The restaurant was off Brewer Street, and thankfully wasn’t trying too hard. Devon Welles was there before her, which Louisa had expected, and had done her best to guarantee by being precisely seven minutes late: There might not be actual rules, but there were tried and tested guidelines. He was wearing an immaculately tended goatee these days, which like all goatees was a bit of a shame, and also a suit, which fitted well enough that she was probably supposed to recognise the designer. The best she could manage was clocking the price range: four figures. Whatever Devon was doing for money, he’d either climbed a ladder or crossed a line. What she remembered of him—specifically, that he’d been close to Emma Flyte—probably ruled the latter out, but like everyone else, she’d been fooled before.
She wondered if he’d opt for the hug or the kiss on the cheek, but it was a surprisingly formal handshake he offered. “Louisa. Thanks for coming.”
“It’s good to see you, Devon.”
She meant it, too. They hadn’t known each other well but she’d been impressed by him, and—style upgrade and facial hair apart—he was the same man; black skin still unlined, eyes still clear. It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d seen him since Emma’s funeral, and they hadn’t spoken then beyond brief condolences. The death of a common friend could be a barrier as much as a bridge, the more so when guilt was involved. Slough House was the reason Emma wasn’t around any more. Slough House was the book of Louisa’s dead. Inside its pages love and friendship were buried, alongside others who had mattered less to her, but who were no less gone.
Because there was wine on the table already, and Devon was pouring her a glass as she sat, she made her opening remarks to it. “I miss Emma. I didn’t know her well, though we were getting there. But I respected her and I liked her and I wish she were still around. I know you were close. I’m sorry you lost your friend.”
He said, “She said something similar about you. That you were getting to know each other, I mean. Not the stuff about respecting or liking you.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, Emma didn’t go in for that. But if she hadn’t liked you, you’d have known about it.” He raised his glass. “Absences.”
She tapped it with hers. “Emma.”
They drank, and Louisa said, “You left the Park on your own two legs, I heard.”
“I walked before they made me run,” he said. “When Emma quit, the writing was on the wall. They weren’t going to promote her BFF to take her place, and I didn’t want to work under whoever that turned out to be. Also, I was ready for a change. It turns out I bore quite easily.”
I’m made of sterner stuff, thought Louisa. “And your new line?”
“Personal protection services.”
“That sounds . . .”
Tact draped itself in an ellipsis.
He said, “Don’t be afraid to use the phrase ‘well dodgy.’”
“Well dodgy.”
“I can see how you’d think that. But it’s not all babysitting rich bastards. Much of the time, we’re analysts. You know, offering advice on how to manage home life when you’re in a public position. Kids’ schooling, family holidays and so on.”
“To rich bastards.”
“Well, yes, I was trying to skate that past you. Obviously rich bastards, or they’d neither need nor afford the service. Though in fact we also do some, well, not exactly pro bono, but we give reduced rates to deserving causes. As for the rest, bastards or not, none of them are scumbags. I’m sure you appreciate the distinction.”
“No guns, drugs or rabble-rousers.”
“We vet our client list. Anyone likely to end up in the Hague or the Old Bailey, we nix. Nepo-brats are an occupational hazard, as are former politicos living with death threats. But no one I’ve worked with has seen the inside of a cell.”
“That’s noble. It’s like you’re the Lone Ranger or something.”
“It’s pragmatism. Anyone with a chance of winding up behind bars is less likely to pay their bill. But not only that. If Emma—I mean, she’d have skinned me alive.”
That much was true.
“But I won’t pretend it’s a charity. It’s a well-paying gig. Ever flown in a private jet?”
“I’ve driven in a private car. And ridden on a private bike. But no, never.”
“It’s an experience.” Being in the presence of someone else’s wealth didn’t strike Louisa as the kind of experience she wanted, but Devon was clearly on a mission to impress. “And the pay’s good, like I said. And also, I’m going to cut to the chase, every so often you get to beat the crap out of a lowlife.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, no, but you get to act as if you might. And I mentioned the pay, didn’t I?”
“Often enough that tonight is on you. What’s up, Devon? I’m glad you’ve found a soft landing, but—”
“We’re recruiting.”
“Ah.”
“And your name came up.”
