At that moment Williams came forward. “Sorry, Prime Minister, but I must remind you of the time.”
John Major nodded and stood. Chavasse did the same. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Think about it and let me know.” He shook Chavasse by the hand. “Must go. Let me hear from you,” and he turned and walked out, followed by his detective and Williams.
And think about it Chavasse did as he sat at the long table in the dining room and had a cold lobster salad, washing it down with the rest of the champagne. It was crazy. All those years. A miracle that he’d survived and just when he was out, they wanted him back in.
He had two cups of coffee then went downstairs, recovered his raincoat and went down the steps to the street. The Jaguar was parked nearby and Jackson was out in a second and had the door open.
“Nice meal?” he asked.
“I can’t remember.”
Jackson got behind the wheel and started up. “You all right?”
Chavasse said, “What would you say if I told you the prime minister wants me to stay on?”
“Good God!” Jackson said, and swerved slightly.
“Exactly.”
“Will you?”
“I don’t know, Earl, I really don’t,” and Chavasse lit a cigarette and leaned back.
As they reached the turning into St. Martin ’s Square, Chavasse said, “Stop here. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Time I took a look for myself.”
“You sure you’ll be all right?” Jackson asked.
“Of course. Give me the umbrella.”
Chavasse got out, put up the umbrella against the relentless rain, walked along the wet pavement until he came to the next turning, which brought him into the Square on the opposite side from his house. He paused. There was a touch of fog in the rain and he seemed to sense voices and laughter. He crossed to the entrance to the garden in the centre of the Square.
The voices were clearer now, the laughter callous and brutal. He hurried forward and saw the mystery man clear in the light of a street lamp, being manhandled by three youths. They were typical of a type to be found in any city in the world, vicious animals in bomber jackets and jeans.