I wandered downstairs, ordered half a pizza in a bar, drank espresso, had a long bath back in my room, thinking of nothing in particular, feeling little other than a frisson of anticipation for the next day. The night deepened and the hotel stilled against the traffic that streamed around the road junctions outside. I felt no real need to sleep, but did anyway, naked, between sheets that I knew now weren’t going to be bathed in my blood.
In the morning, I was up like I had a regular job. Bizarrely, I stretched my back and legs against the desk cabinet and tried some sit-ups, the palms of my hands behind my head. I wanted to be stretched, able to move easily. Again, no need to check out – I wasn’t coming back.
The Arab scarf wrapped around my head, I walked to Bank – I don’t know why; something about not using the same station twice? Crossing the roads regularly, dawdling, doubling back across pedestrian traffic lights, always checking my tail. I’d grown accustomed to this behaviour, this street-craft, self-taught. Nothing that I could see.
On the platform, there was a loose crowd to weave my way through. I jumped off the first two Central Line trains that arrived, just as the train doors were closing. No one followed from other doors. Everyone on the platform left with the train. At Bond Street, I walked up through subterranean shops to the surface. It felt good. I was alone. And then south through Mayfair. It was nearly 10.40. In Burlington Arcade, the Dickensian Olde London shopfronts bulged like overfed bellies constrained by corsetry.
I hailed a cab, heading east on Piccadilly, asked for St Paul’s, turned the mobile on again and called Roger. He answered directly this time.
“Good morning, Roger. Here are your joining instructions. Please come to Brown’s Hotel in Albemarle Street at eleven thirty. Ask for me at the desk. And please come alone.”
No harm in being polite. I left the mobile on and pushed it hard down between the armrest and the seat. It amused me that if they were getting excited about tracking the phone, then they’d be following a black cab all over Greater London – maybe even out to an airport. That might tie up some Ruperts while I spoke to Roger. We were stationary in traffic at Piccadilly Circus and I said there had been a change of plan, pushed a fiver through the partition to the cab driver and set off back down Piccadilly.
Now I had to separate Roger from any minders. Assuming he came to the hotel and didn’t just send a courier to collect whatever was at the concierge. Maybe he’d send Toby, if he was back. I rather hoped he would. I could complain about his coffee. But I guessed he’d come himself, if this had all been his own operation. He had to keep his own secrets, if no one else’s.
Brown’s straddles a pair of parallel streets that lead north from Piccadilly, each with an entrance, each running northbound traffic. I’d been there for a fundraiser and watched Americans leave via Albemarle, while the Brits and staff left by Dover Street.
I guessed Roger would know that. It might just make it tricky for him to cover at short notice. It might also further split up those on my case who weren’t by now following the cab. But I didn’t know. I was guessing.
I asked the concierge for paper and an envelope and scribbled a note for Roger and left it at the desk, like a worried daughter. Then I left by the Albemarle entrance, walked briskly round the block and back in through the Dover door, picked up a newspaper and waved away a waitress. Outside I could see cabs on the Dover Street rank. Good.
At a little after 11.30, I saw Roger arrive by the Albemarle door, as I anticipated he would. He looked in the dark little coffee lounge and I watched him, distorted through bevelled glass, darkly, rather as I had once watched Adrian through a bathroom door. I feared he was going to search the ground floor and stood to leave for the Ladies.
But, as instructed, he approached the desk, a pause, an envelope and he was leaving again by Albemarle to cross Piccadilly to the east and down St James’s Street to the old wine merchant where the note told him I’d be waiting. He pulled a mobile phone from his breast pocket, I noted.
I left by the Dover entrance and jumped in the cab at the front of the rank. “St Paul’s cathedral,” I said again and “can we go via Pall Mall – there’s someone I have to pick up on the way.”
Down Hay Hill, left into Berkeley Street, and I forced calmness on myself at the pedestrian crossings. The driver had all the time in his world. As we were held at the lights on Piccadilly, I saw Roger cross in front of the cab. Alone – perfect.
As the cab swung right into St James’s Street, I said: “There he is, could you just pull over beyond him?”
The cabbie drew up, pulled the handbrake to unlock my door, and I swung the door open into Roger’s stride.
“Hello, Mr Rabbit,” I said, “get in.”
He looked back up the street, so I said quietly: “Get in, or your entry wound will be just below the hairline. Loft window across the road. I’ve made some dangerous friends.”
He smiled thinly. I don’t think he believed me. But he got in. And I knew I had him.
I figured we had about fifteen minutes, twenty tops, but maybe a little longer if we caught traffic on the Embankment.
“Where are you taking me, Natalie?” he asked as we pulled into the traffic heading for Trafalgar Square.
“St Paul’s, Roger. It’s where I work, y’know.”
I looked
