of the staff Jaguars; it was all expensive-smelling leather seating and cedar panels. Danny was taunting coppers and speed cameras in the safe knowledge that his ID card gave him a Teflon coating. Working off some of that frustration.
Five didn't send mourners to its people's funerals as a rule. Bosses sometimes went to represent the department, and everyone else went to a secure wake, where they could get stinking drunk and tell lies about their wars.
Only Helen's funeral had been different so far, because Helen's death had been different in ways Zoe couldn't let herself think about yet.
The death notice had been placed by Peter Salter's aunt. She thought he had been a civil servant at the Ministry of Defence and had died of a heart attack. She lived in Ilford, so the funeral would be in Manor Park, and no one who had ever mattered a damn to Salter would be in attendance.
Except maybe Tom. No one knew how Salter had spotted that young Tom, on his straight and narrow path to a career in banking, was actually a twisty, crafty bastard.
Tom was a crafty bastard -- it always seemed as though he had been open and honest, even generous with the facts. You basked in the way he trusted you. But when you examined what he had actually told you, you had a handful of pretty smoke.
It was a confidence trick Zoe wanted to master. She wondered whether he'd always had the gift or he'd learned it from Peter Salter.
* * *
Danny slid the car into the one remaining parking space, much to the annoyance of a Ford Fiesta driver who honked his horn angrily, then pootled off towards Wanstead in a cloud of fumes.
"Couldn't resist it, could you?" Zoe said. Danny flashed her a grin. She didn't return it. She was twitchy with him right now, had been for a week. He didn't think he was that difficult to get on with. "Any sign?"
"He wouldn't have gone to the service
Rating: R
Spoilers for Spooks/MI-5 up to 'Traitor's Gate'
"Are you going to the funeral?"
Little Tom Quinn, with his bland, blameless face and marine eyes, had always been a good liar.
No, not a good liar, a great liar. Crown prince to King Peter. Yet he couldn't fool Harry with a single word.
"No."
* * *
The Black Swan, Oxford, 1992
Tom was drinking as if hangovers belonged in the same category as the tooth fairy in a pub where being gown rather than town was likely to end in broken teeth. He didn't much care. It was as good a place as any for a wake.
"Mind if I join you?" The voice came from behind him. North London accent and oddly familiar somehow.
Tom couldn't give an honest answer. "It's a free country," he grunted and knocked back the vodka chaser.
There was a soft laugh. "Yes, old son, I'm sure you think it is."
Tom gazed down at the dark, dented mahogany of the bar, his finger breaking the surface tension of a puddle of warm ale, pulling the sign for infinity out of it over and over. He'd been here an hour but he didn't feel drunker, just poorer. A bar stool scraped on the wooden floor, obscenely loud to his ears.
He looked across. "Dr Salter," he murmured, taken aback.
The other man rolled his eyes. "Oh please," he said scornfully. "Peter. I'm not here to talk about your thesis. You passed with flying colours by the way. Congratulations."
Tom was pretty sure that neither of them was supposed to know that yet.
Salter unzipped his leather jacket and pulled out a packet of Marlboro Lights and his wallet. He slid onto the bar stool with an easy grace, and shucked the jacket off his shoulders to reveal a very unprofessorial black T-shirt. "Shouldn't you be out with the Hoorays, whooping it up at some ball or other? Tuxedoed up and twinkling your toes?"
Tom shrugged. Susan had made it pretty plain she didn't want to see him. How many of 'their' friends were really her friends was not something he really wanted to find out tonight.
"What are you doing in this shithole, Tom Quinn?"
Tom cringed, glanced around the bar. Not one dirty look from the murky gloom of the bar. Salter grinned, tapping the cigarette packet so that one filter tip stood proud of the rest. Salter pursed his lips around it and with his left hand, sparked the zippo into an ostentatiously tall flame. "It's okay, this is my local."
"Here?" Tom asked, trying to keep a squeak of surprise out of his voice.
Salter nodded. "Beer's good. Company's better than at high table. More intelligent conversation, too."
He proffered a cigarette to Tom, who shook his head. "Of course, you don't," he said, slipping the packet back into his jacket. "Wise man. So what brings you to the Mucky Duck... is it love or money?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Jesus, you really are the strong, silent type." Salter waved to a barmaid, who seemed to know what he wanted without the benefit of actual words and began coaxing a double vodka out of the parched optics "Love or money? It's always one of the two."
Tom stared into his empty vodka glass for a moment, trying to puzzle out whether he was going to wake up any moment cocooned in sheets drenched in beer sweat, wondering why he was having a bizarre dream about his supervisor interrogating him in the Black Swan. He pulled his fingers across his eyes wearily and looked across at Salter.
"Both, I suppose" he murmured, though what he had with Susan wasn't really love and he didn't care about the money.
Salter nodded, apparently amused but sympathetic. He nudged a glass of vodka in Tom's direction and took a swig from his own, narrowing his eyes in pleasure. Tom nodded his thanks and drank.
"I heard about your scam."
A mouth full of vodka scorched a path down towards his lungs, bringing tears to his eyes. He tried not to cough but that would have meant not breathing for say, the next hour or two. For what seemed like five minutes but was probably less than 30 seconds, he whooped and choked. A large, warm hand pressed against his back and through the white noise of the coughing he heard Salter laughing.
"Bastard," he wheezed, but he wasn't really angry.
"Yes I am," Salter said, pressing a cold glass into his hand.
"I don't want any more vodka."
"It's *water*, you arse," Salter said. "Drink. It'll help."
Tom felt the threat of vomiting recede and the barbed wire around his throat ease. The pub's other patrons had turned back to their own conversations. He sucked in an ice cube and held it on his tongue for a while. Salter watched, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards and his eyes searching Tom's face.
"I thought it was brilliant," Salter said. "How much did you make, four grand?
Tom spat the ice cube back into the glass and pulled his scattered thoughts together. "It wasn't illegal. Technically. Not a scam."
"Not exactly cricket though, was it?" Salter said. "How much?"
"Six thousand, four hundred and sixty pounds on an investment of six hundred and fifty quid. I was club treasurer so it was pretty easy. It was just a bit of share-dealing."
"So what was the problem?"
* * *
"Are you going to the funeral?"
"No." Blunt, with no elaboration, like all the best untruths. Harry sighed.
After Tom had swept out of the office, allegedly on an errand. Harry stared at Zoe and nodded a head in the direction of his office. He ushered her in, closed the door and pressed a newspaper cutting into her hand. "Silly bugger's going to pay his respects," Harry snapped. "Try to make sure he does it from a safe distance, will you?"
"Should I take Danny?"
Harry made a soft impatient sound and flung himself back into his desk chair. "Does it really take both of you to hold Tom's hands and sing bloody Kum Ba Yah?"
"It could help, sir."
She didn't flinch at his sarcasm. Good girl. And it would do Danny good to have a few hours away from his punishment; make it all the harder when he had to go back to it. "I suppose so," Harry said. "I want all three of you back by 3pm."
* * *
Zoe unfolded the cutting, cheap newsprint blacking her fingers. Danny sliced through the traffic on the A13 in one of the staff Jaguars; it was all expensive-smelling leather seating and cedar panels. Danny was taunting coppers and speed cameras in the safe knowledge that his ID card gave him a Teflon coating. Working off some of that frustration.
Five didn't send mourners to its people's funerals as a rule. Bosses sometimes went to represent the department, and everyone else went to a secure wake, where they could get stinking drunk and tell lies about their wars.
Only Helen's funeral had been different so far, because Helen's death had been different in ways Zoe couldn't let herself think about yet.
The death notice had been placed by Peter Salter's aunt. She thought he had been a civil servant at the Ministry of Defence and had died of a heart attack. She lived in Ilford, so the funeral would be in Manor Park, and no one who had ever mattered a damn to Salter would be in attendance.
Except maybe Tom. No one knew how Salter had spotted that young Tom, on his straight and narrow path to a career in banking, was actually a twisty, crafty bastard.
Tom was a crafty bastard -- it always seemed as though he had been open and honest, even generous with the facts. You basked in the way he trusted you. But when you examined what he had actually told you, you had a handful of pretty smoke.
It was a confidence trick Zoe wanted to master. She wondered whether he'd always had the gift or he'd learned it from Peter Salter.
* * *
Danny slid the car into the one remaining parking space, much to the annoyance of a Ford Fiesta driver who honked his horn angrily, then pootled off towards Wanstead in a cloud of fumes.
"Couldn't resist it, could you?" Zoe said. Danny flashed her a grin. She didn't return it. She was twitchy with him right now, had been for a week. He didn't think he was that difficult to get on with. "Any sign?"
"He wouldn't have gone to the service