Judd said, “Well, we could probably call it fifty thousands’ worth, in the circumstances. I mean, the bar bill came to more than that.”
“I assume he had some kind of recording.”
“He made no such claim. He simply asserted knowledge of Number Seven’s presence at what he called an orgy, and suggested I might like to buy his silence. Before, as he put it, things went viral.”
“And have you paid?”
“Not yet.”
“But you plan to?”
Judd picked up his empty glass and revolved it slowly in his hand. Unusually, he seemed unwilling to look at her while doing so. For Peter Judd, any physical action undertaken in the presence of a woman was foreplay; doubly so if the action involved food or drink. Or plucking his nasal hairs, in all likelihood. But now, his gaze directed elsewhere, he said, “I may have made a . . . tactical error.”
“A tactical error,” she said flatly.
“It happens.”
“I know it happens, Peter. I know it even happens to you. But hearing you admit it, well. That’s on the level of a Tour de France winner testing clean.”
“I decided the best thing to do was throw a scare into the boy.”
“Of course you did.”
“And that it might be best if I weren’t immediately involved. Given my current intentions.”
“You mean, given your plans to re-enter politics, you’d rather not be dragging a traumatised teenager in your wake? I see your old nous hasn’t deserted you.”
“So I, ah, referred the matter upwards.”
“You resorted to prayer.”
“Not exactly.”
“No, I didn’t think so. Who? One of the parties at this conference, right?”
He nodded.
“And they are?”
“Let’s say they’re a nation state currently looking to consolidate their power base.”
“By eradicating opposition within their borders, no doubt.”
“I’m a democrat, Diana. And I believe in the sovereignty of nations.”
“How wonderful for all concerned. What did they do?”
“They may have brought in hired help,” he said. “Professionals.”
“Mercenaries.”
Judd nodded, once.
“So,” Taverner said. “We have a teenage boy who witnessed God only knows what depravities involving sex, drugs and a senior royal, as a sideshow to an arms deal. And one of the parties to the deal plans to kill him before he can make this public.”
“You can’t be sure they intend to kill—”
“And Peter Judd is having a crisis of conscience. I think that’s the detail that really frightens me.” She picked up her glass, put it down again. Nothing in it. “Okay, you’ve got my attention. What arrangements were made? For paying off the boy, I mean.”
“A handover near where it happened, in Pembrokeshire. As the boy suggested.” The hint of a sneer crossed his face. “I rather suspect he wanted me to think he’s local.”
“So you managed to identify him.”
“Well it wasn’t complicated, Diana. And even in Seb’s absence, I do have staff.” He paused. “There is a slight further, what shall I call it? Further wrinkle you should know about.”
She sighed. “Enlighten me.”
“His father was one of yours.”
“One of my what?”
“A spook, Diana. He was in Five. Deceased now, but in his time, yes. Name of Harper.”
Di Taverner said, “It never stops, does it?” She thought a moment. “The only Harper I recall was one of Lamb’s. A slow horse.”
Judd said nothing.
“Which means Lamb will almost certainly find a way of complicating matters.”
“There’s no reason he should find out about this.”
“Not having a reason is one of the things Lamb does best.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m still unconvinced by the crisis of conscience.”
“Maybe I just wanted to do you a favour.”
“With an eye on my owing you one.”
“And Number Seven remaining firmly in the shadows. Whatever the outcome.”
Di Taverner said, “Oh, absolutely. We must safeguard our national treasures.”
She rose to go.
Judd said, “We have more to discuss.”
“I don’t have time.”
“I don’t mean now. Once this matter has been . . . disposed of.”
“I’m not in the mood for cloak and dagger, Peter.”
“Aren’t you? I rather thought that was your thing.” He stood too. “We’ll talk more. To your advantage. Trust me.”
She laughed. “Trust you? Oh, Peter. You say the funniest things.”
He leaned across as if to embrace her, but she was already on the move.
Snow had blurred the boundaries between road and verge, casting all it covered in a strange new light. Louisa parked at the top of a lane running down to a crossroads, fields in all directions, and before her headlights died noted that the fenceposts they illuminated were the aftermath of battle: a row of spears, protruding from graves. And then just fenceposts again. With the car quiet the world became huge, and mostly dark, though a dark blanketed by soft white numbness. There’d been no traffic on the road. Locals knew better than to venture out in this.
Earlier, she’d called Emma from a pub on Pegsea’s High Street. Emma, it would be fair to say, hadn’t been delighted with her updated request.
“You want me to talk to him again?”
“You can do it on the phone this time.”
“That’s still talking. You get that, right? That talking to someone on the phone is still talking?”
“But it beats being up close and personal.”
“You’re actually in Wales now?”
“Yep.”
“You’re insane. I heard on the radio they were expecting another six inches.”
“Probably a man said that. In which case it’ll be more like two.”
“What’s it doing now?”
She’d looked out of the window. “You ever see The Day After Tomorrow?”
“God.”
“Look, I know Roddy. If he tracked this thing for you last night, he’ll still be tracking it now. It’ll take him like five seconds to update the coordinates. Five seconds. Max. And I need this, Emma. The kid’s not at the cottage. Doesn’t look like he’s been there.”
“God,” said Emma again. Then: “Two spa days. And you come with me.”
“Deal.”
“I’ll need both,” Emma grumbled. “Just to get the feel of his eyes off my skin.”
She called back within the hour. Roddy Ho, Louisa surmised, was keen to impress Emma Flyte.
“Okay,” Emma had said. “Did we say four spa days?”
“Cumulatively,” Louisa agreed. “He manage it?”
“You got a pencil?”
The coordinates Emma gave her were for Lucas Harper’s Fitbit, in real time.
“And he’s pretty static.”
“Hope he’s not dead in a ditch.”
There was a pause.
Emma said, “Is that a likely scenario?”
“Just a turn of phrase.”
“What are you getting into here?”
“Nothing. He’s a missing kid, that’s all. I’ve never even met him.”
“And yet there you are, in Wales.”
“Like I said. I knew his father.”
The numbers squiggled on the scrap of paper in front of her meant nothing by themselves. Were meaningless, without a map to make them solid.
“Call me later,” Emma said. “When you find him.”
“Okay.”
“Or if you don’t. Call me anyway. Nine o’clock.”
“Nine o’clock,” Louisa agreed.
And now she was here, an hour short of that deadline; her map app—map app, she liked that; it looped in her mind: map app, map app—having pinpointed the Fitbit as being within a couple of hundred yards. She’d been expecting a building, a pub most likely, but there was nothing; just a junction at the foot of a slope, around which some trees had gathered. More woodland lay across the snow-covered fields. And somewhere beyond them was the sea.