thinking I’d better behave. Given how public we are.All the good little tourists, mobiles at the ready. We’re already on a hundred holiday movies.”
“I’ve no reason for thinking you’re a threat.”
Bettany looked at him, still smiling. “Seriously?”
“To me, I mean. I’m here to do you a favour.”
The ex-spook raised an eyebrow.
“This I’ve got to hear.”
2.9
This is what Tearney had told Coe earlier.
“Bettany’s son worked for a person of interest.”
Person of interest ran the whole rainbow, from potential asset to suspected terrorist.
Coe said, “He’s on a watch list?”
“No. But he’s been vetted for a gong. Services to British software industry, or something. I don’t recall the details.”
The details, surmised Coe, were packed tightly in her head, and could be unfurled at a moment’s notice, like ticker tape, or a till receipt.
“In addition to which he’s being actively wooed by both HMG and the Loyal Opposition. Vincent Driscoll might not have much in the way of politics, but he’s very much a British success story.”
So nobody wants Bettany sticking his oar in, Coe thought.
“Of course,” Tearney said, “there’s no earthly reason why Thomas Bettany should want to make life difficult for Driscoll. But he’s a loose cannon. And if, as you say, he’s decided his son’sdeath warrants investigation, and he starts poking around Liam’s life, well, he’s going to make himself unpopular.”
“I’m not sure that’ll worry him.”
Tearney gave him a look.
“I hope you’re not finding this amusing.”
“No.”
“Good. Because what I’d like you to do, dear boy, is have a word with him.”
Was there ever a more transparent ploy than
dear boy
? And yet he couldn’t say it didn’t work. Here he was, walking the pavement with the head of the Service, and she was coming over all grandmotherly.
It made him want to genuflect.
“Meet him somewhere public.”
“What if he doesn’t—”
“Oh, he will. Once a Dog, always a Dog. He’ll respond to a tug on the leash.”
“And what do I tell him?”
“That Vincent Driscoll’s out of bounds. Might as well have a Do Not Disturb notice round his neck.”
She came to a sudden halt, and Coe marched a pace onward before noticing. He stopped and looked back.
“But be subtle about it.”
He nodded thoughtfully, as if mentally working out the sly way he’d go about planting this idea in Thomas Bettany’s head without Bettany being aware of it.
Dame Ingrid reached into her bag, and Coe was cast back decades, waiting dutifully while his nan dug about for a small treat, a coin or bar of chocolate.
What she came up with instead was an envelope. She handed it to him.
“And in return for being a good boy, Bettany gets what he wants. No need for him to wear out shoe leather turning over every stone in N1. Liam Bettany was smoking muskrat when he died. It’s a new strain, which, luckily for us, means a restricted point of retail. The gentleman whose name’s in that envelope imports all the muskrat smoked in Greater London.”
Coe felt the envelope gain weight as he caught her drift.
He said, “Just so we’re clear …”
“Yes?”
“Bettany gets a white card on dealing with this guy?”
Dame Ingrid said, “Oh, I think we can allow him a little latitude. And unless he’s forgotten everything we taught him, he’s not going to be caught afterwards, is he?”
A little latitude, thought Coe, adding it to his bank of euphemisms.
“But if he gets a bee in his bonnet about Driscoll, that’s a different story. He’ll be dealt with.”
“Should I tell him that too?”
“Oh, he’ll grasp the idea. And I’m sure you’ll keep me abreast of things.”
He was being dismissed. But there was one more thing he wondered about.
“Why has Bettany been taken off the Zombie List?”
“Error? You know what records are like,” said Tearney. “But that suits us fine. We don’t need him setting off
“I’ve no reason for thinking you’re a threat.”
Bettany looked at him, still smiling. “Seriously?”
“To me, I mean. I’m here to do you a favour.”
The ex-spook raised an eyebrow.
“This I’ve got to hear.”
2.9
This is what Tearney had told Coe earlier.
“Bettany’s son worked for a person of interest.”
Person of interest ran the whole rainbow, from potential asset to suspected terrorist.
Coe said, “He’s on a watch list?”
“No. But he’s been vetted for a gong. Services to British software industry, or something. I don’t recall the details.”
The details, surmised Coe, were packed tightly in her head, and could be unfurled at a moment’s notice, like ticker tape, or a till receipt.
“In addition to which he’s being actively wooed by both HMG and the Loyal Opposition. Vincent Driscoll might not have much in the way of politics, but he’s very much a British success story.”
So nobody wants Bettany sticking his oar in, Coe thought.
“Of course,” Tearney said, “there’s no earthly reason why Thomas Bettany should want to make life difficult for Driscoll. But he’s a loose cannon. And if, as you say, he’s decided his son’sdeath warrants investigation, and he starts poking around Liam’s life, well, he’s going to make himself unpopular.”
“I’m not sure that’ll worry him.”
Tearney gave him a look.
“I hope you’re not finding this amusing.”
“No.”
“Good. Because what I’d like you to do, dear boy, is have a word with him.”
Was there ever a more transparent ploy than
dear boy
? And yet he couldn’t say it didn’t work. Here he was, walking the pavement with the head of the Service, and she was coming over all grandmotherly.
It made him want to genuflect.
“Meet him somewhere public.”
“What if he doesn’t—”
“Oh, he will. Once a Dog, always a Dog. He’ll respond to a tug on the leash.”
“And what do I tell him?”
“That Vincent Driscoll’s out of bounds. Might as well have a Do Not Disturb notice round his neck.”
She came to a sudden halt, and Coe marched a pace onward before noticing. He stopped and looked back.
“But be subtle about it.”
He nodded thoughtfully, as if mentally working out the sly way he’d go about planting this idea in Thomas Bettany’s head without Bettany being aware of it.
Dame Ingrid reached into her bag, and Coe was cast back decades, waiting dutifully while his nan dug about for a small treat, a coin or bar of chocolate.
What she came up with instead was an envelope. She handed it to him.
“And in return for being a good boy, Bettany gets what he wants. No need for him to wear out shoe leather turning over every stone in N1. Liam Bettany was smoking muskrat when he died. It’s a new strain, which, luckily for us, means a restricted point of retail. The gentleman whose name’s in that envelope imports all the muskrat smoked in Greater London.”
Coe felt the envelope gain weight as he caught her drift.
He said, “Just so we’re clear …”
“Yes?”
“Bettany gets a white card on dealing with this guy?”
Dame Ingrid said, “Oh, I think we can allow him a little latitude. And unless he’s forgotten everything we taught him, he’s not going to be caught afterwards, is he?”
A little latitude, thought Coe, adding it to his bank of euphemisms.
“But if he gets a bee in his bonnet about Driscoll, that’s a different story. He’ll be dealt with.”
“Should I tell him that too?”
“Oh, he’ll grasp the idea. And I’m sure you’ll keep me abreast of things.”
He was being dismissed. But there was one more thing he wondered about.
“Why has Bettany been taken off the Zombie List?”
“Error? You know what records are like,” said Tearney. “But that suits us fine. We don’t need him setting off
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