Page 47 of Lethal Torture
I incline my head, reminded again of why I like the home secretary. “Obviously.”
“I imagine you’ve heard the name Simon Lowbridge?”
“I’m familiar.” I don’t attempt to hide my distaste. Lowbridge is a regular at Pigalle Soho, but has been angling for membership to the Quartier for the last several years. “The minister for business and trade.”
“The same.” Agatha grimaces. “He wants my job, always has. From what I can gather, he didn’t give theDaily Truthany real facts, just a few unsavory whispers twisted to incriminate you and make me look corrupt.”
Whispers that are uncomfortably close to the truth.
“Given that Lowbridge is a member of my own party,” Agatha goes on grimly, “not to mention one of our biggest sources of funding, I can hardly raise the issue with him directly.”
Her eyes settle on me across the table. “I did hear,” she says, stirring her coffee, “that the Honorable Simon Lowbridge is a member of one of your clubs.”
And now we get to the real reason for this visit.
Sometimes darkness has to be dealt with by people who understand the shadows.
That’s when people like Agatha come to me.
“Handing stories like that to the press is a dangerous game to play,” I say lightly. “Perhaps Mr. Lowbridge needs reminding of that fact.”
She frowns. “I fear this may require a rather lighter touch.”
“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows politely.
“I understand,” she says, her eyes touching mine and sliding away again, “that you hold a Winter Ball every year. I believe that an invitation to your ball may help prevent any... future leaks.” She shoots me an apologetic look. “And at least in Lowbridge’s case, money is no object.”
Nor is it any kind of leverage. Especially when it comes to him.
If price was the only barrier to entry at the Quartier, it wouldn’t be the exclusive sensation it is. But I choose my guests with razor-sharp precision. And I’d rather spend a night back in my father’s cage than let a piece of shit like Simon Lowbridge anywhere near the Quartier.
His place on the Forbes rich list, not to mention his marriage into one of England’s oldest families, might have rinsed clean some of the dirt from his past.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who he used to be or what he used to do.
Unfortunately, today I’m in no position to piss off the woman in charge of the country’s domestic security, so I hold my tongue.
“Leave it with me,” I say noncommittally.
Agatha sits back in her chair, looking slightly less tense.
“While we’re on unpleasant topics,” she says, “was the article correct in saying there was recently an attempt on your life?” To my surprise, she almost looks concerned.
Only one?It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud.
“As I mentioned earlier,” I say with a reassuringly dismissive smile as I pour her another cup of coffee, this time discreetly adding a decent shot of whiskey from a crystal decanter beside it, “theDaily Truthdoes love a good conspiracy.”
I stir in the whiskey and push the saucer across the table to her. “I understand your grandson made the Cambridge eight, by the way. Congratulations.”
Agatha’s eyes light up. “They’ve got a damned good chance at the Boat Race this year.” She sips the whiskey-infused coffee, and her eyes close briefly. “Christ, that’s good.”
“Let me give you a coffee for the journey back to Westminster.” I pour a decent slug of whiskey into a travel cup and top it up with a layer of coffee.
“I daresay I’ll need it,” she says dryly, “if I’m going to stomach the bombastic hypocrisy of the bastards across the aisle.”
She pauses at the door, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Just between us girls, Zinaida,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “was Ivanov really found with his cock stuffed in his mouth?”
“So I heard, Minister.” I give her a bland smile. “But that’s just rumor, obviously.”
