“Did he tell you why he was going?”

Gulliver’s phone rang. He smiled an apology and picked it up. The conversation-the side of it Reeve could hear-was technical, something to do with the next day’s edition.

Gulliver pressed the Off button. “Apologies.” He glanced at his watch. “Did Jim tell me why he was going? No, that was one of the irritating things about him.” He caught himself again. “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead…”

“Speak away.”

“Well, Jim liked his little conspiracy; and he liked to keep it his own secret. I think he thought it gave him more power: if an editor didn’t know what the story might be, he couldn’t come straight out and say no. That’s how Jim liked to play us. The less he told, the more we were supposed to think he had to tell. Eventually, he’d give you the story, the story you’d shelled out for, and it was seldom as meaty as you’d been led to believe.”

Listening to Gulliver, especially as the whiskey did its loosening, Reeve could hear hard edges and jagged corners that were a long way away from the public school image Gulliver presented to the world. There was street market in those edges and corners. There was street smart. There was city boy.

The fax bleeped and then started to roll out a page. Gulliver examined the sheet and got on the telephone again. There was another technical discussion, another glance at the Piaget watch, a tug at the crocodile wristband.

“He didn’t tell you anything?” Reeve persisted, sounding like he didn’t believe it.

“Oh, he told me snatches. Cooking oil, British beef, some veterinarian who’d died.”

“Did he mention Co-World Chemicals?”

“I think so.”

“In what connection?”

“My dear boy, there was no connection, that’s what I’ve been saying. He’d just say a couple of words, like he was feeding an infant egg from a silver spoon. Thinking he was stringing one along…”

“Someone killed him to stop the story.”

“Then prove it. I don’t mean prove it in a court of law, but prove it to me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Gulliver’s eyes seemed clearer than ever. He leaned across the table. “You want to finish what Jim started. You want an epitaph which would also be a revenge. Isn’t that right?”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe about it. That is what you want, and I applaud you. I’ll run with it. But I need more than you’ve given me, more than Jim gave me.”

“You’re saying I should finish the story?”

“I’m saying I’m interested. I’m saying keep in touch.” Gulliver sat back and picked up his glass, washing the ice with the amber liquid.

“Can I ask a question?” Reeve said.

“We only have a minute or so.”

“How much does CWC spend a year on advertising in your paper?”

“How much? That’s a question for my advertising manager.”

“You don’t know?”

Gulliver shrugged. “CWC’s a big company, a multinational. They own several subsidiaries in the UK and many more in Europe. There’s UK production and some importation.”

“A multimillion-pound industry, with a proportionate advertising budget.”

“I don’t see-”

“And when they advertise, they do it big. Full-page ads in the broadsheets and-what?-maybe double-color spreads in the financial glossies. TV as well?”

Gulliver stared at him. “Are you in advertising, Mr. Reeve?”

“No.” But, he might have added, I was well briefed this morning by someone on your fashion page. The fashion page, apparently, was a sop to certain advertisers.

Another glance at the watch, a rehearsed sigh. “I have to go, unfortunately.”

“Yes, that is unfortunate.”

As Gulliver rose, a hotel minion appeared and unplugged his fax. Fax machine and telephone went into a briefcase. The cigar was stubbed into the ashtray. Meeting most definitely over.

“Will you keep in touch?” Gulliver implored, touching Reeve’s arm, letting his hand rest there.

“Maybe.”

“And is there any good cause?” Reeve didn’t understand. “A charity, something like that. You know, for mourners to make donations to, as a mark of respect and in memory.”

Reeve thought about it, then wrote a phone number for Gulliver on the back of a paper napkin. “Here,” he said. Gulliver waited for elucidation. “It’s the number of a bookie’s in Finsbury Park. They tell me Jim owed them a ton and a half. All contributions gratefully received.”

Reeve walked out of the hotel thinking he’d probably never in his life met someone so powerful, someone with so much influence, a shaper and changer. He’d shaken hands with royalty at medal ceremonies, but that wasn’t the same.

For one thing, some royalty were nice; for another, some of them were known to tell the truth.

Giles Gulliver on the other hand was a born-and-bred liar; that was how you worked your way up from market stall to pinstripe suit. You had to be cunning, too-and Gulliver was so slippery you could stage ice dancing on him and still have room for the curling rink.

The phone was ringing as he barged into the flat. He willed it to keep ringing and it obliged. His momentum took him onto the sofa as he snatched the receiver. He lay there, winded, trying to say hello.

“Is that Gordon Reeve?”

“Speaking.”

“My name’s Joshua Vincent. I think we’d better meet.”

“Can you tell me what my brother was working on?”

“Better yet, I think I can show you. Three stipulations.”

“I’m listening.”

“One, you come alone. Two, you tell nobody where you’re going or who you’re going to meet.”

“I can accept those. And number three?”

“Number three, bring a pair of Wellies.”

Reeve wasn’t about to ask questions. “So where are you?”

“Not so fast. I want you to leave Jim’s flat and go to a pay phone. Not the nearest one. Try to make it a pub or somewhere.”

Tottenham Lane, thought Reeve. There are pubs along that stretch. “Yes?”

“Have you got a pen? Take down this number. It’s a call box. I’ll wait here no longer than fifteen minutes. Is that enough time?”

Reeve thought so. “Unless the telephones aren’t working. You’re taking a lot of precautions, Mr. Vincent.”

“So should you. I’ll explain when we meet.”

The line went dead, and Gordon Reeve headed for the door.

Outside in the street, just before the corner where the quiet side road connected with Ferme Park Road, there was a dull-green British Telecom box, a metal structure three feet high which connected the various landlines into the system. A special key was used by technicians to open the box’s double doors. The key was specialized, but not difficult to obtain. A lot of engineers kept their tools when they left the job; an ex-BT engineer could open a box for you. And if he’d moved to a certain line of work, he could fit a call-activated recorder to any of the lines in the box, tucking the recording device down in the base of the structure, so that even a normal BT engineer might miss it.

The tape kept spooling for a few seconds after the call had ended. Then it stopped, awaiting retrieval. Today was a retrieval day.