Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(30)

“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.



scruffy but clean

photo of pope

framed football shirt (signed by?)



He paused, unable to either make out the name scrawled in Sharpie on the shirt, or recognise the team colours.



floor tiled in red and white squares

ditto tablecloths

It wasn’t evident that any of this information mattered, but he was here, and would follow his instincts.



staff young Italians, badly needing shaves



One such approached Nash’s booth now and asked if he’d made his choice, or at least, so Nash interpreted his monosyllabic enquiry.

“What do you recommend?”

This earned a blank stare.

“What’s the chef’s speci—”

“Fettucini’s good.”

With prawns, though their provenance wasn’t mentioned. The travails of the joe in the field. “Very well. And the bruschetta to start. And a glass of the Amarone.” He squinted at the wine list. “That’s number . . . seventeen. A large glass.”

The young man disappeared through the swing doors into the kitchen, and Nash added brusque service to his list.

But the wine arrived swiftly, as did his starter, and the odours filling the room were promising. There was no piped music, which was a plus—no muzak—though a radio played in the kitchen, a football match. He checked his messages as he ate. Nothing of interest bar a note from Claude Whelan, seeking retrospective confirmation that he, Nash, had approved his, Whelan’s, request to examine phone records pertaining to the hub . . . That wouldn’t have gone down well with Diana. It was possible Whelan was less diffident than Nash had thought. He replied, then scanned the headlines: the PM had just shared his vision of post-Brexit Britain as a cultural powerhouse, its film industry the envy of the world—there was more on the Home Office reshuffle, which some were calling a bloodbath; and there’d been a house fire off the Westway. One fatality, as yet unidentified. He laid his phone aside, and thought back to yesterday’s meeting.