There was activity on the Thames, one of those polka-dotted tourist boats that either undermined or underlined the franchised nature of contemporary art, depending on how ironic you were feeling. Sid’s eyes were drawn to it as it reorganised the surface of the water, causing what looked like widespread turbulence but which soon settled back into the same old patterns. “What does he want?”
“The clown in question is threatening to go public with one of the messier stories from our recent history. Unless we make his life a little more comfortable.”
“And you think he’s a nutcase.”
“Trying to blackmail me, that’s a medically recognised symptom.” She turned to face Sid, giving her a full hundred watts of well-meaning. “But I don’t plan to trample him into the dirt. The truth is, he wasn’t treated as well as he might have been. And it’s possible I’ll find a way to augment a pension somewhere down the line, or at least make sure he’s not actually destitute. But it won’t be in response to threats.”
“You can’t tell him that yourself?”
“What, turn up in person? Don’t be ridiculous.” She dipped into her bag and produced an envelope. “This is a be-good payment, not a fuck-you fund. Enough to pay his way around the big city for a few days, where he’ll be coming to deliver his proof into my hands. Details to follow.”
“And where exactly do I find this mystery man?”
“Oxford. His name’s Stamoran. Address and so on in the envelope. I’ll trust you not to siphon off any of the cash.”
“I’m flattered.”
“But let’s understand the ground rules. Do the job, and Romeo gets his heart’s desire. Scribble outside the lines, and I’ll make it my business to upset both of you. A lot. Are we clear?”
They were clear.
And also done.
Taverner watched the younger woman walk away. Sid Baker evidently hadn’t known that Cartwright’s future had been wrapped in black ribbons, which meant either Lamb hadn’t passed that news on to Cartwright, or Cartwright hadn’t shared it with his lady love. Just as well Taverner had taken the belt and braces approach; just as well, too, that Baker hadn’t questioned why the reward on offer was so large, given the low-level nature of the task. But then, few of us argue ourselves out of a wage hike; and besides, if it was clear that Baker would sooner put her Spook Street days behind her, it was equally apparent that she’d bite any bullet to keep Cartwright happy. Taverner understood Baker better than the young woman suspected. Besides, she’d been on Spook Street long enough to know that our first betrayal is always of ourselves.
As for Charles Cornell Stamoran—who had once led a crew known as the Brains Trust—whether this was his first betrayal was moot; that it was going to be his last, all but certain. It would, though, be in a good cause. Old he might be, but Taverner didn’t believe in writing people off because they were old. She believed in writing them off because they were no longer useful, and that shit could happen at any age. And given her current needs, Stamoran was demonstrably useful.
The polka-dotted boat had gone. The Thames had erased its passage. Tossing her imaginary cigarette and gathering her bag, Taverner similarly vanished into the ebb and flow of London life.
Erin said, “I’ve not seen him since yesterday lunchtime. I mean, he’s a volunteer, it’s not like he has to clock in.”
Traffic was light on the westbound A40, the weather perhaps persuading people to stay where they were, for fear of jinxing it. River had come through London with his temper no more frayed than the average city driver, about ten degrees short of psychic meltdown, and was now in the countryside, or its urban edge, where the cows and sheep were so used to cars they probably had provisional driving licences, and continued grazing for anything short of a seven-vehicle pile-up.
“Do you have his address?”
“No.”
“Does anyone?”
“Well,
“I just want to talk to him. Thanks.”
He ended the call while overtaking a coach and his phone rang again immediately. Louisa. He’d ignored her earlier, fearing another sensitive assessment of his physical and/or emotional well-being, but couldn’t avoid her forever. They’d shot bad actors together, and this formed a bond, the way—if they’d been in different jobs—navigating a tricky spreadsheet might, or unjamming a photocopier. Besides, a friendly voice. He could do with a boost.
She said, “Lamb says Taverner’s kicked you off the pitch, probably as a way of applying pressure. So I’m wondering if she’s got you doing something dodgy in the hope of getting reinstated.”
“. . . Lamb said what?”
“River, you’re not doing anything stupid, are you? We know Lady Di can’t be trusted.”
