Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(31)

It had been his first summons to Sparrow’s presence, but he was aware of precedents. Some had involved civil servants of forty years’ standing, the resulting interviews curtailing their careers in the time it would take to drink a cup of tea, had such courtesy been offered. Others had learned that their departments were coming under new admin structures more directly controlled by Number Ten; “reforms”—a bastardised word if ever there was one—that were in reality a show of strength from a government whose weaknesses had been on national display over the previous eighteen months. This performance was largely due to the prime minister himself, whose sole qualification for the job had been the widespread expectation that he’d achieve it. Having done so, he was clearly dumbstruck by the demands of office: the pay-cut, the long hours, the pandemic, and the shocking degree of accountability involved. For a man who’d made a vocation out of avoidance of responsibility, this last was an ugly blow. Nash didn’t much care about any of that—the man’s character had been evident for decades, and people still voted for him—but it mattered that, as a consequence, the PM had come to rely on a series of advisers whom no one had voted for. And “rely on” was putting it mildly. While the PM still racked up soundbites on a regular basis, they mostly came out as “gottle o’ geer.” His lips might move, but it was Sparrow writing his script.

Sparrow’s script-writing ambitions stretched beyond the odd political broadcast.

“How do you find Diana Taverner?” he had asked Nash the previous afternoon, before the topic of Sophie de Greer had been broached.

“Diana? She’s an effective First Desk.”

In other circumstances, the prospect of a no-holds-barred discussion of Diana’s ups and downs would have been a thrill, but Sparrow was no gossip. Sparrow was the weasel under the cabinet table, his teeth bared and dripping.

“It’s said she’s close to Peter Judd.”

“Judd was Home Secretary while Diana was Second Desk,” Nash said. “Naturally they worked together.”

“And have continued to . . . associate since. Though Judd has some dubious acquaintances.”

Judd had set himself up as an old-school eminence grise, and was currently stage-managing the mayoral ambitions of one Desmond Flint, who might fairly be described as dubious, Nash thought, but was at least prepared to put himself before the electorate. As for the degree to which Diana was involved with Judd, Nash had wondered about that himself, but was wary of airing doubts in front of Sparrow.

He said, “That’s the nature of the Westminster village. We all bump elbows with some we’d sooner avoid.”

Sparrow received this with his customary lack of expression.

“The Westminster village. Curious to take pride in its parochial nature, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Her associations aside, Taverner’s support for Number Ten has been underwhelming. I’d prefer First Desk to display a little more enthusiasm for the government she serves.”

It did not escape Nash that it was a first-person preference Sparrow was stating.

He said, “If this is to sound me out about a possible, ah, move towards a replacement, I’d remind you that Number Ten has traditionally relied on the guidance of the Limitations Committee in such matters. And as its chair, I have to say Diana commands the Committee’s respect. She can be abrasive, yes, but there’s no reason to question her commitment to the government of the day.”

“Very loyal. But as you say, Number Ten’s reliance on the Committee’s judgement is a matter of tradition. And tradition doesn’t rank highly with myself or the PM. It’s a drag on progress.”

“Some might say—”

“Any such removal would be part of a larger reorganisation. First Desk has a ring to it, but overstates the case. His or her role is simply to carry out policy and instructions delivered by Number Ten. As for the Committee, I see that as being streamlined, but with more responsibility accruing. The PM himself, or one of his advisers, would attend meetings designed to formulate overall policies. The chair would then inform First Desk of instructions arising. Which would lessen the possibility of the Service involving itself in adventures detrimental to the government’s larger aims.”

“Such a structure might overlook—”

“And there’d be no debate about removing Taverner from office, since she’d resign sooner than suffer what she’d see as a demotion. So you don’t need worry about a conflict of loyalties.”

“. . . Conflict?”

“You’ll be required to stay on as chair for the foreseeable future. I assume that’s what you want?”

Phrased, thought Nash, as if he had been plotting his own advancement.

Sparrow was observing him, head tilted to one side as if in homage to his avian namesake, so he nodded. “When do you plan to announce these changes?”

“I’m sure the moment will present itself. Meanwhile, there’s another matter. As it happens, not entirely unconnected.” He had gone on to lay out the problem of his missing superforecaster, and the role Nash might play in resolving this.

When his main course arrived, it was soundtracked by a roar of approval from the kitchen: a goal, Nash assumed. Certainly his waiter seemed less morose. He paused long enough to assure himself that Nash had noticed the plate in front of him, and then went back through the swing doors, which flapped in his wake, a diminishing series of farewell gestures. Nash speared a garlicky prawn, delivered it to his mouth, and for a moment all other concerns disappeared. Food was a form of magic. But his meal diminished with every mouthful, and before he had finished, the spectre of Sparrow was rematerialising: Deeply out of place here, as much so as Nash himself, and that was the question, wasn’t it? What on earth had drawn Anthony Sparrow to this obscure eatery?