Chapter 80
Opposite the fountain in St John’s Gardens, off London’s Horseferry Road, two suited businessmen sat on a little wooden bench and pretended they weren’t having a conversation. They were old school.
“What on earth is going on? We find him for you and you lose him almost within minutes.” He shook out the pages of his newspaper.
The other man opened a small plastic bag he’d lifted from his pocket and threw a handful of crumbs across the paving stones where it attracted the immediate attention of a group of pigeons. “He wanted a holiday. We thought we’d keep him sweet.”
“Yes, all well and good but where were his handlers?”
“He didn’t want them in his face. He was being very difficult.”
A long pause. “Who’s behind this?”
A hesitant reply. “Are you sure ... you’re not?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! What about you? Are you sure it’s not just someone scoring points for their department?”
He glanced at his colleague as he scattered another handful. “Once upon a time, I might have thought that but no, I’m fairly certain.”
“What about ‘the rumour’?”
“Anything is possible, I suppose, but isn’t ‘the rumour’ just a cold war myth?”
A sigh. “I don’t know. I’m beginning to wonder. We need to get on top of this before it all comes down on someone’s head. I don’t want it to be mine.”
“Nor I. My head, I mean.” A smile and he emptied the meagre remnants at his feet. “We are running damage limitation.”
“I should think so!” He paused. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. At the other place. How’s your wife, by the way?”
“Much better, thanks. And your ...?”
“Very well, thank you for asking.”
He folded the newspaper, rose from the bench and walked away, a cloud of pigeons rising before him like a stage curtain. His colleague remained, deep in thought. She was right, he concluded. It had to be the Zoffany wallpaper for both rooms. He’d tell her tonight.