For the first time since he could remember, the first time since he had crossed the water, he felt the sweat of the fear of failure run in the pit of his back.
The platform was crowded. Men and women and school children jostled their way onto the two-carriage train going south and west to the coast towns. Jon Jo was amongst them, his bottom hp white between his teeth.
His P.A. had been sent with a fistful of loose change to the shop across Curzon Street to buy the sandwiches and two large bottles of Perrier.
They were talking through the lunch break because Wilkins knew that Carthew would be off at three to meet his wife at the airport, and Foster would be wanting to get away early so that he could get onto the M4 before it seized up at the start of his drive to Exmoor. Carthew was certainly work-shy, and Foster might just be certifiable if he intended to pitch a tent against the elements at this time of year.
"So, it's Brennard, is it, until we can get Ferdie back?"
Foster said, "He's the obvious one, the one we'd miss the least."
Carthew said, "He's a prickly little beggar."
Foster said, "Prickly is an understatement."
Carthew said, "You know, when he first came, and I called him Gary, I thought he was going to do me Criminal Assault."
"He's the one that I would think most suitable," Wilkins said quietly.
"It had crossed my mind to move him to the Donnelly team, give him something tougher to cut his teeth on. I'd say he was a little frantic for some meat, in rather a hurry, oh yes. He deserves the chance… but I would be less than honest if I did not make plain my disappointment with the reaction of other members of our section…"