Someone was leaving, appearing as a shadow on one of Roddy’s screens, silhouetted in the embassy’s doorway. A woman, not the one on Louisa’s mind, but recognisable nevertheless. Lech said it first: “Lady Di.”
“Why’d you call her that?” Ashley said.
Louisa and Lech shared a look. “Because everyone does?”
“No, they don’t. Why would they?”
“。 . . Because her name’s Diana?”
Their mutual incomprehension would have made everyone present uncomfortable, if that number hadn’t included Roddy Ho.
Onscreen, Taverner stepped inside a cab.
“Black car,” Roddy murmured under his breath.
“Why would she be there?” Louisa asked.
“It’s an official function,” Lech said. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I thought she hated that kind of thing.”
“Gotta fly the flag, I suppose.”
“Why did Lamb want us watching this anyway?” Ashley said.
“Did he say he did?” Lech said.
“Well, no, but . . .”
“But he knew we would, once he’d asked Roddy to hijack the coverage.”
“Yeah,” said Louisa. “You think it’s Taverner he wanted us to clock?”
“What, because he reckons she’s up to something dodgy?”
“To be fair, she usually is. Though I’m having trouble imagining it having anything to do with the Russians.”
“On the other hand, there she is,” said Lech. “Strolling out of their embassy.”
“Yeah, right,” said Roddy, rolling his eyes. “Because the best time for a secret meeting is when the place is full of people. Duh.”
“Well, yeah, actually. Duh.”
“I thought Taverner sent an underling along to functions,” Ashley said. “When she wanted her RSVP to be ‘fuck you.’”
“That’s what the word in the Park is, huh?” said Louisa.
“Well, it was recently. Why, when was the last time you were there?”
“Touchy,” said Roddy.
“It’s pronounced touché,” said Lech.
“What is?”
“So okay, for some reason Lamb wanted us to watch this,” said Louisa. “And apart from a bunch of freeloaders turning up for gangster grub and gangster wine, all we’ve seen is First Desk leaving early. Do we feel wiser yet? Because I’m ready to go home.”
“Lightweight,” said Lech. “Can you give me a lift?”
“Which direction?”
“Chelsea.”
Louisa held his gaze a moment, then sighed. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed Lech lived in Chelsea,” Ashley said when they were gone.
“He doesn’t,” said Roddy.
“I wonder what he’s up to then?”
Roddy shrugged. “Do you do much social media?”
“Normal amount. Why?”
“Do you ever . . . dress up?”
“Not sure where this is going,” said Ashley. “But I’m not following it.” She went to find her coat, and on her way back down put her head round the door again. “Did you see Lamb after lunch, by the way?”
“Don’t remember. Why?”
“No reason.”
But she was scowling as she made her way down the stairs, and kicked the back door harder than necessary before stepping into Slough House’s yard, its walls damply patterned with city mildew, and quietly reeking of loss in the late-summer evening.
Anyone watching Oliver Nash approach La Spezia that evening would have thought he’d been hanging around the Park too long. His every move betrayed an excess of caution. For a start, he made three passes—walking straight by the first time; pausing to study the menu the second; the third, hovering in place, making a play of indecision—which was one too many for a man casing a brothel, let alone a small Italian restaurant off Wardour Street. Before he at last braved the front door he paused to turn his overcoat collar up, and for all the street dazzle of Soho—the neon lights and mirrored windows; the pavements shiny with party-poppered sequins—you’d have thought Nash was stepping into noir, dimming everything to a monochrome rainbow: black and white and grey and white and black.
Once inside, he asked for a table for one, and was taken downstairs and placed in a corner booth. Two others were occupied, both by elderly couples audibly engaged in eating pasta, and by the time Nash was seated—after waiting in vain to be relieved of his coat; he settled for draping it on the banquette opposite—a laminated menu had been slapped in front of him, illustrated with photographs of the dishes on offer. All of this, too, would have puzzled any watcher. Nash’s regular haunts required reservations and appropriate footwear. La Spezia’s kitchen seemed more likely to be graced by a Pirelli calendar than a Michelin star. Besides, Nash was on his own, and dining solo was not his habit. A possible, if unkind, explanation might be that Nash had found somewhere he might indulge himself without witnesses; an arena in which he could not only let his appetite off the leash, but sit back and admire its turn of speed. But the cannier observer would be aware that Nash was studying his surroundings, and making notes on his phone. Oliver Nash was on the job.