She was on the roof. On the street below, a black SUV—a Service car—was illegally parked outside Rashford’s door, its team, bar the driver, now in the building. Theoretically this should have been a source of gratification—her boys and girls on the hub could track a warm body through London’s streets as easily as if she had a red balloon tied to her sleeve—but just once, she’d have found ineptitude welcome. Because the Dogs were here to take her back to the Park, and from that moment on she’d be officially suspended, a career limbo from which few emerged intact. And if she were relying on Slough House for rescue she’d be better off with an actual red balloon, one she could float away on.
Meanwhile, she was still carrying her secret mobile, and the last thing she needed to be found in possession of was a link to Peter Judd. Stepping back from the edge, she was removing the sim card when the mosquito buzz that had been nagging away in the background penetrated her consciousness.
Looking up, she saw the drone hovering twenty yards overhead.
This doesn’t get covered in the style mags, but good-hair days bring their own problems. Running a comb through his locks, Roddy offered his reflection a steely glance, then mussed himself up again and activated the engaging, puppyish grin. Then tried a steely/tousled combo, which was a bit of a mixed message frankly, before opting for the side-parting/puppyish look.
Check. It.
Roddy Ho is in the house.
He’d decided, after some magnificent brooding on the matter, to nix the phone call and go for Zoom. Play to your strengths, dude—he’d be an idiot not to put the goodies on the counter. Face it, he’d dazzled her during the audition; she’d seen the role, not the man, and figured him for some charismatic crumbly. Her bolshiness had been down to understandable disappointment. Only fair to let her see what lay beneath the Hobi-Wan robes. And let’s not forget what you’re playing for:
Here we go.
“Babes, I can’t be the only one who felt a little friction the other night—and friction’s what it’s about, ya feel me? I push a little, you push back . . .”
(Miming this, so she got the picture.)
“Am I right or am I right? I mean, I could definitely be into you.”
This being the chief objective, when you got down to it.
But his rehearsal was interrupted by noises on the staircase.
He waited until they’d gone—Louisa and Lech; off skiving—and decided: okay. No time like the now. It was after four so those wasters wouldn’t be back, and he was unlikely to be interrupted. So: Zoom invite—“Important Follow-Up”—twenty minutes from now—despatched. Roddy leaned back and cracked his knuckles. Then thought: Hang on—was it Leia Six or Leia Seven who’d been the bolshy one? Because he’d just sent the invite to Leia Six, and—
“Roddy?”
And here was Catherine, crashing his train of thought.
“I’m busy.”
“So I see. But this takes priority.”
He shook his head wearily. That was the trouble with being indiroddyspensable: you were first port of call for the pea-brained.
“There’s something Lamb needs you to do.”
Roddy adjusted his expression to read “Born Ready,” tried to crack his knuckles again, and winced.
“And if you can manage to listen without hurting yourself,” Catherine continued, coming into the room, “this is what he’s after.”
“She’s on a rooftop in Cheapside.”
“And is she planning unassisted flight?”
Nash said, “I’d have thought that unlikely.” Malahide’s company was beginning to grate, his demeanour towards those they’d interviewed so far—the hubsters whose worksheets showed recent one-to-ones with Diana—having proved borderline hostile. When challenged, he’d raised an eyebrow. “Gone native, old boy?” A salutary reminder, Nash thought, that you always had to be on one side or another in the Whitehall Kush.
He glanced at the memo he’d been handed by Josie. “A wine bar, Rashford’s?” He made it a question, though was aware of its existence, its name having made it popular with backbenchers. “She was picked up on camera, there’s a crew at the premises now.” He looked at his watch. “They’ll have her here by five.”
“And this wine bar has a rooftop terrace?”
“I think it’s clear she’s evading, ah, capture.”
“Like I said. An admission of guilt.” Malahide clasped his hands behind his head, and rocked back in his chair. “This famous window of hers, the one that frosts when you press a button. What do you suppose she got up to in her office when no one could see her?”
“We’re conducting a preliminary enquiry,” said Nash. “Not inventing scurrilous rumours.”
“If you say so,” said Malahide. “If you say so.” He sat up straight. “Well, I suppose we’d better put Sparrow in the picture.”
“Leave that to me,” said Nash.
He left the office holding his phone to his ear, but without making a connection.
