‘Simon?’
Shelbourne blinked through the smoke of his Ramon Allones Extra. His lunch was settling heavily in his stomach and he was more than a little pissed. Even so, the appearance of such a pretty girl at his table managed to perk him up somewhat. ‘Yes?’
‘How are you?’ The girl smiled broadly before sliding into the booth opposite. His gaze was instantaneously drawn to her handsome decolletage.
Men! They were the most predictable creatures on the planet. Wondering if she had maybe undone one button too many, Maude Hall let him stare for a few moments. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Placing the cigar in his ashtray, he pulled his chair closer to the table. ‘Of course, of course.’
‘Jenny Southerton,’ Maude purred. ‘I was an intern on the Sunday Witness when you were still Editor.’ Crossing her legs, she brushed the back of his calf with her foot. ‘When the paper was in its heyday.’
‘Of course,’ Shelbourne smiled. How could he have forgotten? So many girls, so little time. That was one thing he certainly missed about Zenger: the women in the MPS just didn’t compare — didn’t even come close. ‘How could I forget?’
‘It must be hard. .’
It’s certainly getting there, Shelbourne smiled inwardly.
‘. . keeping track of so many people when you are the Editor, right at the top.’
Picking up his Ramon Allones, Shelbourne took another drag. ‘Certainly the responsibilities of office are considerable.’
Wrinkling her nose at the smoke, Maude sat back in the booth. ‘Are you allowed to smoke in here these days?’
‘Balmoral is a private members’ club — “the epitome of fine English dining since 1743”, so they say. Therefore, technically, they have more leeway,’ Shelbourne told her, ‘or something like that.’
That’s nonsense, Hall thought, but she let it slide.
‘Anyway, they allow a few select patrons like myself some special privileges.’ And so they bloody should, Shelbourne thought, given that I drop a hundred and fifty quid or more in here almost every day. Stubbing out the half-smoked cigar in the ashtray, he lifted the bottle of Massaya Gold Reserve that was sitting in the middle of the table and pointed it towards an empty glass. ‘Would you like some? It’s from the Bekaa Valley. . not bad.’
Maude gestured vaguely towards the front of the restaurant. ‘I was having lunch with some friends,’ she said. ‘I just thought that I’d come over to say hello.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Shelbourne poured the red wine into the waiting glass. ‘Let’s have a drink and you can tell me what you’re up to these days. And then maybe I can show you the rest of the club.’
‘But what about your table companion?’ Hall gestured at the remains of the Burnt Cambridge Vanilla Cream pudding on the plate in front of her.
‘Ah, yes.’ Shelbourne gestured to the fat, sweating, middle-aged man in a Marks amp; Spencer suit who was now approaching. ‘Trevor was just leaving.’
Trevor Miller scowled at the bimbo who had stolen into his seat while he was off having a slash in the bogs. His attempts to get Shelbourne to persuade Sonia Claesens to stay away from the harvest festival had proved futile, but at least he had managed to get a good lunch out of it. Whatever Simon bloody Shelbourne might tell the girl, he had every intention of helping finish off the wine before he left.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked sharply.
Shelbourne waved a hand in Hall’s direction. ‘Trevor, this is. .’
‘Jenny Southerton,’ Hall reminded him, taking a sip of her wine.
‘A former colleague at the Sunday Witness,’ Shelbourne explained. ‘Jenny, this is Trevor Miller.’ Adopting a tone of mock secrecy, he lowered his voice. ‘Trevor is the Head of Security for the PM.’
I know exactly who he is, Hall thought, smiling sweetly at the former policeman.
Realizing that he was not about to get his seat back, Miller could barely manage a grunt in reply.
‘I know that you have to get moving,’ Shelbourne said to Miller, his eyes looking glassier by the minute. ‘Regarding the thing we were talking about — I’ll see what I can do.’
Bollocks, thought Miller sourly. Giving up on any more wine, he started towards the door. ‘Keep me posted.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Shelbourne murmured as he watched him leave. Turning back to Hall, his eyes once again fell on to her chest. ‘Now,’ he smiled, slurring his words slightly, ‘where were we?’
THIRTY-ONE
Lifting the glass to his lips, Carlyle took a gulp of Jameson’s, letting it sit on his tongue for a few seconds before swallowing. It tasted good; he should have ordered a double. From the speakers above the bar came the familiar refrain of ‘Rock the Casbah’, the volume turned low so as not to interfere with the animated chatter of the early-evening customers. The Clash as background music? Sacrilege. At the same time, he liked the idea that his favourite band had survived the test of time so well.
‘How did you know I was here?’ From behind a large glass of Company Bay Sauvignon Blanc, Commander Carole Simpson eyed her subordinate suspiciously. Her friend, a glamorous forty-something interior designer called Laura, had tactfully gone outside for a smoke while the two of them talked business.
‘Your PA told me this was one of your usual haunts.’
‘That girl. .’ Simpson shook her head. All she really wanted from an assistant was someone who kept their own mouth shut and kept other people’s noses out of the Commander’s business. How difficult could that be? Rather difficult indeed, judging by the turnover in administrative support that she’d had to endure in recent years.
The inspector finished his drink and signalled to a passing waitress that he’d like another, ‘a double’. At?8.50 a pop, he was trusting that his boss would be picking up the tab. ‘I went to visit Meyer at Operation Redhead,’ he said.
‘Mm.’ The look on Simpson’s face suggested that she already knew what was coming next.
‘He’s got quite a set-up over there.’
Sipping more wine, the Commander said nothing.
‘He said you’d spoken to him — about me.’
Placing her glass carefully on the table, Simpson asked, ‘And did he offer you a job?’
‘Yeah. And I refused it, just like you told him I would.’
Simpson said, ‘I did try and warn him, but Russell never was very good at listening.’
‘You know him well?’
‘Not really. I’ve met him a few times — at conferences and so on. I was somewhat surprised when he gave me a call.’
‘He seems like a bit of a prick. Why would they put someone like that in charge of such a high-profile operation?’
‘John,’ Simpson said drily, ‘you know the answer to that perfectly well. Meyer is there solely to provide the necessary sound and fury.’
‘Meyer doesn’t seem to think so,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘He sees himself on a mission to change the world.’
‘Like you said, he’s a prick.’ Simpson’s eyes sparkled and he wondered how much she’d already had to drink.
‘I thought I was supposed to be the. . what was it?’ He tried to recall one of her previous put-downs. ‘The “self-styled most cynical man in the room”?’
‘Yes, you are — but I’m slowly catching up.’ Simpson took another mouthful of wine just as the waitress reappeared with his whiskey.
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle waited for her to go before he turned back to his boss. ‘Meyer wants me to back-pedal on the Brown investigation.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Simpson sighed. ‘He always was the kind of officer who thought the ends could justify the means.’ She laughed. ‘In the end, he’s probably even more cynical than both of us combined.’
The Clash gave way to Marc Cohn’s ‘Walking in Memphis’. The crowd continued with their chatter.
‘Maybe.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I promised I wouldn’t do anything that would compromise his investigation.’