Up the stairs and out of the station. It was full-on dark, and the streets had fallen into alternative ownership, those who were deferential by daylight having less reason to play meek now, given that any civilians still abroad had either spared all the change they were likely to, or long since grown blind to those asking. A few middle-aged men in yellow vests passed, discussing the events of their evening, the name Flinty featuring largely. Soon Louisa and Roddy were off the main drag, most of whose restaurants had perspex canopies sheltering pavement tables, and into the back streets, whose terraces were a mixture of shared-residential and business premises, the latter with posters pasted on their doors: made-to-measure tailoring. Gold bought. Cleaning services. A shop window displayed a collage of property cards: flats and houses to let. The next door along was the one they were after.
‘What was his name?’ Ho asked.
‘Just ring the bell,’ she told him.
Late to be a social call, which meant he might be out, might be in bed, but he was neither; was coming down the stairs, she could hear his tread. And remembered how Lamb had described him, so wasn’t fazed when he opened the door and looked up at them.
‘You’re Reece Nesmith?’ she asked.
‘Who are you?’
‘I think you’ve met our boss,’ she said. ‘Can we come in?’
‘So. How does it look from here?’
‘Here’ was a hotel hard by the BBC, one Peter Judd favoured for its bar, fifteen floors up. Its views of London suited him, especially after dark, when they revealed the city as gleaming clusters of power and influence; a collection of properties arrayed for the delight of those with the altitude to appreciate them. Which he was now doing, large brandy in hand.
Desmond Flint gave the question some thought. ‘It looks … expensive.’
Judd laughed. ‘You’ve got that right.’
‘Out of the reach of the ordina—’
‘Oh, please.’ With a hand on the other man’s shoulder, he encouraged him into an armchair. ‘Those who’ve settled for ordinary have only themselves to blame. And anything expensive can be bought and sold. Like the man said, we’ve established what you are, we’re simply haggling over the price. Which brings us rather neatly to tonight’s events.’ Judd sat in the facing armchair, London to his left. ‘So. How was it for you?’
Flint looked around again before answering. If he didn’t feel at home yet, he was starting to relax. Presumably the brandy helped. He said, ‘It felt … different.’
‘In what way?’
‘Just different.’
‘I see. Let me explain. You’ve been used to telling those people to do what they already want to do. And you’ve proved good at that, but it’s a bit like pitching in baseball. All you had to do was chuck the ball. Tonight you had to dissuade them from doing something they’d clearly have enjoyed. That’s more like bowling in cricket. It requires skill and ability. So yes, it felt different. Because you were wielding actual power, rather than simply pointing which way the wind was blowing.’
‘So what you’re saying, they might have just ignored me.’
‘That was always a possibility.’
‘And what would have happened then?’
‘To you? To me? Or to all the lovely plate glass on Oxford Street?’
Flint waited.
Judd sipped his brandy, nodded in approval, and said, ‘If they’d ignored you, I’d be enjoying a much livelier view right now, that’s for sure. As for the rest, I imagine you’d be in the back of a van, a lot of windows would be no more, and whatever credibility you’ve amassed in the eyes of the public would be similarly in pieces, and impossible to put back together again. That enough detail for you?’
‘You bastard.’
Judd looked modest.
‘They’d not have got out of hand if you’d not put someone up to it.’
‘Oh, come on. Left to themselves, they’d have cooked and eaten each other. It’s one thing to play the sentimental card for an audience, Desmond, but don’t wave the dignity-of-the-working-man flag with me. There’s never been a working man who wouldn’t bury his shovel in his neighbour’s head for a free pint of beer and a fuck. So yes, I applied a little petrol to the flames, but that was a matter of scheduling rather than outright interference. And as of tonight your stock’s in the ascendant, so let’s not worry about what might have been. And listen, because this is important, you’re not holding your glass correctly. Cup it like this, in your hand. See? Warms the brandy. You want it blood temperature.’
Desmond Flint adjusted his hold on his brandy glass, and said, ‘How does that mean, my stock’s in the ascendance?’
‘Ascendant. It means the newspapers will be queuing up.
‘You’re talking about standing for election?’
‘That I am.’
