He was meeting Belwether at eight. Had the club been successful, it would be starting to fizz: lights on, glasses sparkling, sound system thumping; all of it prelude to the serious business—in nightclubs, men bent others to their will. This was what they were for. Nob-Nobs might be on the skids, its very name a portent of abysmal marketing, but here, soon, Dominic Belwether would arrive, the coming man in his party’s ranks, and hardly one of Judd’s natural allies. The task of co-opting him would give a lesser being pause, but lesser beings were always pausing, the ones who hadn’t come to a halt. Sharks kept moving. Wise men took note.
Which Judd had done long ago, a moral absorbed alongside other crucial lessons. A youthful ambition to enter the intelligence world, for example, had foundered on the rock of psychological assessment—apparently he was unsuitable for any undertaking which involved the sublimation of his ego. Okay. But spying wasn’t only about concealing your true self any more than it was all gadgets and gizmos and dead letter drops—spying was persuading others to betray those whom they loved, a game Judd was properly good at. That House of Commons tryst, for example, had been with his opposite number on the shadow cabinet.
The club, a converted warehouse, occupied a corner space, with an alley running alongside and behind it, and two similar properties locking it in place: one a set of temporary offices for startups and wind-downs, the other a collection of rehearsal spaces for bands and drama companies. The stop/start wheeze and whine of uncoordinated instruments suggested that a junior orchestra, or a modern jazz outfit, was in residence.
Using the key he’d been given, Judd let himself in through a side door five yards down the alley, and was swallowed up by darkness.
Devon watched this from across the road. He’d been there ten minutes—most of his job involved waiting. In this instance he was occupying a table outside a bar, browsing his phone, drinking zero-beer from the bottle; every inch the man with nothing better to do and enjoying doing it as the day deflated and warmth settled like a blanket. It was approaching the hour when the city grew calm, or pretended to; the evening’s first drinks lending an amiable slant to everything. Give it time, though, and the picture would grow crooked, alcohol and heat combining to fan that rosy glow into a fire. Not everyone in the city drank. But those who did more than made up the slack.
For the moment, there was peace and city-quiet, like actual quiet, but with the buzzing of traffic pasted on.
He had walked the alleyway bordering the club before sitting down. Beyond the door Judd had just disappeared through, at the corner of the building, a sash window above a larger pane was open a fraction; both were of fuzzy glass. Round the back, a pair of doors had their handles secured by padlock and chain. Beyond that, a rusty fire escape zigzagged roofward. No signs of life within.
It was possible—probable—that nothing more serious than a carnal assignation was planned. It was also possible that Louisa was winding him up; payback for his not having told her Judd was on his client list.
Either way, he sipped his beer and waited.
CC had parked a short distance away. There was a garage with a forecourt on which car washing was taking place: three men with cloths and a hose, creating rainbows in the spray arcing from a windscreen. CC watched, Taverner’s instructions ticking in his head. He could follow them or not. If he didn’t, an old sin would rise from its grave and swallow those he loved. There wasn’t really a choice, not if you were CC.
His phone rang. Avril. Whose soundtrack bubbled with ordinary noise but lacked the rattle and clatter of a track being pounded beneath her.
“Why aren’t you on a train?”
“Because they’re not like Ubers. They don’t just go when you’re ready.”
He conceded this point by leaving it unaddressed.
“Anyway, my watch. It’s slipped off my wrist—it’s always doing that. Please tell me it’s in the back seat.”
“A minute.” He unclipped his seatbelt and twisted round. “Doesn’t seem to be.”
“Maybe behind the cushion? I’m fond of it.”
He let himself out, opened the back door and ran his hand behind the cushions, all the while failing to make encouraging noises.
“I’m so glad. Could you stick it in the post when you get a free moment?”
Free morning, more like. Post offices. “Of course.” He put it in his pocket. “Got to move now, Avril. Safe journey.”
“We love you, CC.”
He was still fumbling for a reply when Avril ended the call.
