Lettice was looking gloomy. She said, “Apparently there are bite marks. On both faces.”

“Brilliant!” Vernon exclaimed. “No one else is onto this yet. Friday, please. Page three. Now, moving on. Lettice. This eight-page chess supplement. Frankly, I’m not convinced.”

2

Another three hours passed before Vernon found himself alone again. He was in the washroom, looking in the mirror while rinsing his hands. The image was there, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. The sensation, or the nonsensation, still occupied the right side of his head like a tight-fitting cap. When he trailed his ringer across his scalp, he could identity the border, the demarcation line where feeling on the left side became not quite its opposite but its shadow, or its ghost.

His hands were under the drier when Frank Dibben came in. Vernon sensed that the younger man had followed him in to talk, for a lifetime’s experience had taught him that a male journalist did not urinate easily, or by preference, in the presence of his editor.

“Look, Vernon,” Frank said from where he stood at the urinal. “I’m sorry about this morning. You’re absolutely right about Garmony. I was completely out of order.”

Rather than look around from the drier and be obliged to watch the deputy foreign editor at his business, Vernon gave himself another turn with the hot air. Dibben was in fact relieving himself copiously, thunderously even. Yes, if Vernon ever sacked anyone, it would be Frank, who was shaking himself vigorously, for just a second too long, and pressing on with his apology.

“I mean, you’re absolutely right about not giving him too much space.”

Cassius is hungry, Vernon thought. He’ll head his department, then he’ll want my job.

Dibben turned to the washbasin. Vernon put his hand lightly on his shoulder, the forgiving touch.

“It’s all right, Frank. I’d rather hear opposing views at conference. That’s the whole point of it.”

“It’s kind of you to say that, Vernon. I just wouldn’t want you to think I was going soft on Garmony.”

This festival of first-naming marked the end of the exchange. Vernon gave a little reassuring laugh and stepped out into the corridor. Waiting for him right by the door was Jean, with a bundle of correspondence for him to sign. Behind her was Jeremy Ball, and behind him was Tony Montano, the managing director. Someone whom Vernon could not see was just joining the back of the queue. The editor began to move toward his office, signing the letters as he went and listening to Jean’s rundown of his week’s appointments. Everyone moved with him. Ball was saying, “This Middlesbor-ough photo. I’d like to avoid the trouble we got into over the wheelchair Olympics. I thought we’d go for something pretty straightforward…”

“I want an exciting picture, Jeremy. I can’t see them in the same week, Jean. It wouldn’t look right. Tell him Thursday.”

“I had in mind an upright Victorian sort of thing. A dignified portrait.”

“He’s leaving for Angola. The idea was he’d go straight out to Heathrow as soon as he’d seen you.”

“Mr. Halliday?”

“I don’t want dignified portraits, even in obits. Get them to show us how they gave each other the bite marks. Okay, I’ll see him before he leaves. Tony, is this about the parking?”

“I’m afraid I’ve seen a draft of his resignation letter.”

“Surely there’s one little space we can find.”

“We’ve tried all that. Head of maintenance is offering to sell his for three thousand pounds.”

“Don’t we run the risk of sensationalism?”

“Sign it in two places, and initial where I’ve marked.”

“It’s not a risk, Jeremy. It’s a promise. But Tony, head of maintenance doesn’t even have a car.”

“Mr. Halliday?”

“The space is his by right.”

“Offer him five hundred. Is that the lot, Jean?”

“I’m not prepared to do that.”

“The letter of thanks to the bishops is just being typed.”

“What if they were both talking on the phone?”

“Excuse me. Mr. Halliday?”

“It’s too weak. I want a picture that tells a story. Dirty hands time, remember? Look, you’d better throw maintenance out of his space if he’s not using it.”

“They’ll strike, like last time. All the terminals went down.”

“Fine. Your choice, Tony. Five hundred pounds or the terminals.”

“Til ask someone from the picture desk to pop up and—”

“Don’t bother. Just send the guy to Middlesborough.”

“Mr. Halliday? Are you Mr. Vernon Halliday?”

“Who are you?”

The talking group came to a halt, and a thin, balding man in a black suit whose jacket was tightly buttoned pushed his way forward and tapped Vernon on the elbow with an envelope, which he put into Vernon’s hands. Then the man planted his feet well apart and read in a declamatory monotone from a sheet of paper that he held in front of him with two hands. “By the power of the above-headed court in the Principal Registry invested in me, I make known to you, Vernon Theobald Halliday, the order of said court as follows: that Vernon Theobald Halliday, of thirteen, The Rooks, London NWl and editor of the Judge newspaper, shall not publish, nor cause to have published, nor distribute or disseminate by electronic or any other means, nor describe in print, or cause such descriptions of the proscribed matter hereafter to be referred to as the material, to be printed, nor describe the nature and terms of this order; the aforesaid material being…”

The thin man fumbled the page turn, and the editor, his secretary, the home editor, the deputy foreign editor, and the managing director inclined toward the tipstalY, waiting.

”…all photographic reproductions, or versions of such reproductions whether engraved, drawn, painted, or produced by any other means, of the likeness of Mr. John Julian Garmony of number one, Carlton Gardens, 1…”

“Garmony!”

Everyone began talking at once, and the final rhetorical flourishes of the thin man in the suit two sizes too small were lost. Vernon set off toward his office. These were blanket provisions. But they had nothing on Garmony, nothing at all. He reached his office, kicked the door shut behind him, and dialed.

“George. These photographs are of Garmony.”

“I’m saying nothing until you get here.”

“He’s already served an injunction.”

“I told you they were hot. I think your public-interest arguments will be irresistible.”

As soon as Vernon hung up, his private line rang. It was Clive Linley. Vernon hadn’t seen him since the funeral.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Clive, this isn’t really the best moment for me.”

“No, quite. I need to see you. It’s important. What about after work tonight?”

There was a heaviness in his old friend’s tone that made Vernon reluctant to put him off. All the same, he tried halfheartedly.

“It’s rather a hectic day…”

“It won’t take long. It’s important, really important.”

“Well, look, I’m seeing George Lane tonight. I suppose I could call in on my way.”

“Vernon, I’m very grateful to you.”

He had a few seconds after the call to wonder about Clive’s manner. So pressing in a lugubrious way, and rather formal. Clearly something terrible had happened, and he began to feel embarrassed by his ungenerous response. Clive had been a true friend when Vernon’s second marriage came apart, and he had encouraged him to go for the editorship when everybody else thought he was wasting his time. Four years ago, when Vernon was laid up with a rare viral infection of the spine, Clive had visited almost every day, bringing books, music, videos, and champagne. And in 1987, when Vernon was out of a job for several months, Clive had lent him ten thousand pounds. Two years later, Vernon discovered by accident that Clive had borrowed the money from his bank. And now, in his friend’s moment of need, Vernon was behaving like a swine.