enough to convey the desired impression of deep tan, sepia brush of shadow on the hard jaw-line, white teeth, a lick of black hair. And the hard, muscular, yet thin, body shape. But that glimpse, caught as he left the house ten minutes before, had shown him something else, something tired and worn perhaps, something haggard.
“I’ve been under a bit of pressure,” he said. “My migraine’s been coming back.”
“You want to eat feverfew.”
“What the hell is feverfew?”
“God knows. I read about it in one of Tanya’s papers. She’s into all this alternative stuff. Seriously, though, you don’t look too good.”
They were in a restaurant in that expensive region round the back of Sloane Square. Danilo was a short spare leonine-faced man with a big head and yellowish-brown eyes like an animal’s, a fierce small carnivore. Though he was no more than five feet four, some inches shorter than William Newton, and had longish springy sandy hair, Guy would never have called him a ginger dwarf. Danilo wore a very casual but very expensive suit of nearly black seersucker with the jacket sleeves rolled up to show the blue silk lining. He had on a blue shirt with fine dark green stripes but no tie. His two rings were of white gold, one set with a round boss of lapis, the other a square block of jade. A few years back, when it was still possible. Danilo had carried on a very profitable business importing imperial jade from China. That was where Guy’s cuff-links had come from. Danilo was not Spanish or of South American origin and his given name was really Daniel, but there had been no less than five Daniels in his class at primary school, so he had rechristened himself. As well as an importer of various illegal substances, Danilo was a one-remove murderer. Or so Guy believed.
The only area in which Danilo wasn’t macho was drink. He had a spritzer in a tall glass. Guy drank more than he ate. He tended to do that, though he ate as well, a fine thick strip of Scottish fillet steak, brought to the table whole, charred outside, blue in, divided into two for them with one dextrous stroke of the knife.
Danilo talked about the villa in Granada he had sold and the house he had bought in the Wye Valley, a Welsh castle with thirty acres, which he intended to furnish with the contents of a Swedish baroque manor-house. There was an order prohibiting the removal of any of these tables and chairs and pictures from Sweden, but Danilo was fixing things to get around that. He wasn’t a particularly self-centred man, and if he was callous, he was not hard-hearted to his friends. This invitation had not been extended for him to talk about himself.
“How’s Celeste, then? That still on?”
Guy lifted his shoulders. Any mention of Celeste always embarrassed him.
“The works of art—keeping you in the style to which you’re accustomed?”
“I haven’t got any money worries, Dan,” said Guy. “That’s not a problem. You and I, that’ll never be a problem with us, right?” They had once said to each other, years ago, that a man was only half a man if he couldn’t make himself rich.
“Then it has to be little Miss Leo.”
Guy wouldn’t have allowed anyone else to call Leonora “little Miss Leo” but he minded Danilo’s doing it less than he would some other people. Danilo loved her too, in a more brotherly way, of course, and he hadn’t seen her for years, but he still retained for her that tender regard which is born out of a nostalgia for old wild times. She had been more skilful at nicking stuff off Boots’s counters than any male companion of theirs. Once, in a single swoop, she had pocketed an electric toothbrush, a hair dryer, and a set of heated rollers. Thinking of that reminded Guy of another companion of theirs and helped him put off the moment.
“You ever hear from Linus?”
Danilo laughed. “That one, he came to a bad end. Well, I would reckon, I don’t know. Someone told me he went to Malaysia and
“I’ve been under a bit of pressure,” he said. “My migraine’s been coming back.”
“You want to eat feverfew.”
“What the hell is feverfew?”
“God knows. I read about it in one of Tanya’s papers. She’s into all this alternative stuff. Seriously, though, you don’t look too good.”
They were in a restaurant in that expensive region round the back of Sloane Square. Danilo was a short spare leonine-faced man with a big head and yellowish-brown eyes like an animal’s, a fierce small carnivore. Though he was no more than five feet four, some inches shorter than William Newton, and had longish springy sandy hair, Guy would never have called him a ginger dwarf. Danilo wore a very casual but very expensive suit of nearly black seersucker with the jacket sleeves rolled up to show the blue silk lining. He had on a blue shirt with fine dark green stripes but no tie. His two rings were of white gold, one set with a round boss of lapis, the other a square block of jade. A few years back, when it was still possible. Danilo had carried on a very profitable business importing imperial jade from China. That was where Guy’s cuff-links had come from. Danilo was not Spanish or of South American origin and his given name was really Daniel, but there had been no less than five Daniels in his class at primary school, so he had rechristened himself. As well as an importer of various illegal substances, Danilo was a one-remove murderer. Or so Guy believed.
The only area in which Danilo wasn’t macho was drink. He had a spritzer in a tall glass. Guy drank more than he ate. He tended to do that, though he ate as well, a fine thick strip of Scottish fillet steak, brought to the table whole, charred outside, blue in, divided into two for them with one dextrous stroke of the knife.
Danilo talked about the villa in Granada he had sold and the house he had bought in the Wye Valley, a Welsh castle with thirty acres, which he intended to furnish with the contents of a Swedish baroque manor-house. There was an order prohibiting the removal of any of these tables and chairs and pictures from Sweden, but Danilo was fixing things to get around that. He wasn’t a particularly self-centred man, and if he was callous, he was not hard-hearted to his friends. This invitation had not been extended for him to talk about himself.
“How’s Celeste, then? That still on?”
Guy lifted his shoulders. Any mention of Celeste always embarrassed him.
“The works of art—keeping you in the style to which you’re accustomed?”
“I haven’t got any money worries, Dan,” said Guy. “That’s not a problem. You and I, that’ll never be a problem with us, right?” They had once said to each other, years ago, that a man was only half a man if he couldn’t make himself rich.
“Then it has to be little Miss Leo.”
Guy wouldn’t have allowed anyone else to call Leonora “little Miss Leo” but he minded Danilo’s doing it less than he would some other people. Danilo loved her too, in a more brotherly way, of course, and he hadn’t seen her for years, but he still retained for her that tender regard which is born out of a nostalgia for old wild times. She had been more skilful at nicking stuff off Boots’s counters than any male companion of theirs. Once, in a single swoop, she had pocketed an electric toothbrush, a hair dryer, and a set of heated rollers. Thinking of that reminded Guy of another companion of theirs and helped him put off the moment.
“You ever hear from Linus?”
Danilo laughed. “That one, he came to a bad end. Well, I would reckon, I don’t know. Someone told me he went to Malaysia and
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