“‘One or other’？”
“A turn of phrase.” He wiped crumbs from his tie. “There’s no need to look at me like that. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“That if you need something done ask a scapegoat?”
“You’re being melodramatic. If Diana needs to paint a target anywhere—which she won’t—it’s not your back she’ll be looking at. It’s Ingrid Tearney’s.” He lowered his voice. “There was a whisper at the time that Tearney, ah, waterproofed someone entirely for her own benefit while First Desk.” He shook his head saying this: the evil that women do. “And then there’s her predecessor, Charles Partner, who’s been safely dead these many years. With that pair to choose from, Diana won’t feel unduly paranoid if questions are asked about an ancient protocol that officially never existed in the first place.” He paused. “Unless, of course, she is responsible for Dr. de Greer’s disappearance. But that doesn’t strike me as especially likely.”
Even Whelan could hear the weariness in his tone when he said, “The whole reason I was appointed First Desk was that I wasn’t tainted by anything Ingrid Tearney got up to. A clean pair of hands. Remember?”
“Of course. Anyway, we’re losing sight of the wood for the trees. All Sparrow’s interested in is the whereabouts of Dr. de Greer, and all you have to do is confirm that wherever she is, the Service didn’t put her there.” He still wasn’t happy with his tie. It was possible, thought Whelan, he was trying to brush away some of its pattern. “A few questions, a few answers, and it’s done with.”
“It doesn’t seem as if that’ll get Sparrow any closer to finding out what’s happened to his associate.”
“But it’ll close down a line of enquiry. Besides . . . Between us, I’m not entirely sure that’s what he’s really after. No, chances are, he’s using the situation to let the Park know who’s top dog. It’s no secret he’d prefer the set-up there was less . . . independent.” Nash had taken his phone out while saying this, and was playing with its buttons like a jazz pianist looking for a tune. Whelan’s own phone pinged: incoming. “There. Now you know what I know.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “A few questions, Claude. A plausible denial from the Park. Just so I can let Mr. Sparrow know there’s nothing to his suspicions.”
“In my day, which wasn’t that long ago, it was the prime minister called the tune. Not his poodle.”
“The poodles are running the bloody show, that’s the problem. I expect to see the PM in a collar and leash any day now.”
For a moment Nash looked old and tired, which rather shook Whelan. He’d always thought of Nash as one of Westminster’s groupies, living for the gossip and the lunches, and generally unbothered by the moral dimension. It was possible he’d been wrong about that.
The waitress came and collected their crockery. Whelan found his gaze drifting in her direction, admiring the way her uniform adhered to her shape, and slapped his own mental wrist.
“I don’t know, Oliver,” he said, which was a lie. He did know. This shouldn’t be touched with a hazmat suit on. It had politics scribbled all over it, and there was no way you could wander into that kind of firefight without getting bits of you shot off: your reputation, your career, your pension. It was politics that had proved his undoing at the Park. Well, and also the connection between a working-paper he’d written years ago, a massacre in Derbyshire and a bloodbath involving penguins, but that could have happened to anyone; it was politics had sharpened the knife. So yes, he knew: shake an apologetic head and walk away.
On the other hand . . .
Reputation, career and pension. He was probably overstating the risk. His pension was secure, and his career largely over; had dwindled to committee work and charitable enterprise, the rubble that remained after a failure to launch. As for his reputation, the circumstances demanding his departure from office had never been made public, so rumour and gossip had rushed to fill the gap. An unexpected rise to prominence; a sudden crashing to earth—whispers suggested a #MeToo moment, and men his own age offered sympathetic headshakes. No, his reputation was already shot. So perhaps what was on offer here was the opportunity to settle a score. With that thought, another name from the past popped up unprompted: Taverner’s sparring partner, Jackson Lamb. He’d rather enjoy tilting his lance at that bad actor. And yet one more consideration: having a mission would get him out of the house. That could only be a good thing, surely?