The menu did not require study—experience had taught her that the risotto came in smaller quantities than the shepherd’s pie, and was therefore preferable—so she sat unoccupied for five minutes. Her lunch-date’s lateness did not surprise her. Maintaining his own clock was in keeping with a larger, all-encompassing solipsism; part of a package that had been returned to sender so often that a less arrogant soul might have wondered whether it were correctly addressed. When he at last showed up, it was with no obvious sense of hurry, and he paused to speak to others before joining her. One of those who rose to greet him looked vaguely familiar to Taverner, but in a generic way, as if he’d once belonged to a boy band who’d troubled the charts for a while, but whose disparate units made no impact whatsoever. He offered his card to Taverner’s lunch companion, who took it with every sign of enthusiasm, and who was still clutching it as he arrived at her side, where he tore it in two and dropped it on the table.
“One-time policy adviser to David Cameron,” he said in explanation. “The poor bastard. Who wants that on their CV?”
“Looking for a new role, is he?”
“For a whole new identity, if he has any sense.” He studied her. “Ravishing as always, Diana. Can’t think why you insist on meeting in public.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can.”
Peter Judd smiled in his usual wolfish way.
Still a wolf then; still a beast. True, now that he was less in the public eye he had pulled back on his more obviously camera-friendly habits, like riding a bicycle and spouting Latin. The line he’d once walked had been redrawn, and was no longer a highwire, strung between the City and Westminster Palace; more an invisible thread, connecting interests that were likely subterranean. Former Home Secretary and one-time scourge of the liberal left, with a personal life not so much lock-up-your-daughters as scorch your earth and erect watchtowers, he was now a private citizen, which, given what he managed to get up to when a public servant, didn’t inspire confidence. This being so, Taverner had found it wise to keep a quiet eye on him since he’d left office. Officially at least he was keeping his nose clean, running a PR business, which took a little image-adjustment: Peter Judd had always spent more time jamming bushels over other people’s lamps than dimming his own, and an image of him scrubbing his clients’ paths to the limelight didn’t come easily. People could change, though. It was all she could do not to bark with laughter as that little gem came to mind.
“You’re looking very . . . prosperous, Peter.”
“Everyone looks prosperous this time of year. It’s why gym membership goes up.” He patted his stomach as he sat, having walked round the bench to be facing her. “Beach-ready by Easter, don’t worry. You appear pretty trim, though. Power agrees with you.”
“I don’t think of it as power. I think of it as service.”
He nodded. “That’s damn good. Did you write it yourself?”
“I do hope we’re not going to spend all lunchtime sparring. I’m passing up a perfectly good maintenance and upkeep review meeting for this.”
“I’m flattered. Have you ordered?”
She hadn’t; they dealt with that. And once the waitress—waitperson, she wondered? Waitstaff?—had retreated, she said, “So. ‘Bullingdon Fopp’? Really?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not amused.”
“Oh, I am. I just wonder you have any clients.”
“Lorry loads. Private jet loads, I should say. Everyone wants to be in on the joke. Because it’s no joke. You know how this works, Diana. No network like a college network. Surely First Desk of the intelligence services doesn’t need reminding of that. Especially not one with a Cambridge degree.”
“Funny. But only because it was long before my time.”
“Old treacheries cast long shadows. Here’s our wine.”
It was poured, and the bottle left in an ice bucket within easy reach.
“And the private sector’s a happy hunting ground?” she asked. “It still feels strange, not seeing your name on the front pages.”
“Consider it a . . . sabbatical.”
Her glass failed to reach her lips. “A comeback? Seriously? With your history?”
“You want to know the thing about history?” he said. “History is over. That’s its purpose. A few years in the wilderness, breaking bread with the lepers, and you can return rinsed and pure, your sins not so much forgiven as wiped from the public memory. Oh, the occasional high-minded journalist might dig up some long-forgotten peccadillo, but it’s one of the blessings of an electorate with a low attention span that once you’re out of jail and passed Go, you’re golden.” He sipped wine. “Short of kiddy-fiddling or animal cruelty, obviously.”
“‘Long-forgotten peccadillo’? Orchestrating a coup, near as damn it? Not to mention the attempted hit on a member of the security services.”
“I do miss Seb,” Judd admitted. “He had a skill set you don’t often find in your run-of-the-mill valet.”
