6

      On the radio a man with a French accent was speaking: ‘Ze irony is zat ze people who were elected to parliament to defend ze best interests of ze country ’av been outvoted by zee ignorant masses. I yuze zis word with a measure of irony, yes? Zey are ignorant, and zey are proud of zis fact. Zey do not care what comes next, so long as it is defferent from what zey ’av now.’

      Impatiently, Drake reached over and flicked the voice off.

      It was late afternoon and he was growing restless. Across the street, he could see the subject of his surveillance through the windows of the wine bar in Fulham. Marco Foulkes was drinking with an unidentified man. They were seated at a counter that ran along the front window, which was convenient for Drake. He had followed them here from a snooker club close to Fulham Broadway station. That had posed its own challenges. Getting close had been difficult. He had cautiously followed the two men inside and then hung around the bar, keeping his back to the tables. Luckily the place was both big and dark, but after about twenty minutes he was getting leery looks from the heavies who were minding the place. He decided not to risk any kind of altercation and left, crossing the street to some kind of health food place that served fair trade coffee from the Honduran Highlands. The owner of the place, a sexagenarian with aspirations to sainthood, explained this patiently then watched over Cal as he took a sip, just to make sure of his approval. Drake took up residence at the single table outside, where he could keep an eye on the narrow doorway across the street.

      Another hour went by before they emerged. Drake followed them to the wine bar, then went to fetch the car. He was lucky enough to find a parking space in a side street from where he observed them drinking something that looked like imported beer out of bottles. There was a lot to dislike about Foulkes, he decided. The silk scarf draped around his neck. The scruffy beard, carefully crafted to give him a bohemian, yachtsman type look. The tweed jacket and unkempt hair. If he hadn’t been a writer he would have perfectly fitted the cliché of one as described in one of his novels.

      On the seat beside him was one of Foulkes’ books, The Clandestine Countess. He wasn’t making much progress. It had something to do with a retired barber remembering the Holocaust. There was the mysterious countess of the title, a fair amount of weird sex and voyeurism, but beyond that Cal simply couldn’t get into it. He didn’t care what happened to the characters. What the book didn’t tell him was how anyone made a living from this racket, or maybe you didn’t have to worry about that when you were Marco Foulkes.

      Throwing the book aside, Drake reached for the half bottle of spiced rum that sat in the door pocket next to him. He took a sip to warm himself up before screwing the top back on. He liked to think that he was drinking less these days. Getting out of the Met and on to this freelancing gig had been something of a leap of faith, but once he’d taken the decision he had experienced a feeling of relief.

      ‘You’ll die of boredom,’ Kelly Marsh had said. ‘Ten to one you’ll be back here in three months.’

      But he hadn’t died, of boredom or anything else, and he hadn’t gone back. True, there were moments when he missed the excitement of the old days, but they were easily outweighed by the feeling that he no longer represented an organisation he had stopped believing in years ago.

      Drake was curious to know who Foulkes’ friend was and what they were talking about. From what he could see the conversation seemed to be getting more animated. Drake sat up in his seat as the other man suddenly got to his feet and headed for the door. Foulkes thumped his fist on the counter to the annoyance of the couple sitting next to him.

      Drake shifted his focus to the friend. He got out of the car, locked it and followed on foot, trailing the man on the opposite side of the street. The man, who was in his late forties, was slimmer and more nervous-looking than Foulkes. He had thinning hair and grey, unhealthy-looking skin. Fulham Broadway tube station loomed up ahead out of the gloom and Drake watched as the man passed the barrier and descended the stairs towards the eastbound line. There were enough people milling around to make Drake less worried about being spotted. Also, whoever the man was, he was paying no attention to the other passengers. A District Line train arrived and Drake stepped into the next carriage, positioning himself with his back to the end of the train. Through the separation doors he could see the man sitting down and taking out his phone to scroll through his messages before slumping back and turning his face upwards to close his eyes. Drake took the opportunity to have a better look at him. A long face, narrow jaw and grey eyes. He was wearing a Barbour waxed jacket over a pullover and white shirt. Alongside Foulkes he was the boring friend who could always be relied upon to have time for you.

      At Earls Court, Drake followed at a distance as the man descended the stairs and then the escalators to the Piccadilly Line. The eastbound platform was crowded with people. Backpackers, tourists, battalions of teenagers jostling one another. Through the mayhem Drake managed not to lose sight of his target. Moving ahead of him, he boarded the next carriage and waited in the doorway to make sure that the man stayed onboard. The doors closed and they shuddered away.

      The train took them across London to Finsbury Park, where the man changed again, this time to a southbound Victoria Line train that took him one stop to Highbury and Islington. As they changed again to board an overground train, Drake was intrigued. Although he was going to a lot of trouble to cover his tracks the man appeared to be going through the motions like a sleepwalker, paying no particular attention to his surroundings or whether or not he was being followed.

      By the time they got off at Dalston Junction it was dark and the rain was coming down. People were rushing towards the station entrance with newspapers held over their heads. The man turned left and walked for about ten minutes before producing a set of keys. He unlocked the door of a darkened, glass-fronted shop entrance and disappeared inside.

      Drake crossed the street to put a bit of distance between them. With his phone he took a picture of the shop front. The sign read Nathanson’s Solicitors. A list of services were stencilled down the left-hand side of the window: Immigration/Nationality law, Civil litigation, Family law, Wills, Crime, Welfare benefits, Landlords and Tenants, Housing/Homelessness, Employment law.

      Through the window he watched the man settle himself within an inner office cubicle separated from the front by a glass wall and a door that remained open. The other two desks in the place were empty. There appeared to be nobody else in there.

      Nathanson, if that was the man’s name, stayed in the office for just over an hour. An unmarked car pulled up outside and a moment later the man hurried out and got into the car. Looking up and down the street, Drake could see there was no chance he was going to be able to follow. Instead he made a note of the number plate.

      When he got back to his car in Fulham an hour later, it had acquired a parking ticket. He plugged his phone in to charge and a message popped