Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [77]
The other man nodded. ‘Indeed.’
‘The voters like the idea that I can earn a living in the real world.’
The man looked bemused.
‘In the private sector,’ the Mayor explained.
‘Ah, yes.’
The empty glass was whisked from Holyrod’s hand and replaced by another large tumbler of Auchentoshan 3 Wood. He weighed the glass in his hand: it felt satisfyingly heavy. A couple more of these and I won’t need to bother about dinner, he thought. I might even get a good night’s sleep for once. ‘No one can doubt my commitment to public service,’ he continued, ‘but that does not put bread on the table.’
‘No, absolutely not.’
Holyrod started on his fresh drink. ‘I spent more than a decade in the service of Queen and country, stuck in many of those same hell-holes of which you have personal experience . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘. . . and I am still completely committed to public service, but not at the expense of keeping my family in penury.’
‘Of course not.’ His companion gave the Mayor a comforting pat on the shoulder. Presumably the £500,000 you are due to collect for closing our deal will help in that regard, he thought.
‘After all,’ Holyrod explained, ‘I don’t have the kind of family wealth behind me that you have.’
‘That is a very fair point.’ The other man stared into his glass of mineral water. ‘I am very fortunate.’
A deeper wave of warmth from the Scotch eased through the Mayor’s body and he realised that it was time to move the conversation on. ‘What does the Ambassador think of all this?’
‘Orb?’ The man made a face. ‘He is a bystander, nothing more than a passive observer. He has spent his whole life watching other people act, while making sure that he does nothing to get in the way. It is amazing that anyone can spend so long doing so little. At least that means he is nothing to worry about.’
‘And the policeman?’
The man placed his glass on the tray of a passing waiter and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Who?’
The Mayor thought about mentioning that this was a no-smoking building, but thought better of it. He hoped there weren’t any smoke-detectors nearby. ‘Carlyle,’ he said, ‘Inspector John Carlyle. That policeman who spoke with the Ambassador at the reception.’
The man lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Surely you don’t have to worry about a mere policeman?’ He looked around for somewhere to deposit the ash from his cigarette. Finding nothing suitable, he flicked it on to the floor.
Aghast, Holyrod looked around, hoping that no one had seen. A waitress caught his eye and started heading towards them, but he glared at her and she hurriedly turned away. ‘I have come across him before,’ he said, ‘and he is a professional nuisance.’
‘Okay.’ The man shrugged. ‘I hear you, Mr Mayor. I can take care of him.’
‘No, no, no,’ Holyrod said hastily. ‘You can’t do that.’
The man looked at him with an air of faint amusement.
‘Let me assure you,’ the Mayor continued, ‘you shouldn’t try to interfere with the workings of our police here. That would be very . . . unprofessional. It would jeopardise everything.’
An irritated look swept across the man’s face. ‘As you wish.’
‘These kinds of problems can be dealt with in other ways.’
The man made a small bow. ‘As you wish,’ he repeated, in an almost mocking tone.
The Mayor felt a ripple of unease spread through his stomach. Maybe he should go easy on the Scotch. ‘My country, my rules.’
‘Of course.’
Holyrod emptied his glass. ‘Things are still at a delicate stage. We need to stay under the radar.’
‘You have my word.’
TWENTY-SIX
Squat and brooding on the south bank of the Thames, St Thomas’s Hospital offered fine views of the Palace of Westminster. From the third floor, Carlyle looked out over the river towards the Parliament building. Darkness had fallen and lights shone brightly from almost every window. Doubtless the place was full of Members of Parliament fiddling their expenses, shagging their interns and preparing for their extended summer holidays, he thought. No wonder the country was run so poorly