Chapter 86: Chapter Eighty-Six

Claudia and I arrive early at Maison de Diamante, the first diners to do so. Low music plays, but so early, the restaurant lacks the hum of later in the evening.

Maison de Diamante is classy, with a warm, inviting atmosphere. Walls panelled in mahogany are set with gilded mirrors and originals from local artists. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a romantic glow over the tables and booths. The booths, although back to back, are separated by lattice screens scrambling with the vining leaves of potted plants, suitably private for intimate meetings.

“It’s pretty nice,” comments Claudia. “I’m guessing Irene’s been paying the bill.” She’s probably right. Until my Master married me, dining here would have been way beyond my budget.

A waiter oozes towards us, radiating obsequious charm. “Good evening, Madams. Do you have a reservation?”

“A booking for four,” I say. “Name of Haswell. The rest of our party will join us in due course.”

Claudia looks straight ahead, wearing a Name-Rank-and-Serial-Number straight face.

The table I booked nestles in one of the booths, secluded and to the rear of the dining area. As we take our seats, the waiter scoops up the Reserved label.

A matching Reserved sign sits on the table in the next booth, equally secluded, back to back with our own. Claudia and I sit together, facing away from that booth.

The waiter looms. “Something to drink while you wait for your party?”

“Claudia?”

“Whatever you’re getting.”

“A bottle of Sauvignon Blanc,” I say.

The waiter sniffs. “Very good, Madam.”

I nudge Claudia. “I ordered the right table, did I? This one behind us is where they sat?”

“Yup. So long as they come to the same table, they’ll be right behind us.” Glancing across toward the waiters, she fiddles with her phone, then twists, trailing a fine cable between us, then behind, winding it into one of the plants twining into the screen. “Camera and microphone,” she says, flashing brows. “My phone as it is would probably catch what they’re saying, but this is better.”

“Waiter’s coming,” I mutter. All casual smiles, she lounges back into her seat.

Diners drift in, in twos and threes and groups. Claudia and I, with our backs to the main restaurant, angle our seats to watch sidelong through the lattice. And now, in context, rather than simply seeing Claudia’s photos, I begin to wonder. “These tables are fairly private, but diners still have to get to the table from the door. How can Irene hope to not be recognised? Her face is on magazine spreads every week.”

“The first time I was here, she came in wearing sunglasses and a hat like a paella pan. She only took them off when she sat down.”

“But surely the waiter would have recognised her?”

“Course he did. How d’you think I found out that she’d been here before? He remembered her.”

“How did you persuade him to tell you about that?”

“I didn’t. He checked with the owner. But I dropped some heavy hints I’d be happy to run a spread on places for the City’s Heavy Wallet Brigade to dine.”

The door opens, and in steps a familiar figure. Without meaning to, I hiss.

“Calm down, girl,” murmurs Claudia.“Not that I blame you,”

Pensby speaks briefly to the waiter who gestures him to the table. He strolls nonchalantly along in his cheap suit…

I swear he was made for polyester.

… and Claudia and I turn our faces away. Not that he’s likely to spot us through the divider, even if he were looking.

Claudia slides something to me… One half of a pair of earbuds… Slipping in mine, she fits its partner to her ear. In her hand, her phone screen displays a view of the booth behind us.

In under five minutes, the door opens again to another figure. Despite the ‘disguise’, Irene is immaculately dressed, flawlessly made up under the sunglasses, not a blonde hair out place under the hat, and decked with jewellery. The rings on one hand alone, heavy with gold, set with gems, would qualify as lethal weapons if she ever tried to punch anyone. Not that she would. That might risk snapping a scarlet-painted nail.

“And where d’you think she bought sunglasses that size?” I mutter.

“Same place they sell hats the size of sombreros.” We both fall silent as Irene sits, and voices play over the earbuds…

“Renee… My sweet. So lovely to see you. I could barely wait for this evening...”

The pause is microscopic. Even to my ears, the answer sounds strained. “I understand, Raymond…”

“… I’ve waited all week for this, Mon Petit Chou. ”

You have got to be fucking kidding me…

Claudia shakes with suppressed laughter. She rolls eyes at me, scribbling on a napkin. Seriously?

I shrug, then write underneath. He thinks being ‘French’ will make him cool?

And he’s French, is he?

I’m unwilling to insult an entire nation with my opinions on Pensby, so instead, I add to my note. Recording?

What do you think?

I’ve missed some of what is being said, but Pensby is in full flow. On the screen, his hand creeps over from his side of the table to hold hers.  “My Renee… My one and only… My everything… I treasure these moments together. The week is torture for me…”

“So you’ve said, Raymond…” Irritation scatters like grit over her words.

He babbles on… “This still feels like a dream to me. I can hardly believe such a beautiful woman would have introduced herself to me.”

“You’re an appealing man, Raymond.” Syrup drips from Irene’s voice. “Of course I introduced myself to you.”

“When I first saw you that day, the way you opened your heart to me, so vulnerable and upset, my heart went out to you. My sweet, I can’t stand the time I’m away from you. How much longer must we wait? When will you tell him?”

Another microscopic pause. “Soon, Raymond. Very soon. I promise.”

“But… But why can’t you tell him now?”

Regret tip-toes into Irene’s tone. She creeps her other hand forward, sandwiching Pensby’s between hers. “You must understand, Raymond. I have to be sure Jack is protected. He's not a bad man, you see. It’s just… We’ve grown apart. His job, you see. It’s everything to him. That’s what killed our marriage. His devotion to politics…”

She shakes her head in saccharine sorrow… “But… he’s so trusting in his personal life. So naïve. He just won't see it. Only that it's his old friend Richard.” She speaks as though pressing pins into a doll… “I’ve tried and tried to warn Jack, but he just repeats that it's no one’s business what Haswell does in private and who he married.”

“There's no such thing as private business when the greater good is concerned,” snaps Pensby.

“Yes, you understand that. He doesn’t.” She breaks away, wringing fingers. “If I know that I’ve protected Jack from himself as best I can, I’ll feel able to move on.”

Pensby shakes his head. “How does your husband survive in politics if he's so gullible?”

Irene replies as though he’s not spoken. “Now tell me. What’s happened?”

Pensby’s voice winds up half a nasal octave. “I had the report. It was perfect. She refused to answer questions. Even threw me out of the house. I should have been able to have her pulled in.  The same applied to Haswell’s interview. Thurston reports Haswell, and I quote, ‘went nuclear’ in his office.” He tenses at the shoulders, drumming fingers. “But then afterwards, something happened. Someone intervened. Stopped me acting and put a freeze on the investigation.”

He coughs. “You were right, Irene. Haswell knows someone in a powerful position. With authority enough to interfere in official investigations.”

Irene sniffs. “He knows everyone in a powerful position. And that milksop wife of his courts their sympathy, as though she’s nothing to do with anything at all.”

Pensby hand creeps forward again. “Don’t worry about it, my sweet. It's not as straightforward as I thought it might be, but there is a process. We'll soon have Haswell and his so-called wife, and they won’t trouble you any more.”

Claudia writes on her napkin… Think we have enough?

Got both video and audio?

She taps, scrolls and scissors over her phone screen. Yes

Then, yes

Together, we rise, stepping smartly around the screen. I take the seat next to Irene, effectively trapping her behind the table. Claudia sits to face me, caging Pensby.

I adopt my brightest smile. “Irene! What a lovely surprise to see you here. And such a coincidence. Mr Pensby too. Who would have guessed the two of you are friends? Or…” I look between the pair… “Are you just friends?”

For a moment, both faces register only astonishment. Then Irene colours up. “How dare you interrupt a private business meeting?” Her nostrils flare. “Leave immediately.” But despite the bluster, her lipsticked mouth twisting down, she's rummaging through her bag, slamming on the sunglasses.

“Yes, very private isn't it, Irene,” I say. “What a romantic little nook.”