Pray for the Dying

Fifty-Two

‘What d’you think of the beer?’ Neil McIlhenney asked.

‘It’s okay,’ Lowell Payne conceded. ‘What’s it called?’

‘Chiswick Bitter. I don’t drink much, not any more, but when I do it’s the one I go for.’

‘That’s because it doesn’t take the top of your head off,’ one of their companions remarked, ‘unlike that ESB stuff. Bloody ferocious that is. I’ve seen tourists staggering out of here after a couple of pints of that stuff. Not like you Jocks, though. You’d drink aviation fuel and never feel it.’

‘I used to,’ the DCS chuckled. ‘Me and my mate. In those days we used to say that English beer was half the strength of a Scotsman’s piss, but since I came down here I’ve developed an occasional taste for it. Travelling to work on the tube has its compensations.’

The other Londoner glanced at him. ‘Where do you live?’

McIlhenney raised an eyebrow. ‘Was that a professional inquiry? I’ve heard about you guys; you’re never off duty.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘Richmond, actually.’

The man had his glass to his lips, he spluttered. ‘You what? On a copper’s pay? Maybe it should have been a professional question.’

‘My wife’s owned the place for years. When we lived in Edinburgh it was rented out. We used her flat in St John’s Wood if we ever came down.’

‘You’re shitting us.’

‘Oh no he’s not,’ Payne laughed. ‘Ask him who his wife is.’

As he spoke, the phone in the pocket of his shirt vibrated against his chest. He knew who the caller would be without looking at it. He excused himself as he took it out, and stepped out into the street.

‘Where are you now?’ Skinner asked.

‘I’m in a pub called the Red Lion, in Whitehall, with Neil McIlhenney and two guys he says are part of the Prime Minister’s protection team. This might be a good night to have a go at him.’

‘Given what happened on Saturday,’ the chief pointed out, ‘that’s not very funny. Have you got a hotel?’

‘Yes, the Met fixed me up with one near Victoria Station.’

‘Good. I want you to meet me tomorrow morning. Victoria will do fine. I’ll be coming up from Gatwick, same flight as you caught today.’

‘I’ll see you there. Where are we going?’

‘I have a meeting, and given where it is and what’s on the agenda, I’m not going in there unaccompanied.’

‘Sounds heavy. Where?’

‘Security Service, Millbank. I’m just off the phone with my friend Amanda Dennis, the deputy director. She’s expecting us.’

Payne gasped. ‘Jesus Christ, boss. Why are we going there? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing that I can slam on the table, point at and say “He did it”, but enough for me to fly some kites and see how they react. I can see a chain of events and facts that lead to a certain hypothesis, but I can’t see anything that resembles a motive. Still, what we’ve got is enough for some cage-rattling. I’m good at that.’

‘I think I know that.’

‘Then you can sit back and learn.’

‘At my age I don’t want to.’

‘You’re a year older than me, Lowell,’ Skinner chuckled, ‘that’s all. One thing I want you to do in preparation for the meeting. When you call Jean, as I’m sure you will, tell her where you’re going. I’ll be doing the same with Sarah. I know, I said that Amanda’s a friend, and she is, but in that place, friendship only goes so far.’