When the last person had left his office, Vernon closed the door and dispelled the fug by pushing the windows open wide to the damp March air. He had five minutes before his next meeting and he needed to think. He told Jean over the intercom that he was not to be disturbed. The thought scrolled round and round in his mind—it went well, it went well. But there was something, something important, some new information he had been about to respond to, then he had been diverted, and then he had forgotten, it had flashed away from him in a swarm of other, similar items. It was a remark, a snippet that had surprised him at the time. He should have spoken up right then.

In fact, it didn’t come until the late afternoon, when he had another chance alone. He stood by the whiteboard trying to taste again that fleeting flavor of surprise. He closed his eyes and set about remembering the morning conference in sequence, everything that was said. But he could not keep his thoughts on the task and he drifted. It was going well, it was going well. But for this one little thing he would be hugging himself, he would be dancing on the desk. It was rather like this morning, when he had lain in bed contemplating his successes, denied full happiness by the single fact of Clive’s disapproval.

And there he had it. Clive. The moment he thought of his friend’s name, it came back to him. He went across the room toward the phone. It was simple, and possibly outrageous.

“Jeremy? Could you step into my office for a moment?”

Jeremy Ball was with him in less than a minute. Vernon sat him down and began an interrogation and took notes on places, dates, times, what was known, what was suspected. At one point Ball used the phone to confirm details with the journalist covering the story. Then, as soon as the home editor had left, Vernon used his private line to call Clive. Again the protracted, clattering pick-up, the sound of bedclothes, the cracked voice. It was past four o’clock, so what was it with Clive, lying there all day like a depressed teenager?

“Ah, Vernon, I was just—”

“Look, something you said this morning. I need to ask you. What day was it you were in the Lake District?”

“Last week.”

“Clive, it’s important. What day?”

There was a grunt and a creak as Clive struggled to pull himself upright.

“It would have been Friday. What’s the … ?”

“The man you saw—no, wait. What time were you on this Alien Crags?”

“About one, I’d say.”

“Listen. The guy you saw attacking this woman, and you decided not to help her—it was the Lakeland rapist.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Don’t you ever read the papers? He’s attacked eight women in the last year, mostly hikers. As it happened, this one got away.”

“That’s a relief.”

“No, it isn’t. He attacked someone two days ago. They arrested him yesterday.”

“Well, that’s all right, then.”

“No, it isn’t all right. You didn’t want to help this woman. Fine. But if you’d’ve gone to the police afterward, this other woman wouldn’t have copped it.”

There was a brief pause as Clive took this in, or gathered himself. Now he was fully awake and his voice had hardened.

He said, “That doesn’t follow, but never mind. Why are you raising your voice, Vernon? Is this one of your manic days? What exactly do you want?”

“I want you to go to the police now and tejl them what you saw.”

“Out of the question.”

“You could identify this man.”

“I’m in the final stages of finishing a symphony that—”

“No, you’re not, dammit. You’re in bed.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“This is outrageous. Go to the police, Clive. It’s your moral duty.”

An audible intake of breath, another pause as though for reconsideration, then, “You’re telling me my moral duty? You? Of all people?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning these photographs. Meaning crapping on Molly’s grave—”

The excremental reference to a nonexistent burial place marked that point in a dispute when a corner is turned and all restraints are off. Vernon cut in. “You know nothing, Clive. You live a privileged life and you know fuck—all about anything.”

“—meaning hounding a man from office. Meaning gutter journalism. How can you live with yourself?”

“You can bluster all you want. You’re losing your grip. If you won’t go to the police, I’ll phone them myself and tell them what you saw. Accessory to an attempted rape—”

“Have you gone mad? How dare you threaten me!”

“There are certain things more important than symphonies. They’re called people.”

“And are these people as important as circulation figures, Vernon?”

“Go to the police.”

“Fuck off.”

“No. You fuck off.”

The door of Vernon’s office opened suddenly and Jean was there, writhing with anxiety. “I’m sorry to interrupt a private conversation, Mr. HalHday,” she said. “But I think you’d better turn on the television. Mrs. Julian Garmony is giving a press conference. Channel One.”

The party managers thought long and hard about the matter and made some reasonable decisions. One was to allow cameras into a well-known children’s hospital that morning to film Mrs. Garmony emerging from the operating theater, tired but happy, after performing open-heart surgery on a nine-year-old black girl called Candy. The surgeon was also filmed on her rounds, followed by respectful nurses and registrars and hugged by children who clearly adored her. Then, captured briefly in the hospital car park, was a tearful encounter between Mrs. Garmony and the little girl’s grateful parents. These were the first images Vernon saw after he had slammed down the phone, searched in vain for the remote control among the papers on his desk, and bounded across to the monitor mounted high in a corner of his office. While the sobbing father heaped half a dozen pineapples into the arms of the surgeon, a voice-over explained that one could rise so high in the medical hierarchy that it became inappropriate to be addressed as Doctor. It was Mrs. Garmony to you.

Vernon, whose heart was still thudding from the row, retreated to his desk to watch while Jean tiptoed away, closing the door quietly behind her. Now we were in Wiltshire, at some elevated point, gazing down at a little tree-lined stream threading its way between the bald and undulating hills. A cozy farmhouse nestled by the trees, and as the commentary sketched in the familiar background to the Garmony affair, the camera began a long, slow zoom that ended on a sheep tending its newborn lamb on the front lawn, close to the shrubbery, right by the front door. It was another party decision to send the Garmonys and their two grown-up children, Annabel and Ned, to their country home for a long weekend as soon as Rose was finished at the hospital. Vernon saw them now as a family group, looking toward the camera over a five-barred gate, dressed in woolies and oilcloth coats and accompanied by their sheepdog, Milly, and the family cat, a British shorthair by the name of Brian, which Annabel lovingly cradled. It was a photo call, but the foreign secretary was uncharacteristically hanging back, looking, well, sheepish, even lambish, for his wife was the center of this event. Vernon knew that Garmony was sunk, but he could not help but nod in knowing tribute to the presentational skills, the sheer professionalism of it all.

The commentary faded and there was actual sound, the snap and whir of motor-driven still cameras and various aggrieved voices out of shot. It was clear from the tilt and wobble of the frame that a degree of jostling was going on. Vernon had a glimpse of the sky, then the cameraman’s feet and orange tape. The whole circus must be there, confined behind a line. The picture found Mrs. Garmony at last and steadied itself as she cleared her throat and prepared to make her statement. There was something in her hand, but she was not going to read from it because she was confident enough to speak without notes. She paused to ensure she had everyone’s full attention, then began with a little history of her marriage, from the days when she was at the Guildhall, dreaming of a career as a concert pianist, and Julian was an impoverished and high-spirited law student. Those were the days of hard work and making do, the one-room flat in South London, the birth of Annabel, her own late decision to study medicine and Julian’s unflinching support, the proud purchase of their first house at the less popular end of Fulham, the birth of Ned, Julian’s growing success at the bar, her first internship, and so on. Her voice was relaxed, even intimate, and derived its authority not so much from class or status as a cabinet minister’s wife as from her own professional eminence. She spoke of her pride in Julian’s career, the delight they had taken in their children, how they had shared in each other’s triumphs and setbacks and how they had always valued fun, discipline, and above all, honesty.