“I’m just saying, I don’t know how things work in spy world, where you pretend to be a handyman or whatever, but it was dumb luck that I found Tarquin—”
“Yeah, I get it, Arden, thank you. You can stop talking now,” he said tersely.
“Not trying to belittle—”
“Stop. Talking.”
He said it through gritted teeth and then switched on the radio to avoid any further conversation.
I slumped back in my seat and decided to stay silent until we got to London. Old Simon had returned. The veil had lifted for a second but was now firmly back down. Judgey, sensible Simon still thought Arden was suspicious and slutty.
I dared to give him a quick look. He was staring at the road resolutely, his jaw tense. Probably regretted getting in this car with me.
Eventually, London appeared on the horizon, and I spoke up to navigate Simon to Ollie’s office. “It’s in Temple, so you’ll—”
“Yeah, I know where I’m going.”
“There’s a car park on Bouverie Street that we could—”
“I said, I know where I’m going, thanks.”
Okay.
We made it to the east side of Temple. The area is a bizarre, and particularly British, phenomenon. A private world of barristers’ chambers enclosed in an ornate green space in central London. The hub of the legal world, where the ordinary public is granted access by express permission.
Simon parked the car, and we walked down – in silence – towards one of the side entrances near the river. “How do you know your way around London?”
“I lived here for four years,” he said in a low growl.
“Oh, I didn’t know you’d ever … Was it for work?”
He nodded. No more information was forthcoming. “Good chat, good chat,” I said more than a little sarcastically.
He sighed. “I worked at the MOD building and lived in north London for a year, then in west London for two years. Then I got my own place for the last year in south London. Kennington.”
“So … you moved to Lilbury after this?”
“I moved around a fair bit, did some time here and there. But yes, eventually I ended up in Lilbury.”
I ruminated on this as we came up to the entrance. “Kennington. We could have been neighbours.” I meant it as a joke and flashed a grin. Simon’s grimace told me he wouldn’t have liked it.
We came up to the gates. I didn’t recognise the security guard on duty. Old Irish Mick must have been off today. His equally as jovial counterpart, Moses, a Nigerian guy who called every man, woman, child, and goat, “my friend” when he spoke to them, was also nowhere to be seen. “Bugger,” I said. “I don’t know that guard. They won’t let us through unless we have an appointment.”
“Leave it to me,” he said and walked to the gate. After a few minutes, he beckoned me forward, and the security guard waved us through.
“What did you say?”
He shrugged. “That we had a meeting.”
Wait, that never worked. I narrowed my eyes. Maybe he’d used some spy jiggery-pokery. That made me gulp. Good God, what exactly did Simon do at the MOD? Images of Russian double agents trussed up in nowt but their Y-fronts begging for mercy flashed through my mind. Wait, come back, was that Russian secret agent filling out those undies better than expected?
I pointed out Ollie’s chambers. “It’s over here.”
We made our way through the main square, where senior barristers were allowed to park their cars, and then off to the side to a smaller, tree-lined part of the grounds. It still looked as it had always done – as if Hollywood had rocked up and spent millions recreating Georgian London with no detail forgotten nor expense spared.
Barristers in gowns and wigs walked past us carrying files and talking on phones.
I was keeping my distance from Simon – something that he seemed to be aware of. I hadn’t thought he’d mind, but he kept trying to walk closer to me, and every time I veered away, he would veer too. I gulped. My mind running wild about Russian agents again. Maybe he was suspicious and was trying to keep tabs on me so he could stuff me in a suitcase later? Or poison me with an umbrella tip. Or …
