More time passed with no further word from Westcott than Troy would have anticipated. Westcott was stringing him out, and in turn Troy was stringing out Westcott’s men. Plod and Plod followed him around London, and he took particular delight in long lunches in Soho that kept them standing around in the cold, no doubt bursting to pee. One day he managed to stretch lunch at L’Escargot out to three hours, and the next day managed to read half of Camus’s L’Étranger leaning against a bookcase in Foyles while it rained buckets outside.
It was the next Friday afternoon before Westcott called him at home.
“I thought we might meet for another session after work today.”
Ah, so he’d now done enough homework to feel he could tackle Troy more forcefully? This would be a tougher session. There’d be no gaps in his knowledge, he’d have Troy’s curriculum vitae off by heart—but, equally, he’d have learnt nothing from the followers.
“I’m not at work, Mr. Westcott. As well you know. I appear to be on leave and at four o’clock today I shall be setting off to spend some of it in the country.”
“Hertfordshire?”
“Yes. Mimram, to be exact.”
“Of course,” said Westcott, who probably knew what newspapers Troy read, where he got his hair cut, and so most certainly knew where his country house was.
It might be impossible to put Westcott off, but distinctly possible to control both time and place … to open with the white pawn.
“Look, why don’t you come down for lunch tomorrow?”
Troy counted to five while Westcott hesitated. He wasn’t going to say no, he’d just rather not say yes. Troy thought an outright refusal would be out of character.
“That … er … that sounds fine, Mr. Troy.”
“Jolly good. King’s Cross to Welwyn, change to the Branch Line and get off at Tewin Water. The trains aren’t frequent, but I believe there’s a 9:45 that connects rather well and will get you to Tewin Water around 11:30. I’ll have you met at the station. We can talk before lunch, and after lunch, if the weather holds up, we can take a walk around.”