He looked terrible: his face was deathly pale.

“No,” Crawford said. “I’ve been working on the debate.”

“Put it on. CNN.”

Crawford rescued the remote from the debris on the desk and flipped channels to CNN. It was an outside broadcast. The presenter was standing on the margin of a road with scrub and trees. It was heavy with fog, a heavy grey curtain that closed everything in. The ticker at the bottom of the screen announced that the police had finally identified all three sets of remains that had been found at Headlands Lookout.

“Turn it up,” Robinson demanded.

Crawford did as he was told.

“…the bodies of three women found near Headlands Lookout, just behind me here. The victims are 31-year old Tabitha Wilson of Palo Alto, 25-year old Megan Gabert of San Francisco and 21-year old Miley Van Dyken of Vallejo. A police official has revealed to me that there were substantial similarities in how the women died but declined to reveal their causes of death. The same source suggested that the police believe that the three women were killed at a different location but then their bodies were dumped here. Lorraine Young, Tabitha’s mother, has said that police forensic tests, including DNA, had confirmed that one of the bodies belonged to her daughter. The bodies were found within fifty feet of each other in this stretch of rocky grasslands, hidden by overgrown shrubbery and sea grass.”

Crawford felt his knees buckle, just a little.

“What the fuck, Arlen? What the fuck?”

Crawford muted the TV.

The muscles in his jaw bunched as he considered all the possible next moves.

None of them were any good.

“Arlen! Don’t play dumb with me.” He stabbed a finger at the screen. “What the fuck!”

“Calm down, sir.”

“Calm down? Are you kidding? Seriously? Those girls — you know who they are. Jesus Christ, Arlen, you remember, I know you do.”

Yes, he thought bitterly, I do remember. There were no next moves now. Check and mate. End of the line. The situation was all the way out of control and it could only get worse before it got better. He had been managing it, carefully and diligently, nudging events in the best direction and very discreetly burying all of this so deep that it would never be disturbed. That, at least, had been his intention. The girls were never supposed to have been seen again.

“I do remember,” he said.

And then came the recrimination. He should have seen to this himself rather than trusting others; that was his fault, and now he would have to live with it. He had been naïve to think that those dumbass rednecks could be expected to handle something so sensitive the way it needed to be handled. The brakes were off now and momentum was gathering. There was little to be done and, knowing that, Crawford almost felt able to relax. The sense of fatalism was strangely comforting. He had, he realised, been so intent on keeping a lid on events that he had neglected to notice the pressure that was building inside him. The stress and the constant worry. The campaign, twice-daily polling numbers, the places they were strong and the places they were weak, the Governor’s appeal across different demographics, how was he playing with the party, how would the Democrats go after him?

His erratic behaviour.

The suicidal appetite that he couldn’t sate.

Timebombs.

He had done his best for as long as he could but it was too much for one man to handle.

And he didn’t have to handle it anymore.

Maybe this had always been inevitable.

Robinson gaped as if the enormity of what he was discovering had struck him dumb. “And — I—”

“Yes, Governor. That’s right.

“I—”

“You were seeing them all.”

“But—”

“That’ll have to come out now, of course. There will be something that ties them to you, something we couldn’t clean up: a text message, a diary entry, anything, really. Nothing we can do about that, not now. That boat has sailed.”

The Governor put a hand down against the mattress to steady himself. He looked as if he was just about ready to swoon. “What happened?”

“You don’t recall?”

“What’s going on, Arlen?”

“You had your way with them for as long as it suited you and then you put them aside, moved on to whoever you wanted next. The same way you always do. They all came to me. They were hurt and angry and they wanted revenge. They threatened to go to the press. They asked for money. The problem with that, though, is that you can’t ever be sure that they won’t come back for more. They get their snouts in the trough, they’re going to think that it’s always going to be there. It’s not hard to see why they might think that, is it? I would. They still have the story to sell. We can’t run a campaign with that hanging over us, let alone a Presidency.”

“You did this?”

“I arranged for things to be sorted.”

“‘Sorted?’”

“That’s right.”

“You murdered them?”

Robinson slumped.

“No, sir. You did.”

“Don’t be—”

“I arranged for things to be sorted. What else could I have done?”

“And Madison?”

He shrugged. “I shouldn’t think it’ll be long until she turns up.”

“Oh, Jesus…”

“It’s a bit late for that.”

“Who did it?”

“Friends who share our cause. It doesn’t matter who they are. There are some things that are more important than others, Governor. Country, for one. I love this country, sir. But I look at it and I can see everything that’s wrong with it. Immigration out of control, drugs, a government with its hand in everything, the way standards have been allowed to fall, weak foreign policy, the Chinese and the Russians making us look like fools at every turn. That’s not what this country was founded to be. We haven’t lived up to our potential for years. Decades. You were the best chance of making this country great again. You are…no” — he corrected himself, a bitter laugh — “you were…very electable. We would have won, Governor. The nomination, the Presidency and then whatever we wanted after that. We could’ve started the work that needs to be done.”

He was hardly even listening to him. “You killed them.”

There was no anger there, not yet, although that would come. He had been stunned into a stupor. The life had been sucked from him. It was a depressing thing to see; the sight of him on a stage, in full flow, railing against the state of the world and promising that he would make things right, that, Crawford thought, that was something special. Something to experience. But it was also a mirage. The man was a fraud. No sense pretending otherwise. A snake-oil salesman. Joseph Jack Robinson II, the most inspirational politician that Arlen Crawford had ever seen, was just another man selling moonshine.

He went over to his suitcase and opened it.

“Why did you do it, Arlen?”

“What happened was necessary for the greater good, sir. It’s regrettable, of course, but what were they? Three prostitutes and an intern. They were expendable.”

“An intern? Karly?”

“That’s in hand.”

Robinson jacknifed over the edge of the bed and, suddenly and explosively, voided his guts. He straightened up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“It’s all over now, sir. You had everything. The charisma, the way you command a room, the good sense to know when to listen and adopt the right ideas. You would have been perfect. Perfect, Governor, if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re weak. No discipline. I should have realised that months ago. There was always only ever going to be so much that I could do for you and now, after this” — he pointed to the TV — “we’ve gone past the limit. The only thing we can do now is try and limit the damage.”

The smell of his vomit was strong, acrid and cloying.

Crawford took out a gun with a silencer and pointed it at Robinson.

“Arlen—”