The cod was Friday’s cod. And the batter was soggy. However, Wilderness would not be the one to fault the mushy peas, and if this was to be his last taste of England for the indefinite future, he wasn’t displeased with Eddie’s choice. He’d have preferred claret to Tizer, but you can’t have everything, even in the city that never closes.
A polite burp into a clenched fist indicated that Eddie was getting to the point of speech and might not be plying his right elbow for a minute or two.
“Boss reckons Reg Thwaite is trying to nail your balls to the floor.”
“He’s right. Hence the suddenness of this posting to Finland. This … fiction.”
“And it’s all about Bernard.”
“Yep.”
“Have they asked about me?”
“No. I don’t think they will. I left you out of my report on the Glienicke Bridge. You were never there. You were back at the hotel. The last you saw of Bernard was when Frank and I left for the bridge. If asked that’s all you need to say. But, hate to spell it out Ed, you are small fry. They’re not after you.”
“I love hearing it spelt out. There’s safety in being small fry, always has been. I couldn’t work for dodgy buggers like you and Troy if there weren’t.”
“How is Mr. Troy?”
“Bored. Trying to bury himself in growing leeks and raising pigs, but bored all the same. His brother’s delighted to have him off the streets. Freddie’s capacity to fuck up life for Rod quadrupled when Rod became Home Secretary.”
A pause while Eddie ordered jam roly-poly with custard.
Then, “Berlin?”
“Loose ends, Ed. I’d rather see them tied up before Alec drops me down in nowhereland.”