Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(32)
It had been a little over a week ago that Nash had seen him on Wardour Street, mid-evening; satchel on his back and walking with purpose. Nash had been browsing in Foyle’s before heading for a club on Shaftesbury Avenue, but spurred by mischief and the possibility of intrigue had changed direction. The adventure lasted less than a minute, Sparrow turning off the main drag almost as soon as Nash had spotted him, and heading for this restaurant. But instead of the front door he had used the entrance marked for deliveries, which Nash now assumed led into the kitchen. At the time, he had walked on past, abuzz. The notion that he’d stumbled on a secret dining hole, frequented by a Downing Street elite, was a rare prize, a morsel he could dine off for weeks. But care would be needed. Sparrow wanted to be feared, and didn’t mind being hated. He wouldn’t take kindly to having his secrets unearthed.
What was already widely known about him was bad enough. That he was a “disruptor,” a self-described architect of the new future. That it was his habit to call fake news on anything showing himself or the government in a bad light. That it was also his habit to proclaim fake news a good thing, since it forced people to question what they heard. That such contradictions allowed him to claim victory in every argument. That he appeared to be running the country, with half the cabinet terrified of him, and the rest scared stiff. That when Number Ten boasted of approaching glories, it was Sparrow’s pipe dreams the prime minister was passively smoking. That it wouldn’t end well.
Given all that, it had been no surprise that Sparrow in person had proved a charmless bully. But—and here Nash forced himself not to look away from a grim truth—a charmless bully armed with the promise of advancement. This couldn’t be ignored. The last few years had scraped the rosy glow off his investment portfolio, and the knowledge that this was true for many did little to alleviate the matter. There was an opportunity here to ensure that his future continued to feature the right kind of restaurant, and appropriate shoes. And he had never sworn fealty to Diana Taverner. There could be no treachery in witnessing her eclipse.
The doors to the kitchen swung open as another meal was carried to a table, and the volume of the football match grew louder, as did the attention of the kitchen staff. Nash could make out coathooks on the other side of the doors, on which hung several football jerseys, the same design as the trophy shirt on the wall. The doors strobed to a standstill, obscuring the view. He rather liked this place, he decided, and on impulse added to his list surprisingly enjoyable atmosphere. Again, not something he’d expect Sparrow to be susceptible to. Nash pondered that for a moment, wondering what he might be missing.
Then he caught the waiter’s eye, and ordered more wine and a chocolate delice.
The second gin and tonic is the key. In this instance what it unlocked was a disinclination to go home, a disinclination that left Whelan poised, empty glass aloft, imagining that the picture he presented to the approaching waitress was one of attractive dishevelment. Another drink wouldn’t hurt. Nor would a dish of smoked almonds. Behind her visor the waitress smiled, thinking about something else, and he smiled too, thinking about her. A large figure slid out of nowhere and occupied the chair Catherine Standish had vacated with the grace of a nesting hippo. “And a large scotch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very large.”
“Yes, sir. We have—”
“Whatever’s most expensive.”
Which caused some confusion, but Whelan gave a reassuring nod, and she left to fill the order.
Jackson Lamb glared round benignly, like a momentarily appeased tyrant, settling into a kingdom that hadn’t yet realised was his.
Whelan said, “Do you make a habit of following your staff?”
“It’s more of a hobby, really.” His gaze settled on Whelan. “But dodgy looking geezers hanging round bus stops, who wander off after my joes, well. Them, I keep an eye on.” He arched a raggy eyebrow. “You never know who’s got form when it comes to harassing a working girl.”
So intent had he been on following Standish, on not alarming her by his presence, it hadn’t occurred to Whelan that he should have been checking his own wake.
The almonds arrived. Lamb scooped a grubby handful almost before they were placed on the table, and poured most into his mouth. His gaze remained on Whelan throughout.
Who said, “Well, you’re here. I was planning on speaking to you anyway. So this saves us both time.”
“Good to know. When I’ve saved enough, I’ll put the clocks back.”
“You took a call on Monday afternoon.”
“‘Took a call?’”
“Answered your office phone.”
“Doesn’t sound like me.”
“The call lasted two minutes thirty-seven seconds.”
“Can’t have been a dirty one,” said Lamb. “My stamina’s shot to pieces these days. I’ve had sneezes last longer.”
“I see you haven’t changed.”
The waitress brought their drinks. Lamb kept his gaze on Whelan, but Whelan gave her an appreciative look.
“Seems like I’m not the only one,” Lamb said.
Wherever he was going with that, Whelan wanted none of it. He said, “Sophie de Greer.” Lamb’s expression didn’t alter. “The name of the woman who called you.”
“I’d say you were well informed,” Lamb said. “If you weren’t full of shit.”