‘Sure thing.’
Dominic sighed to himself as he watched a familiar mix of shock and resignation spread across Hagger’s face when Gideon tapped him on the shoulder. What did the idiot expect? The other player caught Gideon’s eye and quickly dropped his darts on a nearby table, before scuttling outside with his drink.
‘Dominic would like a word.’ Gideon signalled back towards the bar.
Hagger looked round. Raising his pint to both men, he took another sip. Then he put it down carefully on the table and leaned closer to Spanner. ‘Fuck off,’ he hissed.
Gideon put his hands on his hips. ‘No, Michael,’ he said, keeping his voice bureaucratic-conversational, ‘we will not fuck off. Please step over to the bar and talk to the man.’
Hagger threw back his shoulders to emphasise his physical advantage; he had a good couple of inches and quite a few pounds over the man in front of him. ‘Fuck off!’ he repeated, louder this time, before retrieving his pint and drinking deep.
Tutting to himself, Gideon stepped over to the table and picked up the three abandoned darts. ‘Last chance…’
Hagger kept on drinking. He was about two-thirds of the way through his pint when Gideon fired a dart at the floor.
‘Shit!’ Hagger did a little jump, spilling some of the pint over his T-shirt as the arrow wedged itself firmly in the wooden floor, only an inch from his left foot. He scowled at Gideon. ‘You could have hit me.’
‘I was trying to hit you,’ Gideon said, ‘but I’m shit at darts.’ Taking aim again, he swiftly sent a second arrow sinking deep into Michael Hagger’s right foot.
This time Hagger jumped higher, his face turning red. ‘Christ! You bastard!’ Grabbing the sole of his Converse trainers, he started hopping about.
‘That was a lucky one — or maybe I’m just getting better at it.’ Gideon lined up the third dart. Everyone else in the pub buried themselves deeper in their newspapers or stared harder at their betting slips.
‘Okay, okay.’ Hagger half-turned and slowly bounced in the direction of the bar like a drunken wallaby. Still holding the remainder of his pint to his chest, he made no effort to remove the arrow from his foot.
Gideon fired the last dart at the board, scoring a six. ‘Like I said,’ he mumbled to no one in particular, ‘I’m shit at darts.’
Having safely placed his pint on the bar, Hagger looked at Silver.
‘You’ve been hiding, Michael,’ Dominic said eventually.
Hagger shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘Where’s the boy?’
‘Jake is my kid.’ Hagger looked at the glass but didn’t take a drink. ‘That’s my business.’
‘Not just your business,’ Dominic Silver said gently. He felt a wave of infinite patience sweep over him. He was dealing with an idiot here, but for once, he had plenty of time. He almost felt serene. Not being in a rush was the greatest luxury of all.
‘He’s my boy,’ Hagger said stubbornly.
‘Michael, you are never going to be Parent of the Year. You stole your kid from his mother. Even she could do a better job of looking after him than you — which is really saying something. The Metropolitan Police are looking for you — at least, they’re supposed to be. Your parental rights have been rescinded.’
‘Huh?’ This time Hagger reached for his glass.
‘Is Jake still alive?’
‘Yes!’
Dominic lowered his voice. ‘Let’s hope so, because if he’s not, or if he’s been damaged in any way, you are going to fucking die.’
Hagger took the threat in his stride. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’
Dominic looked Hagger up and down once more and felt his wave of infinite patience retreat. While maintaining eye contact, he stomped one of his Timberlands down on the dart embedded in Hagger’s foot.
The glass slipped from Hagger’s hand, smashing on the floor. His face went white and he looked like he was going to vomit. ‘Oh, Jesus!’
Dominic signalled to Gideon, who was hovering on the periphery. ‘Put him in the car.’ Leaving the remainder of his glass of rose on the bar, he walked slowly out of the door.
THIRTY-FIVE
It took almost twenty minutes for Carlyle to find his ‘private’ mobile, the one on which he’d programmed Monica Hartson’s number. Somehow, it was cunningly hidden under a pile of newspapers on the living-room floor. He had no recollection of leaving it there, but that was the way of these things: socks, keys, mobile phones — all designed to be regularly lost, and occasionally found. Letting out a small yelp of triumph at the phone’s reappearance, he pulled up Hartson’s number and hit the call button. After listening to it ring for what seemed like an eternity, he finally got a recorded message that simply said: This number is not available. Please try later. Goodbye.
Bemused by the lack of voicemail, Carlyle ended the call. That’s not a good start, he thought, wondering what she might be up to. This kind of person was just so unreliable. Returning the phone to a prominent position by the television, he went off to make himself a cup of green tea.
In the kitchen he filled the kettle. While he was waiting for it to boil, his gaze settled on an oversized cream envelope propped up against the bread bin. It was addressed to John Carlyle Esq. He picked it up. On the back was a crest he didn’t recognise. Helen must have left it there, he decided, picking it up and weighing it in his hand. It felt weighty. It also felt expensive.
He opened it carefully, pulling out an invitation, a piece of thick card, with a silver border and black inlaid script, requesting his attendance at a reception to be held at Number 10 Downing Street for something called the Union of Social Givers. Where had that come from? Carlyle frowned. The kettle came to the boil. Placing the invite back in the envelope, he dropped a teabag into a mug and added water, counting to ten before removing the bag. Dropping it into the sink, he remembered his conversation with Rosanna Snowdon in Patisserie Valerie on Marylebone High Street. It seemed a long time ago now. Rosanna must have come through with her promise to get him invited to the Prime Minister’s residence. He felt a frisson of embarrassment as he considered this last small act of kindness from a woman whose help he had never properly repaid and now never would.
Blowing on his tea, he took a cautious sip. It was still too hot. Should they go to the reception? It wasn’t really his thing but, then again, he would only ever get the one chance. He smiled at the thought of walking past the police guards and through that black door. And, despite her liberal sensibilities, Helen might like it. He would let her decide.
Looking down at the traffic crawling round the square, Matias Gori stood on the roof of the Chilean Embassy. With one foot resting on the low parapet at the edge of the roof, he sucked greedily on a well-deserved cigarette. He felt a gentle breeze on his face and shivered. It was getting colder. Not for the first time, he cursed the type of country that made you stand outside for a smoke.
‘I thought I’d find you here.’
Gori turned to find Claudio Orb stepping carefully towards him.
‘Cold, isn’t it?’ the Ambassador smiled.
‘Yes,’ said Gori, taking a final drag of his Marlboro before flicking it over the side of the building. He caught Orb’s eye and shrugged. ‘This is the only place you are allowed to smoke these days.’
‘And a good place for a quiet word.’
‘If you want.’ Gori stared at his immaculate John Lobb shoes. What could the old fool want with him? To him, Orb was spineless, merely a straw in the wind. How could a man like this represent his country? For sure, he would have nothing interesting to say.
Orb stood by the parapet and gestured towards the city below. ‘I really won’t miss all this.’
‘Neither will I,’ Gori replied, ‘when the time comes.’
‘My time has already come.’
