A Delicate Truth A Novel

corridors of Whitehall or Westminster again.’ Another breath. ‘The inspiring minister whom you have the honour to serve, on the other hand, bruiser though he may be, has embarked on the next stage of his distinguished career, I trust with your help. Now will you please get me my coat?’
    After a week of flailing himself with remorse, Toby remains dogged by the same question: If the scandal at Defence is dead and Crispin will never walk the corridors of Whitehall or Westminster again, then what’s the bloody man doing lobbying the House of Lords?
     
    *
     
    Six weeks roll by. On the surface things continue uneventfully. Toby drafts speeches and Quinn delivers them with conviction, even when there’s nothing to be convinced of. Toby stands at Quinn’s shoulder at receptions and murmurs the names of foreign dignitaries into his ear as they approach. Quinn greets them as long-lost friends.
    But Quinn’s continued secretiveness drives not only Toby but the entire ministerial staff to the edge of desperation. He will stalk out of a Whitehall meeting – at the Home Office, the Cabinet Office or Laura’s Treasury – ignore his official Rover, hail a cab and disappear without explanation till next day. He will cancel a diplomatic engagement and not inform the diary secretary, his special advisors or even his Private Secretary. The pencilled entries in the diary he keeps on his desk are so cryptic that Toby can decipher them only with Quinn’s grudging assistance. One day the diary disappears altogether.
    But it’s on their trips abroad that Quinn’s secretiveness assumes in Toby’s eyes a darker hue. Spurning the hospitality offered by local British ambassadors, Quinn the People’s Choice prefers to take up residence in grand hotels. When the Foreign Office Accounts Department demurs, Quinn replies that he will pay his own way, which surprises Toby since, like many affluent people, Quinn is notoriously tight.
    Or is some secret benefactor perhaps paying Quinn’s way for him? Why else would he keep a separate credit card for settling his hotel bills and shield it with his body if Toby chances to come too close?
    Meanwhile, Team Quinn is acquiring a household ghost.
     
    *
     
    Brussels.
    Returning to their grand hotel at six o’clock in the evening after a long day’s haggling with NATO officialdom, Quinn complainsof a nauseous headache, cancels his dinner engagement at the British Embassy and retires to his suite. At ten, after heavy soul-searching, Toby decides he must call up to the suite and enquire after his master’s welfare. He gets voicemail. A DO NOT DISTURB notice hangs on the ministerial door. After further cogitation he descends to the lobby and shares his concerns with the concierge. Have there been any signs of life from the suite? Has the minister ordered room service, sent down for aspirin or – since Quinn is a notorious hypochondriac – for a doctor?
    The concierge is bewildered:
    ‘But Monsieur le Ministre left the hotel in his limousine two hours ago,’ he exclaims, in haughty Belgian French.
    Now Toby is bewildered. Quinn’s limousine ? He hasn’t got one. The only limousine on offer is the ambassador’s Rolls, which Toby has cancelled on Quinn’s behalf.
    Or did Quinn keep his embassy dinner engagement after all? The concierge presumes to correct him. The limousine was not a Rolls-Royce, monsieur. It was a Citroën sedan and the chauffeur was known personally to the concierge.
    Then kindly describe to me exactly what took place – pressing twenty euros into the concierge’s waiting hand.
    ‘Most willingly, monsieur. The black Citroën pulled up at the front door at the same time as Monsieur le Ministre emerged from the centre lift. One suspects Monsieur le Ministre was advised by telephone of his car’s imminent arrival. The two gentlemen greeted each other here in the lobby, got into the car and rode away.’
    ‘You mean a gentleman got out of the car to collect him?’
    ‘From the back of the black Citroën sedan. He was a passenger, clearly, not a servant.’
    ‘Can you describe the gentleman?’
    The concierge baulks.
    ‘Well, was he white?’ Toby demands impatiently.
    ‘Completely, monsieur.’
    ‘How old?’
    The concierge would guess that the gentleman’s age was similar to the minister’s.
    ‘Have you seen him before? Is he a regular here?’
    ‘Never, monsieur. I assumed a diplomat, perhaps a colleague.’
    ‘Large, small, what did he look