CHAPTER 27
The cab pulled up outside the cream painted Georgian terrace. As Sara waited for Grant to pay the driver, she noticed a group of fur clad women standing outside a large white building sixty or so yards down the street. The building had a red illuminated letter M above the main door arch. Grant saw her looking.
“It’s Anton Mossiman’s,” he said, “one of the best restaurants in London.”
The name was lost on her.
“I thought it was a posh Macdonald’s,” she joked.
Grant took her by the hand and led her across to a plate glass doorway. On the side were a row of buttons linked to an intercom. He pressed 4B and waited for a reply. There was none. He reached in to his pocket and took out a set of keys. He selected a long Chub key and opened the door. She stepped inside and sunk into
