Nobody Walks by Mick Herron Page B

unnecessary alarm bells. He’ll want to keep a low profile too, come to think of it. London’s not exactly packed with his old friends.”
    And now she was holding her hand out expectantly.
    For a moment, Coe thought she wanted the envelope back. Evidence. Destroy after reading. But that wasn’t what she was after.
    She said, “My pastry?”
    Dumbly, he handed the bag over.
    “Thank you.”
    Tucking it under her arm, she headed off towards her kingdom, a short stout woman few would give a second glance.
    Despite the chill, Coe found he was sweating.
    Compared to Dame Ingrid, he thought, Bettany should be a breeze.
    And now here he was, following instructions. Meet him in a public place. Let him know who’s in charge.
    The public place bit had been straightforward enough. Convincing Bettany he was in charge might prove more challenging.
    Testing the waters, he said, “I’m from the Park.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Ingrid Tearney.”
    “She still First Desk?”
    “They’ll have to chisel it from her grip.”
    “And you’re her messenger boy.”
    So much for being in charge.
    Bettany said, “Thing is, I haven’t actually done anything, other than ask a few questions. Unless you think messing up a couple of bouncers calls for a slap on the wrist. But even if you did, know who I think wouldn’t?”
    Coe was already regretting using her name.
    “I can’t see it crossing Ingrid Tearney’s desk, let alone her mind. So what’s going on?”
    Coe said, “We’re sorry about your boy.”
    “Is that a confession?”
    He was already surrendering. “No no no no no. All I meant was, you have our commiserations.”
    “Why? It’s seven years since I left the Service.”
    “Still …”
    From here they had a view of the Mall, where something was happening now, a black limousine appearing, flanked by police motorbikes. As one, the tourists turned to check it out. It was like watching wind sweep through a field of corn. Mobiles whirred and cameras popped.
    Despite himself, Coe wondered who it was, and decided it was probably a prince. One of the older, useless ones nobody liked.
    When he turned back, Bettany was studying him.
    “You’re not Ops,” he said. “An agent wouldn’t have sat here, and wouldn’t have been ogling a cop while waiting for a hostile.”
    “You’re not a—”
    “An agent treats any unknown as a potential hostile. So you’re virgin, or as good as. And you’re what, thirty-five? Four?”
    Coe didn’t dignify that.
    “So you’re a desk jockey, but if you were a Park desk jockey that would make you Strategy or Policy or whatever they’re calling it now, and they don’t let those guys make appointments with strange men in public places. That’s the last thing they let them do.”
    Bettany paused. The car with its prince or whoever had vanished. The crowds had reconfigured, or maybe were different crowds. The pigeons were almost certainly the same ones, though.
    “So if you’re not Park you’re from over the river, which is where they keep the pointy heads, the ones who do the touchy-feely stuff, like work out who’s stressed, and how much time off they should get. Stop me if I’m hurting your feelings.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “So why do I get a phone call from an over-the-river virgin, summoning me to a heads-up? That’s what you called it, right? A heads-up.”
    Of the possible outcomes Coe had pondered, being laughed at hadn’t figured.
    “Finished?” he asked.
    Bettany wasn’t.
    “Know how many times I encountered Dame Ingrid, back in the day?”
    He made a circle with finger and thumb.
    “This isn’t because she has fond memories of you.”
    “Yes, I got that. It’s because she’s worried I’ll step on the wrong toes. And I can guess whose. Not like I’ve been mixing with more than one millionaire lately.”
    Coe tried not to react. He sat, hands on knees, his gaze directed at a group of Japanese holidaymakers photographing each other against the backdrop of