It was lunchtime and civil servants from the Foreign Office and the Treasury were striding along the newly swept paths, some alone, some in company, one or two in track-suits and running shoes, tucking in a circuit or two of the park before returning to their desks. Ellis got up, cursing himself for misunderstanding the directions on the phone. North side, she’d said. Up by the Cake House. He hurried across the bridge over the lake, wondering whether she’d bother to wait. He knew she was fond of him, she’d signalled her affection in a dozen tiny ways, but he knew as well how unforgiving she could be about people who let her down. In Louise Carlton’s world, there were a number of cardinal sins. And lack of punctuality was one of them. Seconds later he caught sight of her. She was sitting on a bench in the icy sunshine, her bulk unmistakable. On her lap she had a plastic shopping bag. Pigeons pecked at the crumbs round her feet, and as Ellis watched she produced more cake from the bag, tossing it clumsily across the path and into the water.
