Because this had all the characteristics of a turf war. Sparrow had already left his mark on most Whitehall departments, the majority of whose advisory staff were now appointed by Number Ten, effectively Sparrow himself, rather than by ministers. The centralisation of authority had long been the government’s aim, devolvement having been decried by the PM as his most successful recent predecessor’s biggest domestic failure, a target easier to locate than the PM’s least successful recent predecessors’ biggest domestic triumphs. With the regions restless in the wake of economic fallout from the pandemic, there was good reason to fortify Downing Street. And it was clear that Sparrow intended Regent’s Park to become part of the fortifications, a move which would require a cooperative First Desk. De Greer’s precise role in all this Whelan couldn’t see, but that barely mattered. All that counted was that she was now in play, and that Sparrow had finagled the word
What Taverner’s reaction would be, Whelan couldn’t know either. But he could make a reasonable guess.
It was late morning; he was drinking coffee, and staring from his back window at the summer-struck garden. Until lately the garden had been Claire’s province, and Whelan a suffered guest; his presence occasionally called upon when heavy-ish lifting was required—for actual heavy lifting, a professional would be summoned—but otherwise deemed unnecessary except as a witness to her careful curation. Now the garden spoke only of neglect, and he felt unable to remedy this. The best he’d managed was the shifting of leaves and other windfalls. Claire’s absence was nowhere more apparent than in the presence of unwelcome flora: the weeds that might yet strangle the roses; the harmless but unlovely dandelions. These incursions predated her departure, in fact. It was peculiar how one obsession could replace another; or if not peculiar, at least worthy of comment. Or if not that, then something else. Damn it, he was running out of thoughts. His own presence bored him. He supposed he could hire a gardener. But meanwhile, he had a phone call to make.
“The San?”
“A Service facility for the hard of drinking,” explained Nash. “Also drugs, and associated behaviours. And the various other traumas that befall those who put their country’s good before their own health and sanity.”
Sparrow hadn’t wanted a bloody lecture.
“And he’s a hundred per cent certain that’s where de Greer is?”
“He says eighty. But he’s a cautious man.”
Said like this was a virtue, rather than the tedious plaint of the ineffectual.
Nash burbled on some more, then asked Sparrow if he wanted the San’s details in an email, and Sparrow asked him if he was an idiot. In this post code, emails were for when you couldn’t afford a promotional video. Instead, he jotted down the necessary geography, all the while brooding at the wall, which in his mind’s eye became a map in a war room. Knowing where de Greer was meant a victory flag. So did planting the word
Sparrow knew this because he’d read it on a blog, or written it on his own. Or both—the distance between the two was measured in how long it took to cut and paste.
