'You're a maniac, Samson,' said Bret.

Erich Stinnes leaned forward from the back seat and said softly, 'That's the way it is, Mr Rensselaer. What Samson did was just what I would have done. It's what any really good professional would have done.'

Bret said nothing. Bret was clutching his bag and staring into space lost in his own thoughts. I knew what it was; I'd seen it happen to other people. Bret would never be quite the same again. Bret was no longer with us; he'd withdrawn into some inner world into which none of the stinking realities of his job would be allowed to intrude. Then suddenly he spoke, softly, as if just voicing his thoughts: 'And it was Sheldon he really loved. Not me: Sheldon.'

'Well, I don't want any of that in it,' said Dicky. 'It's not a report, it's a diatribe.'

'Whatever you want to call it, it's the truth,' I said. We were sitting side by side in the drawing room of the Cruyers' home. Dicky was wearing his 'I Love New York' sweatshirt, jeans, and jogging shoes, with those special thick white socks that are said to lessen the shocks to the spine. We'd been watching the TV news to see if there was anything about the Hampstead shooting: there wasn't. The gas was hissing in the simulated coal fire and now the TV was displaying a rather unattractive foursome in punk outfits. For a moment Dicky's attention was distracted by them. 'Look at those caterwauling imbeciles,' he said. 'Are we working our guts out just to keep the West safe for that sort of garbage?'

'Not entirely,' I said. 'We're getting paid as well.'

He picked up the remote control and reduced the pop group to a pinpoint of light that disappeared with a soft plop. Then he took up my draft report again and pretended to read it afresh, but actually he was just holding it in front of his face while he thought about what to say next. 'It's your version of the truth,' he said pedantically.

'That's the only one I've got,' I said.

Try again.'

'It's anyone's version of the truth,' I said. 'Anyone who was there.'

'When are you going to get it through your thick head that I don't want your uncorrupted testimony? I want something that can go to the old man and not get me into hot water.' He tossed the draft of my report onto the table beside him. Then he scratched his curly head. Dicky was worried. He didn't want to be in the middle of a departmental battle. Dicky liked to score his victories by stealth.

I leaned across from the armchair and picked up my carefully typed sheets. But Dicky gently took them from my hand. He folded diem up and stuffed them under a paperweight that was handy on the other side of him. 'Better forgotten, Bernard,' he said. 'Start again.'

'Perhaps this time you'd tell me what you want me to say,' I suggested.

'I'll draft something for you,' said Dicky. 'Keep it very short. Just the main essentials will be sufficient.'

'Have you seen Bret's report?' I said.

'There was no report from Bret; just a meeting. Bret had to give a brief account of everything that's happened since he took over the Stinnes business.' Dicky smiled nervously. 'It wasn't the sort of stuff upon which careers are built.'

'I suppose not,' I said. An account of everything that had happened since Bret took responsibility for Stinnes would be one of unremitting disaster. I wondered how much of the blame Bret had unloaded onto me.

'It was decided that Stinnes should go back into Berwick House immediately. And Bret has to keep the old man informed of everything he intends to do about him.'

'Berwick House? What's the panic? Everyone says the interrogation was going well since we moved him.'

'No reflection on you, Bernard. But Stinnes was nearly killed. If it hadn't been for that fellow Craig, they'd have got him. We can't risk that again, Bernard. Stinnes is too precious.'

'Will this affect Bret's appointment to Berlin?'

'They won't consult me on that one, Bernard.' A modest smile to show me that they might consult him. In fact, we both knew that Morgan was depending upon Dicky's veto to stop Bret getting Berlin. 'But I'd say Bret will be lucky to escape a suspension.'

'A suspension?'

'It won't be called a suspension. It will be called a posting, or a sabbatical, or a paid leave.'

'Even so.'

'Bret's made a lot of enemies in the Department,' said Dicky.

'You and Morgan, you mean?'

Dicky was flustered at this accusation. He got up from his chair and went to the fireplace so that he could toy with a framed photo of his boat. He looked at it for a moment and wiped the glass with his handkerchief before putting it back alongside the clock. 'I'm no enemy to Bret; I like him. I know he tried to take over my desk, but I don't hold that against him.'

'But?'

'But there are all kinds of loose ends arising out of the Stinnes affair. Bret has gone at it like a bull in a china shop. First there was the fiasco in Cambridge. Now there's the shooting in Hampstead. And what have we got to show for it? Nothing at all.'

'No one tried to stop him,' I said.

'You mean no one listened to your attempts to stop him. Well, you're right, Bernard. You were right and Bret was wrong. But Bret was determined to run it all personally, and with Bret's seniority it wasn't so easy to interfere with him.'

'But now it is easy to interfere with him?'

'It's called "a review",' said Dicky.

'Why couldn't it be called a review last week?'

He sank down into the sofa and stretched his legs along it. 'Because a whole assortment of complications came up this week.'

'Concerning Bret?'

'Yes.'

'He's not facing an enquiry?'

'I don't know, Bernard. And even if I did know, I couldn't discuss it with you.'

'Will it affect me?' I asked.

'I don't think so, except inasmuch as you have been working with Bret while all these things have happened.' He fingered his belt buckle. 'Unless of course Bret blames you.'

'And is Bret doing that?' I said. I spoke more loudly than I intended; I hadn't wanted my fears, or my distrust of Bret, to show.

As I said it, Dicky's wife Daphne came in. She smiled. 'And is Bret doing what, Bernard?' she said.

'Dyeing his hair,' improvised Dicky hastily. 'Bernard was wondering if Bret dyes his hair.'

'But his hair is white,' said Daphne.

'Not really white. It's blond and going white,' said Dicky. 'We were just saying that it never seems to go any whiter. What do you think, darling? You ladies know about things like that.'

'He was here the other evening. He had supper with us,' said Daphne. 'He's such a handsome man…' She saw Dicky's face, and maybe mine too. 'For his age, I mean. But I don't think he could be dyeing his hair unless it was being done by some very good hairdresser. It's certainly not obvious.' Daphne stood in front of the fireplace so that we could get a good look at her new outfit. She was dressed in a long gown of striped shiny cotton, an Arab djellaba which the neighbours had brought back from their holiday in Cairo. Her hair was plaited, with beads woven into it. She'd been an art student and once worked in an advertising agency. She liked to look artistic.

'He'd have no trouble affording an expensive hairdresser,' said Dicky. 'He inherited a fortune when he was twenty-one. And he certainly knows how to spend it.' Dicky had gone through his college days short of cash, and now he especially resented anyone having been young and rich, whether they were prodigies, divorcees or pop stars. He looked at the clock. 'Is that the time? If we're going to see this video, we'd better get started. Have you got the food ready, darling?' Without waiting to hear her reply he turned to me and said, 'We're eating on trays in here. Better than rushing through our meal.'

Dicky had been determined to get a preview of the report I was preparing for submission to the D-G, but his command to bring it to him had been disguised as an invitation to supper, with a rented video of a Fred Astaire musical as a surprise extra.