“Watch out!” Vernon cried. “Get back!”

They just managed to leap clear of the arced contents of Lanark’s stomach. The gallery was suddenly silent. Then, with an extended, falling glissando of disgust, the whole string section, plus flutes and piccolo, surged toward the brass, leaving the music critic and his deed—an early evening frites and mayonnaise on Oude Hoogstraat-illuminated under a lonely chandelier. Clive and Vernon were borne away with the crowd, and as they drew level with the door were able to extricate themselves and step into the calm of the lobby. They settled themselves on a banquette and continued sipping their champagne.

“Better than hitting him,” Clive said. “Was any of it true?”

“I didn’t used to think so.”

“Cheers again.”

“Cheers. And look, I meant what I said. I really am sorry about sending the police round to you. It was appalling behavior. Unconditional, groveling apologies.”

“Don’t mention it again. I’m terribly sorry about your job and all that business. You really were the best.”

“Let’s shake on it, then. Friends.”

“Friends,”

Vernon emptied his glass, yawned, and stood. “Well, look, if we’re having supper together, I might take a short nap. I’m feeling quite whacked.”

“You’ve had a heavy week. I think I’ll take a bath. See you down here in about an hour?”

“Fine.”

Clive watched Vernon slouch away to collect his key from the desk. Standing at the foot of the grand double staircase were a man and a woman who met Give’s gaze and nodded. A moment later they followed Vernon up the stairs and Clive took a couple of turns around the lobby. Then he collected his own key and went to his room.

Minutes later he was standing in the bathroom barefoot but otherwise fully clothed, bending over the tub, trying to manipulate the shimmering gold-plated mechanism that stopped the plug hole. It needed to be simultaneously lifted and turned, and he didn’t seem to have the knack. Meanwhile, the heated marble floor was communicating through the soles of his feet a reminder of sensuous fatigue. White nights in South Ken, mayhem in the police station, accolades in the Concertgebouw; he’d had a heavy week too. A short nap, then, before his bath. Back in the bedroom he floated free of his trousers, loosened his shirt, and with a moan of pleasure abandoned himself to the giant bed. The gold satin bedspread caressed his thighs, and he experienced an ecstasy of exhausted surrender. Everything was good. Soon he would be in New York to see Susie Marcellan, and that forgotten, buttoned-down part of him would flourish again. Lying here in this glorious silkiness—even the air in this expensive room was silky—he would have been writhing in pleasurable anticipation if he could have been bothered to move his legs. Perhaps if he put his mind to it, if he could stop thinking about work for a week, he could bring himself to fall in love with Susie. She was a good sort, straight down the line, she was a trouper, she’d stick by him. At the thought,, he was overcome by a sudden deep affection for himself as just the sort of person one should stick by, and he felt a tear run down his cheekbone and tickle his ear. He couldn’t quite be troubled to wipe it away. And no need, for walking across the room toward him now was Molly, Molly Lane! And some fellow in tow. Her pert little mouth, the big black eyes, and a new haircut—a bob-seemed just right. What a wonderful woman.

“Molly!” Give managed to croak. “Fm sorry I can’t get up…”

“Poor Clive.”

“I’m so tired…”

She put a cool hand to his forehead. “Darling, you’re a genius. The symphony is pure magic.”

“You were at the rehearsal? I didn’t see you.”

“You were too busy and grand to notice me. Look, I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

Clive had met most of Molly’s lovers in his time, but he couldn’t quite place this one.

Socially adept as always, Molly leaned over and murmured in Clive’s ear.

“You’ve met him before. It’s Paul Lanark.”

“Of course it is. I didn’t recognize him with the beard.”

“The thing is, Clivey-poo, he wants your signature, but he’s too shy to ask.”

Clive was determined to make everything all right for Molly and put Lanark at his ease.

“No, no. I don’t mind at all.”

“I’d be terribly grateful,” Lanark said as he pushed pen and paper toward him.

“Honestly, you shouldn’t feel embarrassed to ask.” Clive scrawled his name.

“And here too, please, if you wouldn’t mind,”

“It’s no bother at all, really it isn’t.”

The effort of writing was almost too much and he had to lie back. Molly moved in closer again.

“Darling, Fm going to give you one little telling-off, then I’ll never mention it again. But you know, I really needed your help that day in the Lake District.”

“Oh God! I didn’t realize it was you, Molly.”

“You always put your work first, and perhaps that’s right.”

“Yes. No. I mean, if I’d known it was you, I’d’ve shown that thin-faced fellow a thing or two.”

“Of course you would.” She put her hand on his wrist and shone a little torch into his eyes. What a woman!

“My arm’s so hot,” Clive whispered.

“Poor Clive. That’s why I’m rolling your sleeve up, silly. Now, Paul wants to show you what he really thinks of your work by sticking a huge needle in your arm.

The music critic did exactly that, and it hurt. Some praise did. But one thing Clive had learned over a lifetime was how to accept a compliment.

“Well, thanks a lot,” he yodeled through a whimper. “You’re too kind. I don’t make much claim for it myself, but anyway, I’m glad you like it, really, thanks awfully…”

From the perspective of the Dutch doctor and nurse, the composer lifted his head and, before closing his eyes, seemed to attempt, from his pillow, the most modest of bows.

5

For the first time in the day, Vernon found himself alone. His plan was simple. He quietly closed the door to the outer office, kicked off his shoes, switched off his phone, swept the papers and books from his desk, and lay on it. There were still five minutes before morning conference and there was no harm in snatching a quick snooze. He had done it before, and it must be in the paper’s interests to have him in top form. As he settled, he had an image of himself as a massive statue dominating the lobby of Judge House, a great reclining figure hewn from granite: Vernon Halliday, man of action, editor. At rest. But only temporarily, because conference was due to start and already—dammit—people were wandering in. He should have told Jean to keep them out. He loved the stories told in pubs at lunchtimes of the editors of old: the great V. T. Halliday, you know, of Pategate fame, who used to conduct his morning conferences lying on kis desk. They had to pretend not to notice. No one dared say a thing. Shoeless. These days they’re all bland little men, jumped-up accountants. Or women in black trouser suits. A large gin and tonic, did you say? V. T., of course, did that famous front page. Pushed all the copy onto page two and let the picture tell the story. That was when newspapers really mattered.

Shall we begin? They were all here. Frank Dibben, and standing next to him—pleasant surprise—Molly Lane. It was a matter of principle with Vernon not to confuse his personal and professional lives, so he gave her no more than a businesslike nod. Beautiful woman, though. Smart idea of hers, to go blond. And smart idea of his to take her on. Strictly on the basis of her brilliant work for Paris Vogue. The great M. L. Lane. Never tidied her apartment. Never washed a dish.

Without even propping his head on his elbow, Vernon started in on the postmortem. Somehow a pillow had appeared under his head. This one would please the grammarians. He had in mind a piece written by Dibben.

“I’ve said this before,” he said. “I’ll say it again. A panacea can’t be used for one particular illness. It’s a universal remedy. A panacea for cancer doesn’t make sense.”