To London: “spread out in the sun,
It’s postal districts packed like squares of wheat.”
“London was gritty with stale heat and swept with the whoop and shriek of police sirens, patrol cars racing down the Edgware Road. There was a message on the answer-phone in his flat, a wrong number; an old man’s voice, speaking in a papery vibrato: I often wonder where you are, Terry, and what you’re doing these days. Perhaps you’ll call me. Morgan deleted it.
He walked to the office. In Hyde Park he picked his way between cricket games and picnics and people throwing sticks for dogs; a football thumped across the parched grass in front of him and he booted it back in a long, satisfying loop. Cutting through a side street behind the Lycée, he found himself passing a line of half a dozen police vans, riot screens lowered, black-helmeted heads turning to watch him through the meshed glass as he hurried past. In the Fiat showroom the little pink Cinquecento was gone from the window, replaced by a grey one.”
FLIRTING AT THE FUNERAL p 155