Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [108]
‘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 Your parental rights have been rescinded.’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 rosé 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