The cardboard punnet had grown cold in Whelan’s hands, and, next to him, the boy from the garage was bouncing on his toes like an activated desk toy. Since Shirley and the biker had disappeared into the car wash they might as well have been transported to another planet. He’d heard the occasional crashing noise, plus a brief interlude of what sounded like dialogue—but he must have imagined that—and otherwise only the swooshing of tyres when a car passed.
The boy said, “I hope the police get here soon.”
Or a Service team, thought Whelan. It couldn’t be more than two minutes since this kicked off: even so his eyes kept flicking skywards, as if that helicopter might be approaching, its crew preparing to rappel earthwards, and deal with the situation. Somebody had to.
She’d been wielding a spork for Christ’s sake.
He turned to the boy. “Don’t you have a—？”
A what? A shotgun, a time machine? A cutlery set?
Then Shirley came rolling out of the car wash, her sweatshirt flapping loosely behind her, and a moment later the biker appeared too, his slow-motion swagger a statement all by itself: this fight was nearly over.
Sparrow was climbing into the back seat next to Sophie when Benito said, “What am I, an Uber?”
It took him a moment to get what was meant.
“I’d sooner be in the front anyway,” Sophie said, climbing out and into the passenger seat. That was okay. It made no difference.
“Turns out she’s not in Dorset after all,” he’d told Benito on the phone, after Sophie had made contact.
“Where most of my crew went,” Benito said. His accent wasn’t that thick, considering, but he was the most Italian Italian Sparrow had come across: the five o’clock shadow, the curly hair, the hint of volatility beneath a handsome, battered surface. The shoes. Other men might have felt themselves in the shade anywhere near him, but Sparrow felt only that two-way connectivity alphas feel.
“I was fed bad information.”
“The . . . opposition they ran into. This wasn’t a rival team.”
“No.”
“They were soldiers. Armed.”
“No one was killed.”
“But there were injuries.”
There were always injuries. Everyone knew that.
“Alessandro—”
“Benito.”
“Benito, anyone who got hurt will have another set of scars to show off. Or are you telling me your crew wet their pants?”
“They’ve been arrested. Most of them. Some got away.”
“They’ll be charged with affray.” He had no idea what they’d be charged with. “A night in the cells, a fine. Small price for a battleground memory.”
“And deportation orders all round. That’s a bigger price.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I’m in a position to deliver on promises.”
There was another pause before Benito said, “And that’s why you rang, Mr. Sparrow? To assure me that you are able to clean up tonight’s mess?”
“That and . . . something else.”
Replaying the conversation in his head, Sparrow congratulated himself on how he’d explained to Benito what he needed without ever coming within shouting distance of describing how that might be achieved.
“What you’re asking, it’s quite . . . serious.”
“Yes and no. About as serious as what happened to your predecessor, Benito. Who was also called Benito, am I right? When he wasn’t being called Rico Lombardi.”
And Benito was silent again.
“‘Returned to Lazio,’ wasn’t that the story? Rico returned to Lazio. Which is marginally more convincing than ‘went to live on a farm,’ but amounts to the same thing. Stop me if your English isn’t up to this.”
Benito said, “Rico is happy and well. I spoke to him just last week.”
“You must put me in touch with your network provider. Mine have trouble reaching Norwich, let alone the afterlife.”
“You are a funny man, Mr. Sparrow.”
“And a talkative one. Maybe, when I’m securing visa extensions for your associates, I’ll ask them what they think happened to Rico. We can exchange opinions on the topic. I’m sure they’ll get back to you if there’s any confusion.”
Benito said, “Politics, politicians. And people think we football supporters are the extremists.”
“Football’s your excuse for doing the things you do, Benito. And politics is mine.”