There were those who’d said of Peter Judd, during his years as a contender for the highest office in the land, that his clowning masked a laser-like focus on his own best interests, but it was a mistake to assume that the theatrical flourishes were nothing more than showmanship. The truth was, he enjoyed the ringmaster role too much to abjure it, while another, truer truth was, it had the added benefit of inducing even close associates to underestimate him. This, Diana knew, was a key component of his interpersonal skill set. Judd had long made a study of loyalty – the ties that bind, and how we answer to their bondage – without ever suffering its strictures himself.
‘Some while ago, as none of you will have forgotten, a disgraceful episode interrupted the tranquillity of our fair and sovereign nation, when, for reasons yet to be fully established, a foreign intelligence service dispatched what can only be described as “hitmen”, a pair of hitmen, their actual gender notwithstanding, to commit murder on our shores. These assassins arrived in the guise of tourists, come to pay obeisance to one of the jewels in our national crown, but rather than guidebook and selfie stick they arrived armed with a toxic substance and evil intent. So far, so very like some popcorn spectacle of the kind we’re accustomed to seeing on the widescreens of our nation’s multiplexes, or should that be multiplices? And yet, and yet, if I were to invoke a cinematic precedent, it would be more Inspector Clouseau than ah ah James Bond. More Laurel and Hardy than Fast and Furious. For in their blundering idiocy, these fools not only proved themselves unable to carry out their original mission, but left in their wake a woman dead and a man seriously impaired. Innocent bystanders, unfortunate citizens, casual victims of international skulduggery. And there are those among you, I know, who felt – like me – the the the shame of seeing this disgraceful episode go unpunished, to see the perpetrators paraded on their homeland television like returning heroes, and their president describe them as uninvolved passers-by, innocent of wrongdoing, and thus subject their victims, and by association every other citizen of this land, to a degree of contempt that in earlier times would have seen boots polished, kitbags packed and gunboats launched.’
He paused and his mouth assumed its usual pout, his eyes their usual cunning light. Give him a toga, Diana thought, and he’d be Nero absent his lyre.
His voice dropped.
‘I should say, of course, that as deplorable and sordid as these events were, they could have been worse. Much much worse. Slathering a nerve agent on their ex-compatriot’s doorknob, in a doomed attempt to murder him, was an evil, evil act, but discarding the unused portion of their toxic weapon – in a perfume bottle – in a local park – to be chanced upon by a couple on a community clean-up outing – that was heinous beyond the reach of vocabulary. That the woman died, the unfortunate woman, was quite tragic enough, but it takes no great leap of imagination to envision other outcomes. The murderous miscreants, in abandoning their poisonous armoury, gave no thought to the potential consequences such action might entail. Any number of victims might have suffered contamination. Children might have been involved. Small, British children.’
His audience was caught up in his rhetoric, their knives and forks at high noon across the bloody swirls on their plates. Damien Cantor was nodding to P. J.’s beat as if he’d first danced to it at his school disco. She’d been taken aback to see him among the company. But he, and the rest of them, had paid for this; had made it happen. So she supposed they were entitled to enjoy the moment, even if that meant – in a typically male way – that they would feel themselves its engineers.
‘And in the aftermath, as I say, shame. The shame of seeing our government do nothing, of seeing sabres apparently unsheathed, but hearing only the plastic rattle of inadequacy. We pulled our aprons over our heads and hid our faces from the world. There we were, taunted and mocked by the global bully, and the best response we could muster was a cowardly wail. Is it any wonder that the common people felt affronted? Is it really a source of surprise that they began to question their leaders? Who among us wouldn’t, when our leaders proved themselves so unequal to the tasks facing them? Tasks, you would have thought, that those occupying the great offices of state would be more than prepared to gird themselves for. Indeed, it’s not too presumptuous to suggest that they should have arrived at said offices with loins already clenched.’
He paused, his gaze sweeping the table.
‘So it is with awe and admiration that I offer our communal thanks to the fair Diana, for the efficiency and aplomb with which she turned her sights on the prize. That prize being, I don’t need to tell you, an evening of the score. Two hitmen, I said, two hitmen were dispatched to our sovereign shores, though of course, as we all know, one of those hitmen was, in actual fact, in actual fact, a hitwoman. And she, the female of the species – which we don’t need our national poet to remind us is far deadlier than the male – has now been returned to the soil from which she sprang, or dung heap, rather, the dung heap which spewed her forth, one of our own unsung heroes – or possibly, who knows, heroines? – performing the ah, the ah, termination. On the instructions of our gallant huntress Diana, she who sought to take life has now herself been taken, and I can only imagine, as I’m sure we all can, the terror that must now be afflicting her erstwhile comrade-in-villainy. Vengeance, gentlemen – gentlemen and lady – vengeance is an oft-maligned impulse. We are told to turn the other cheek, to forgive the wrongs done to us. And this is well and good, well and good. But there is a time, too, for anger and chastisement, a time to take up the sword and lay waste those who have done us wrong. That this has now been done is a matter for celebration, and while I pay tribute, as we all do, to the fair Lady Diana, I also want to thank all of you for making her acts possible. You provided the steel and the lead, you provided the weapon. Diana took aim and her aim, as we all know, proved true. Once more we can hold our heads high in the world, even if our pride, for the time being, has to remain a matter of quiet satisfaction rather than triumphant bellowing. But the time for bellowing will come, rest assured of that. The time for bellowing will come. And when we bellow, the world will hear. Thank you.’
The boisterous reaction took some minutes to quieten down.
Taverner had to hand it to him. Judd knew which buttons to press.
It was more tree house than clubhouse, the room above Old Miles’s shop; wooden floorboards, and no furniture to speak of. Packing cases along one wall provided a surface on which bottles had been set – red wine, vodka and whisky – their haphazard groupings punctuated by overflowing ashtrays. The remainder of the floor was occupied by similarly haphazard groupings of old men, or men nearly old; some in suits that had seen better days; others in peacock apparel. The common factor was that each held at least one glass. Through the small sash window, propped open the height of a tobacco tin, came a distant muddle of chanting.
Inside the room conversation was multilingual and overlapping. A blue cloud hung overhead, and the gently swaying lightbulb was the moon on an overcast night.
Lamb had found a bottle of malt and was in a corner smoking, looking like a bin someone had set fire to. Next to him, at shoulder height, hung a dartboard to which a picture of Vladimir Putin, topless on horseback, had been taped. One small postcard aside, of a wooden church in a snow-clad landscape, it was the room’s only decoration.