‘Are you ready to do a deal?’ asked Reynard.
‘I’m ready to talk,’ I said.
‘Do you know the Montreux Jazz Café in Harrods?’
‘Not really,’ I said.
‘Yeah, well, it’s a café in Harrods,’ said Reynard. ‘Meet me there at ten tomorrow morning. Just you, nobody else.’
I agreed and he hung up before I could wangle anything else out of him.
We spent a happy couple of hours that afternoon working through the logistics of the meet, after which I might have managed to slope off to see Bev that evening if Nightingale hadn’t reminded me that I owed him some practise and a translation of Pliny the Younger.
‘I don’t trust this situation,’ said Nightingale. ‘I want you to be sharp.’
Bollocks, I thought, or testiculi or possibly testiculōs if we were using the accusative.
Established in 1851, Harrods is the world’s largest family owned corner shop. Although I suspect it’s pretty unlikely that any of the Qatari Royal Family are doing a stint behind the counters. It covers twenty thousand square metres of some of the most expensive real estate in the world and, I couldn’t help but notice, was less than three hundred meters down the Brompton Road from our crime scene at One Hyde Park. Even at ten o’clock in the morning it was going to be full of members of the public. Rich, influential members of the public, many of them foreign, a lot of them with some level of diplomatic immunity.
‘What I’m saying here,’ Seawoll had said, ‘is try to limit the amount of damage you do to none fucking whatsoever.’
I don’t know where I got this reputation for property damage, I really don’t – it’s totally unfair.
Harrods has ten public ways in and out, not counting staff and goods entrances – providing a potential fugitive with a wide selection of rapid getaways at an affordable price. Inside, it was a warren of showrooms, staircases and escalators, making it a good place to meet if you’re up to no good, and in our estimation the only question was what kind of no good Reynard Fossman was up to.
I went in, as we had agreed in the planning, through the main entrance on Hans Crescent. The morning clientele was mostly well dressed white women with the occasional upmarket burka thrown in for variety.
Following the route we’d thrashed out the night before, I went straight up two sets of escalators – past zig-zag mirrors and wall-sized adverts for Dolce & Gabbana and Jimmy Choo’s Eau de Parfum – and a couple of big rooms full of expensive furniture. Most of which was cheaper and nicer than the stuff in One Hyde Park, but still a bit out of my price range. I’ve worked in retail, and I’ve got to say that the Harrod’s staff were all ridiculously attractive, well dressed and happy. Either the management were paying them way over the odds, or their HR department had been outsourced to Stepford, Connecticut.
A scary white waitress was waiting by the ‘Please Wait Here To Be Seated’ sign. Behind her was a blasphemously bad sculpture of Aretha Franklin that would have caused my father to have a word with the management.
I told her that I was meeting that guy over there and she waved me cheerfully past.
Inside were rough grey walls, interspersed with black and white tiles, stainless steel shelves and counters, with round PVC chairs at the tables. There were antique Revox reel-to-reel tape machines randomly placed on shelves. It really wasn’t authentic enough to be a Disney theme park version of a jazz café.
A pair of wide screen TVs mounted on the walls were showing clips from the Montreux Jazz Festival. They were playing Mélissa Laveaux doing a live set, so they couldn’t be all bad.
Reynard was the only customer, sitting at a six person table that gave him a view through the café to the corridor and gift wrap department opposite. He was wearing the same tweed jacket, only this time over a black T-shirt with MY SPIRIT ANIMAL IS A GOTH TEENAGER printed in white on the front. I couldn’t see a bag on the table or by his chair, but then we’d all thought it unlikely he’d bring the ledger with him.
He stood when he saw me and waved at a seat opposite. This left me, I noticed as I sat down, with my back to the entrance.
‘Where’s the Nightingale?’ he asked.
‘He’s working,’ I said. ‘Have you got the ledger with you?’
‘Now, that would be foolish of me, wouldn’t it?’
The waitress asked if I wanted to order anything.
‘Black Americano,’ I said and looked at Reynard. ‘You?’
‘I’m good,’ he said and watched the waitress’ bum all the way back to the counter. ‘A bit mature for my taste,’ he said.
‘We get it,’ I said. ‘You’re a class act.’
‘I am what I am,’ he said.
‘How much do you want?’
Reynard raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s your opening position?’ he asked. ‘Hardly a sound negotiating tactic.’
‘This isn’t a negotiation,’ I said. ‘I’m not a private individual or some covert spy or something. I’m police and you’re in possession of stolen material of considerable value which we want to return to its rightful owners – that being us.’
‘You have no evidence that it’s stolen,’ said Reynard.
‘No. But then you are what you are,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you? At the moment, you see, it would be more effort to arrest you, statement the information out of you, seize the ledger and then throw you in prison.’
‘Arrest me for what?’
‘There’s bound to be something,’ I said. ‘You and Christina were not being particularly law abiding, that’s for certain.’
But Reynard had started at Christina’s name and I really don’t think he heard the rest of the sentence at all.
‘That had nothing to do with me,’ he said.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, and I was just about to say something clever when a white woman sat down next to Reynard. She was dressed in a pastel yellow blazer over a white blouse and black leggings. Her face was very familiar.
‘Hey Peter,’ said Lesley May. ‘What’s up?’
Reynard had gone as pale as semi-skimmed milk – I swear his hands started shaking.
It was her old face, from before the Royal Opera House and Mr Punch.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You wearing a wire or not?
‘Hello, Lesley,’ I said – slightly louder than I meant to.
‘Well, that answers that question,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet you’re surprised to see me.’
Twenty seconds, I reckoned, that’s all I needed.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
Lesley smiled and I saw the skin of her face was smooth and clear, like that of a child.
‘Got my face fixed,’ she said.
‘So I see.’
Ten seconds.
‘You didn’t think it was possible,’ she said.
‘Obviously I was wrong,’ I said.
‘So the question is,’ said Lesley, ‘did Nightingale lie to you, or is he just ignorant?’
‘This is nothing to do with me,’ said Reynard and started to stand.
Lesley balled her fist and I felt the little flicker that warns you that a practitioner is summoning up a forma. If you want to do the counter spell, then you have to guess the forma and then cast faster. This is what Nightingale calls the lutte sans merci and surviving one requires sensitivity, foresight and lightning fast reflexes.
Or you can lean back in your chair, brace yourself against the wall, get both feet up against the table and shove with all your strength. The edge caught Lesley in the stomach and Reynard across the thighs. Lesley went with the blow – I saw her allow herself to be pushed backwards, finishing her spell as she tipped over. Not an easy thing to do, I can tell you. Reynard screamed with pain and then did a neat little standing jump that left him crouched on the table.