“You must join the twenty-first century. This is London, Oliver. Not The Archers.”
“But as you’re here anyway, we might as well be comfortable.” He reached for the thermostat and adjusted it several degrees. From upstairs came the comforting noise of organised heat awakening: a dull thunk, a whispered whoosh. Nash tightened his dressing gown cord. “You’ve caused quite the hullaballoo.”
“I have?”
“What would you call it? You left a pack of Dogs in a heap on a staircase and used the lone survivor as an Uber. He’s taking some hard knocks, by the way. When he returned Ms. Kelly’s gun to her, I thought she’d use it on him.”
“He knew it was a long-term investment,” Diana said.
“And then you vanished like a woodland sprite. Down on the hub, they don’t know whether to build you a crucifix or find you a crown. Coffee?”
“Please.”
“And there’s a rather good seeded sourdough. I could run us up some toast?”
“Who’s been parachuted into the Park?”
“Home Office man, bit of a donkey. Name of Malahide.”
Diana pursed her lips.
“Needless to say, he takes your disappearing act as a sign of guilt.”
“If I’d shown up, it would have been game over. You know that.”
“Indeed I do, but you know what that department’s like. They’ve got so used to pretending they’re not as smart as their boss, some of them have actually got that way.” With an economy of motion belying his size, Nash dropped four slices of bread into the toaster and attended to the Nespresso machine. “And he hasn’t learned from you how to think round corners.”
“What did Sparrow offer?”
“What you’d expect.” Nash opened a cupboard, and began excavating little tubs of jam, the size that come with hotel breakfasts. “The Park’s to be, what shall we call it, streamlined? More oversight, less, ah initiative. Committee-led. With Yours Truly at the helm.”
“I hadn’t realised your ambitions lay in that direction.”
“Upwards? Everyone’s ambitions lie in that direction. Law of physics. Besides, once he’d played the waterproof card, the next step was inevitable. Either I went along, or I’d be squashed against the tiles. Though, as you’ll remember, I did give you advance warning.”
Red Queen, Red Queen, he’d whispered down her phone.
“Playing both ends against the middle.”
“Oh, please. I’d never turn against the middle. Black, yes?” He placed a coffee cup in front of her. “Sparrow doesn’t know you like I do. He thought activating Candlestub would render you harmless. Whereas I knew that putting you in a corner would get your dander up.” He barked, unexpectedly. “Which, come to think of it . . .” Reaching into his dressing gown pocket, he produced his iPhone. A few taps later he passed it to her. “That came in an hour ago. Woke me, as it happens.”
Diana read the activity report he’d opened. “An attack on the San? This was Sparrow?”
“He seemed to think de Greer was being held there. On your instructions.”
“I approved a placement there a few days ago. For one of Lamb’s misshapes.”
“Shirley Dander.”
“Who Sparrow thought was de Greer, right? Because Whelan steered him that way.”
“Claude put two and two together and made five.” He held out his hand, and she returned the phone. “Though I can’t help wondering if your Lamb didn’t nudge him in that direction. Bit of a disruptor, that man.”
“He’s been called worse. But either way, where did Sparrow find a wrecking crew?”
The toast popped up, as if it too were eager to hear this part.
Nash used wooden tongs to place the slices in a rack. “He appears to have allied himself with, I believe they call themselves Ultras? A collective of over-enthusiastic football fans.”
Diana had pulled a chair out. “And where did this information come from?”
“Field work. My own, actually.”
“You’re a joe now?”
“I appreciate that you find that amusing. Though you might care to ask yourself which of us is seeking help.”
“Help? I’m not yet holding your feet to the fire, Oliver. But the moment might come.”
Nash, seated, carefully buttered his toast. “There’s a restaurant called La Spezia, off Wardour Street. Sparrow has been seen—by me—visiting its premises, and it’s not somewhere you’d expect to find him. So after a little, ah, surveillance, I asked the very able Josie to do some digging, and she informs me that the under-manager there, one Alessandro Botigliani, is what I believe they call a capo of a branch of these so-called Ultras, affiliated in his case to Lazio.” Nash applied jam, and ferried the result to his mouth. The resulting expression was one frequently sought by Renaissance artists, reaching for tokens of religious ecstasy. Then: “They’re of a far-right persuasion, though there’s grounds for suspecting that ideology, and indeed the beautiful game, is of less concern to them than kicking many kinds of carrots out of opposing fans. A ready-made wrecking crew, as you put it.”