A Delicate Truth A Novel

trousers. ‘You’re all right to go in as long as you’re his guest. Will he vouch for you as his guest?’
    Ignoring the question, Toby turned to Emily:
    ‘No need for you to hang around in here. Why don’t you hail a cab and sit in it till we come?’
    At low-lit tables, amid cages of ancient books, greying men drank and murmured head to head. Beyond them, in an alcove given over to marble busts, sat Kit, alone, bowed over a glass of whisky, his shoulders shaking to the uneasy rhythm of his breathing.
    ‘It’s Bell,’ Toby said into his ear.
    ‘Didn’t know you were a member,’ Kit replied, without lifting his head.
    ‘I’m not. I’m your guest. So I’d like you to buy me a drink. Vodka, if that’s all right. A large one,’ he told a waiter. ‘On Sir Christopher’s tab, please. Tonic, ice, lemon.’ He sat down. ‘Who’ve you been talking to at the Office?’
    ‘None of your business.’
    ‘Well, I’m not sure about that. You made your démarche. Is that right?’
    Kit, head down. Long pull of Scotch:
    ‘Some bloody démarche,’ he muttered.
    ‘You showed them your document. The one you’d drafted while you were waiting for Jeb.’
    With improbable alacrity, the waiter set Toby’s vodka on the table, together with Kit’s bill and a ballpoint pen.
    ‘In a minute,’ Toby told him sharply, and waited till he’d left. ‘Just please tell me this. Did your document – does your document – make any mention of me ? Maybe you found it necessary to refer to a certain illegal tape recording? Or Quinn’s erstwhile Private Secretary. Did you, Kit?’
    Kit’s head still down, but rolling from side to side.
    ‘So you didn’t refer to me at all? Is that right? Or are you just refusing to answer? No Toby Bell? Anywhere? Not in writing, not in your conversations with them?’
    ‘ Conversations! ’ Kit retorted with a rasping laugh.
    ‘Did you or didn’t you mention my involvement in this? Yes or no?’
    ‘No! I didn’t! What d’you think I am? A snitch, as well as a bloody fool?’
    ‘I saw Jeb’s widow yesterday. In Wales. I had a long talk with her. She gave me some promising leads.’
    Kit’s head rose at last, and Toby to his embarrassment saw tears lying in the rims of his reddened eyes.
    ‘You saw Brigid ?’
    ‘Yes. That’s right. I saw Brigid.’
    ‘What’s she like, poor girl? Christ Almighty.’
    ‘As brave as her husband. The boy’s great too. She put me on to Shorty. I’ve arranged to meet him. Tell me again. You really didn’t mention me? If you did, I’ll understand. I just need to know for sure.’
    ‘ No , repeat no . Holy God, how many times do I have to say it?’
    Kit signed the bill and, refusing Toby’s proffered arm, clambered uncertainly to his feet.
    ‘Hell are you doing with my daughter anyway?’ he demanded, as they came unexpectedly face to face.
    ‘We’re getting along fine.’
    ‘Well, don’t do what that shit Bernard did.’
    ‘She’s waiting for us now.’
    ‘Where?’
    Keeping a hand at the ready, Toby escorted Kit on the journey across the Long Library into the lobby, past the Secretary and down the steps to where Emily was waiting with the cab: not inside it, as instructed, but standing in the rain, stoically holding the door open for her father.
    ‘We’re going straight off to Paddington,’ she said, when she had settled Kit firmly into the cab. ‘Kit needs some solids before the night sleeper. What about you?’
    ‘There’s a lecture at Chatham House,’ he replied. ‘I’m expected to put in an appearance.’
    ‘Talk later in the evening then.’
    ‘Sure. See how the land lies. Good idea,’ he agreed, conscious of Kit’s befuddled gaze glowering at them from inside the cab.
    Had he lied to her? Not quite. There was a lecture at Chatham House and he was indeed expected, but he did not propose to attend. Lodged behind the silver burner in his jacket pocket – he could feel it pricking at his collarbone – was a letter on stiff paper from an illustrious-sounding banking house, hand-delivered and signed for at the main entrance of the Foreign Office at three that afternoon. In bold electronic type, it requested Toby’s presence at any time between now and midnight at the company’s headquarters in Canary Wharf.
    It was signed G. Oakley, Senior Vice-President.
     
    *
     
    A chill night air whipped off the Thames, almost clearing away the stink of stale cigarette smoke that lingered in every fake Roman arcade and