“He’s now a politician, Peter. And available and willing. Let’s not overthink this.”
He laughed. Diana Taverner telling him not to overthink was like Liz Truss suggesting someone apologise. She probably dreamed in crossword clues. Not that this was strange to Judd. The political life was all about decrypting hidden messages—the ministerial code was broken so regularly, cabinet meetings resembled a Bletchley Park re-enactment event—and the daily discourse was riddled with secret meanings; thus “information management” meant lying, “message discipline” meant lying, “manifesto deliverance” meant lying, and so on. These were the waters Taverner swam in. In conversation with her, overthinking wasn’t possible.
For his own part, he didn’t expect people to believe every word he said. He simply expected them to act as if they did.
Down on the lawn, the young women had abandoned the loungers and were tossing a frisbee about. Xanthippe’s mother wouldn’t approve—the lawn would take a battering—but Judd was relaxed.
“I’ll try not to,” he assured Diana. “So, will you be at this meeting?”
“I’ll be on hand. In case I’m needed.”
“Manual assistance, eh? I’d have thought that below your pay grade. Whereabouts will it take place?”
“I’ll leave time and place to you, Peter. Wherever you feel most secure.”
The frisbee overshot its intended recipient, and bounced off a downstairs window. The young women shrieked in unison.
Judd smiled. “I’ll think of somewhere,” he said.
Three minutes, because it was a safe house. Not a high-security, fend-off-marauders fortress, but somewhere meetings happened, debriefings took place. So there’d be a high-priority alarm system, with a response time in low single digits. She didn’t know whether the Park had a local station or whether the police would take up the slack, but either way they’d soon have company, and it wouldn’t be taking the soft approach. Bang heads first and worry about appearances later. Details she didn’t bother raising now because there was a phone on the floor, half underneath the sofa, and River had found it.
“Sid’s.”
“But she’s not here.” The stupid words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, but River was already up the stairs.
The other downstairs room was the kitchen, which was clean and tidy. In the bin Louisa found ready-meal packaging and grubby napkins; in a bucket-sized food bin, vegetable ends. On the drying rack sat four plates, four glasses, four cups, cutlery. By the sink, a rinsed-out Bushmills bottle, set aside for recycling.
Overhead, River was making noisy work of establishing that the house was empty.
The front door was hanging open; probably wouldn’t close now anyway, being splintered at the lock. Louisa had the sense there were people gathering outside, wondering, in a very English way, whether they ought to do anything.
A minute passed.
Hurry up, River.
The service station was bustling, as such places always were. Overpriced energy bars, American doughnuts, soft toys and slot machines. There was a motel next door, in case you wanted to stay.
Which they could have done, using the money that had been in the envelope the young woman had been carrying, though CC hadn’t mentioned this to the others yet. Nor the phone, now switched on, which hadn’t yet rung; it weighed heavily in his pocket as he washed his hands, trying to avoid the mirror. There was an old man who followed him around these days, and that was the sort of place he popped up.
Next to him, Al was saying, “We need to get Daisy somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.”
“We will.”
“Without involving her in any more—”
“We will.”
Al said, “She’s fine, really. She can keep a lid on it. But put her in a pressure situation, or throw a dangerous surprise her way—”
“Al. It was my fault. There’ll be no comebacks, I promise. Not on Daisy.”
“There’d better not be.” He glared at his reflection, perhaps as a way of avoiding glaring at CC. “I won’t let there be.”
CC said, “I thought I was doing the right thing.” He spoke softly, the bluff all-pulling-together tone laid aside.
“I know you did,” Al told him. “And the girls know it too.”
“But?”
“But it’s not working out that way, is it?”
He led the way to the concourse, and they waited by a bubble gum dispenser for the others.
“She was here.”
“We have to go, River. There’s a response team coming.”
He’d found nothing upstairs but abandoned toiletries, a tube of haemorrhoid cream, a sliver of soap and an empty blister pack of ramipril. Back in the sitting room he looked wildly round, as if there might be hidden doors, secret passageways, from one of which Sid might bounce.
“There was a crew here.”
“Four of them. Can we discuss this later? We need to go.”
