Whelan couldn’t tear his eyes away.
He’d called it in, and been assured of a swift response, but here they were, middle of the night, and Shirley Dander was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a knife-carrying thug. Who hadn’t removed his helmet, the effect of which—a shiny black head, glinting under the lights—was science fiction, as if this newcomer were an alien killing machine, recently uncoiled from a heap of pumps and hoses. He only hoped the creature wouldn’t notice that Dander’s weapon was a piece of plastic cutlery.
But Dander was weaving, dancing, footloose; making quick, dainty jabs that never connected—her body language suggesting that if one did, the biker would deliquesce on contact—before whipping the spork out of sight behind her back. He’d call it bravery, if it weren’t the stupidest thing he’d ever seen. And he remembered Shirley had been in the San, a sanctuary for trauma and addiction survivors, true, but also where the Service kept those of its soldiers who’d come mentally unglued.
“I’ve called the police.”
The boy from the garage had joined him.
“They said keep right away. Keep inside.”
Whelan nodded. It was the sensible thing to do.
He was hoping for blue lights, or better yet, the whump whump of that useful helicopter, because if help didn’t turn up soon he was going to have to get involved, and he couldn’t see that ending happily.
Don’t get paired with me. Not a good idea.
Whelan didn’t believe in jinxes.
But the fact that Shirley Dander did was keeping him on the sidelines for now.
Even without her Westminster power-suit, de Greer looked out of place. The café was the 1970s’ last foothold on the capital: yellow-tiled floor, Toulouse Lautrec posters, and two-seater tables graced with vases that looked fashioned by out-patients, each boasting a plastic sprig of ferns. To blend in, she’d have had to be wearing an afghan and tinted granny-specs rather than jeans and black jacket. The man behind the counter, his ponytail presumably a job requirement, kept throwing her the odd glance, but the only other customer was buried in an almost tangible fog of misery, staring into an abyss disguised as a tea cup.
So effectively she was alone, thought Sparrow, exactly as she’d said.
A bell above the door tinkled, as if he were walking into a sit com. Ignoring the counter, he took the spare seat opposite Sophie without uttering a greeting.
“No table service, pal,” said the man at the counter.
“Cup of tea,” said Sparrow, not taking his eyes off Sophie.
Who wasn’t wearing her glasses. Perhaps they were part of her costume: this is what a wonk looks like. His mind scanned through various discussions she’d taken part in—decisions she’d helped steer—and knew that once it became known she’d been planted by the Russian secret service, he’d become a joke. The party would survive, because it always did; the PM would remain unscathed, because he’d gaslit the electorate often enough to get away with anything, but he—Anthony Sparrow—might as well start wearing a jester’s motley and bells. Or a fucking ponytail, come to that.
He hadn’t mentioned this train of thought when they’d spoken on the phone.
The cup of tea was waiting, some of its contents carefully slopped over the rim. When it dawned on Sparrow that he was expected to fetch and pay for it he did so with a heavy sigh, but when he returned to the table Sophie said, “You mentioned a lobbying job.”
Game over, thought Sparrow.
Once they started negotiating, it was game over.
She raised her mug to her lips, and he mirrored her action before replying. It was something you learned to do when you wanted people to think you were on the same page. By the time they realised you were holding a different book, the ink was dry on the deal.
“Why did you drop from sight?”
“I wanted to worry you.”
“But now you’re back.”
“Like I said. You mentioned a lobbying job.”
“I can fix that.”
“And resident status.”
“Piece of cake.”
“And protection in the event that my, ah, former employers object to my new career.”
“Your former employers won’t want to embroil themselves in a diplomatic headbutting contest.”
“Diplomatic doesn’t worry me. But they have been known to adapt a more forthright approach.”
“Only towards those who’ve been a public irritation. This will be a private arrangement. You appear before Limitations this morning and categorically deny any rumours about your affiliation to the Russian secret service. That’s all I require.”