Dinning with Frogs

7. Masks

Irene has always disliked museums. The presence of all those lifeless locked up objects, the blank endless walls, the hushed tones of visitors, the staleness of the air – it all makes her feel suffocated, makes her skin prickle with nervous frustration. She finds herself wanting to cause some kind of havoc, to break the silence by whooping or shouting, running around, breaking something – she needs tomisbehave, somehow.

Now is not the time. Concentrate, Irene.

Irene moves casually across the entrance hall, stopping to pick a guidebook off a stand, leafing through it. Carefully she scopes out the open plan café opposite. Her instructions, delivered by text an hour before had been terse British Museum cafe. ASAP. Presumably, the famous Fiona had decided to meet her here. In this unnervingly open echoing room. There is a balcony above, easy for a sniper to hide. But it's too public a place for an assassination, surely? Irene takes deep breaths, tries to slow her heart rate. Look around you. Observe.

It's a weekday, so there aren't many people in the café. A Japanese couple, with a toddler in a pram. A couple of old ladies chatting. A young man, hunched over a sketchbook. Irene leans back as a long crocodile of school children trail past, looking as if they are enjoying themselves about as much as Irene is. Why of all places did it have to be a sodding museum?

"Miss Adler, I presume?" A clear voice rings out behind her, and Irene whirls around to be confronted by a pair of amused green eyes.

A tall woman, younger then Irene would have expected from her voice, wearing a nondescript brown suit, mouse coloured hair pulled back in a bun.

"You must be Fiona."

"Quite right. Shall we take a seat?" The woman gestures to the café area and Irene nods, following her.

"Drink?"

Irene orders a cappuccino and Fiona pays for it, along with a mineral water for herself. Irene watches her narrowly as she does it. If Sherlock were here he would have picked up a dozen pieces of information from the way she wore her jacket, and the crumbs on her sleeve. Irene, on the other hand, flatters herself that she is usually fairly good judge of personality, even without the ability to deduce a person's credit history with a single look.

Fiona is rather a puzzle, at first viewing. She moves confidently enough, but without projecting much of a presence. She is the kind of person, Irene thinks, that one looks at and immediately forgets. Quiet, competent – dull? Irene smiles to herself. She worked for Moriarty. Probably not. Her suit is expensively made, but not remotely flattering – it is almost as if it was designed to hide her figure rather than enhance it. Anyone with an eye for these things could infer that there must be a rather stunning pair of legs hidden under that shapeless skirt. And the hair, scraped back like that, does the shape of her face no favours. Why is this woman deliberately trying to deflect attention away from herself?

"So." Fiona pouring her mineral water into a plastic cup. "You're looking rather better than our information indicated." She smiles at Irene.

"Yes, I, er, had to lie low for a while." Irene takes a sip of her cappuccino. Too hot. She forces herself not to wince.

"It isn't often someone manages to successfully pull the wool over our eyes." Fiona said softly. "Do you mind my asking how you did it?"

"I'd prefer to keep that one to myself for now." Irene smiles.

Fiona tilts her head, considering. "Very well." There is a pause. "You said you had information for us."

"That's right." Irene pulls a file out of her bag. "Recent activities of one Peter Bridges, District Commissioner of Scotland Yard. Photos, too."