Free Injury Time by Catherine Aird Page B

drugs baron,’ said Henry. ‘It must be one of the most expensive eating places in Town.’
    â€˜That’s what our auditors say, too,’ said Howkins. ‘They’ve even suggested we weren’t nobbling our suspect too soon because we liked eating there too.’
    â€˜Men without souls, auditors,’ observed Henry.
    â€˜If I could only work out how he knows when to walk out of Mère Carey’s empty-handed and when not to, then I’d be a happy man.’
    â€˜Because you could then catch him dealing,’ agreed Henry.
    â€˜Which he would only do if he didn’t know we were there.’ The Commander sounded injured. ‘It’s not only that. It’s the cocking a snook aspect that gets me, too.’
    â€˜He’s doing a Queen Anne’s Fan on you,’ said Henry Tyler calmly.
    The Commander looked mystified. ‘I know she’s dead, Tyler, but …’
    â€˜Putting your thumb to your nose with your fingers spread out is pure Queen Anne.’
    â€˜Queen Anne?’
    â€˜None other. Her reign was a time of much politicking and snoot-cocking, as our revered namesake Mordaunt found out.’
    â€˜Really? Well, as far as I’m concerned the farther police are from politics the better.’
    â€˜There weren’t any police then.’
    â€˜No heroin either, though,’ said the Commander, still licking his wounds.
    The arrival of an ashet of rare beef temporarily put paid to conversation.
    â€˜This man of yours …’ resumed Henry presently.
    â€˜Sharp as a barrel-load of monkeys and the mentality of a buccaneer …’
    Yes, it would be the latter that rankled, thought Tyler to himself.
    â€˜Carrying on his business in one of the best restaurants in London before our very eyes.’
    â€˜Which means he has a high-class clientele.’
    â€˜That’s part of the problem,’ said the Commander. ‘Before we know where we are, Tyler, we’ll be getting questions asked in the House. And you don’t need me to tell you where that can lead to.’
    â€˜No.’ Howkins was talking to a man to whom the phrase struck home hard. Tyler glanced up at a portrait of Sir John hanging on the wall. Politics had been simpler in Mordaunt’s day. In the words of his biographer, ‘As a country squire, John must automatically have supported the one Established Church, agricultural rather than commercial interests, and peace rather than war.’ Parliamentary life wasn’t as uncomplicated as that any more.
    â€˜We just can’t fathom who tips Chummie the wink,’ said Howkins, pushing his plate away.
    â€˜The head waiter?’ suggested Henry, sometimes—but not always—a believer in going straight to the top.
    â€˜Believe you me, Caesar’s wife is nothing in comparison,’ responded Howkins. ‘Hippolyte Chatout’s been with Mother Carey’s man and boy, and as far as we can make out he’s as honest as they come. Well,’ the Commander amended this thoughtfully, ‘as far as head waiters come.’
    â€˜One of the other waiters, then …’
    Howkins sighed. ‘We’ve had a couple of those fancy microphones under the tablecloth of our laddie’s reserved table and never once picked up anything in the way of a warning.’
    â€˜A message in the menu?’
    â€˜Not that our cipher people can find,’ said the policeman wearily.
    â€˜A message in a bottle, then?’ suggested Tyler. ‘By the way, will you have a spot more yourself?’
    The Commander shook his head. ‘Thank you, no. The sommelier’s French, too, and as clean as a whistle.’
    Henry Tyler, though a Foreign Office man through and through, let that pass. ‘He could have brought wine a when wine b had been ordered,’ he said.
    â€˜We know it isn’t him,’ said Howkins, ‘because our chappie got away twice while the