Free Down Cemetery Road by Mick Herron

remain a secret.
    There was a knock at the door, and after a moment or two, a new man entered. His name was Howard. A lot younger than the room’s original occupant, he hid it well: sparse hair, stressed features – he looked as if he’d unexpectedly been made leader of the Conservative Party, and hadn’t yet found a way of passing the buck. And now was made to stand and wait while the man who’d summoned him – the man for whom Howard worked, or to whom he reported, though Howard had never discovered his name – stood looking out of the window: working up, no doubt, some piece of crap Howard would have to pretend he enjoyed. Or deserved. One or the other.
    Howard often thought of his boss as C. Not because it was traditional in their field, but because it stood for a very short word that seemed to fit.
    When C spoke at last, it was to say, ‘Made a right bollocks of this one, haven’t you, Howard?’
    Howard didn’t answer.
    ‘I don’t remember you receiving permission to start a war.’
    ‘The Department was given carte blanche , sir.’
    ‘That’s very pretty, Howard. French, isn’t it? And it implies pretty wide parameters, I’ll grant you, but not wide enough to cover barely controlled explosions in densely populated suburban areas. Who did you have running this one? Wile E Coyote?’
    ‘Crane, sir.’
    ‘Oh God. That’s almost as bad.’
    Though he hadn’t asked which Crane, and everybody knew there were two.
    C sighed. It was a theatrical sigh: sounded rehearsed. He waved a hand at a chair, so Howard sat, though C remained standing. But he turned from the window at last. Looked down at Howard like a disappointed headmaster. ‘And Crane thought a bomb would do the trick? I suppose we should be grateful he didn’t go after him in a tank.’
    ‘It came out looking like an accident, sir. And there was the problem of the body, too. Crane thought taking him out solo would have caused more problems than it solved. I mean, the target was already dead, sir. Technically.’
    ‘But his wife wasn’t. Crane happy with that on his conscience, is he?’
    Crane hasn’t got a conscience, thought Howard.
    ‘What about the locals? They’ve been pacified?’
    ‘It was a gas leak. We’re all square on that one.’
    ‘No hungry journos looking for their name in bright lights?’
    ‘It was a gas leak, sir,’ Howard repeated. ‘The story will hold.’
    ‘I’m delighted you’re confident. What about the child? Crane hasn’t had her shot or anything, has he?’
    ‘She’s fine.’
    ‘She had fucking better be fine, Howard. Dead babies sell newspapers. Dead babies blown up in cack-handed covert operations run by psychopathic idiots get entire documentaries dedicated to their short, wasted lives. Now which of the blasted Crane brothers masterminded this bollocks, and what’s he planning on doing for an encore?’
    ‘Axel, sir.’
    ‘Axel shouldn’t be let out on his own. He’s a danger to the public. As I’m sure the public will all too readily agree after this fiasco. What’s his next move? A small nuclear device in a crowded shopping centre?’
    ‘Downey’s still running loose.’
    ‘And what are the bets on his suspicions having been aroused, Howard? You think he’ll write it off to a faulty gas main? Luck of the draw? Or might he be a little bit jumpy?’
    ‘Crane says –’
    ‘Axel?’
    ‘Amos. He’s holding the reins on this.’
    ‘So the bomb was his idea?’
    ‘Axel’s. It was a field decision, sir. He was given carte blanche –’
    C waved his hand so Howard shut up. Axel Crane, Amos Crane: they were each as bad as the other. This time round, Amos Crane was home in the bunker, calling the shots; Axel – who was generally agreed to be a mad bugger – was out in the open, ignoring them. And civilians were being smeared across the landscape.
    The older man said, ‘Jesus wept. The lunatics are running the asylum. What does he say then, Amos Crane?’
    ‘That it doesn’t matter