A Delicate Truth A Novel

come:
    He is grateful for the minister’s time, sir.
    He is grateful for the legal opinion of the best and most qualified international lawyer in the land, sir.
    He will pass Quinn’s message back to his men. He can’t speak for them, but thinks they will feel better about the operation, sir.
    His last words fill Toby with dread:
    ‘And very nice to have met you too, Paul. See you on the night, as they say.’
    And Paul, whoever he is – such a patently low flyer , now that the afterthought presents itself to Toby’s raging mind – what’s he doing, or rather not doing, while the minister throws his magic dust in Jeb’s eyes?
    I’m your red telephone, silent till rung .
     
    *
     
    Expecting to hear little more from the tape than departing footsteps, Toby is again jerked to attention. The footsteps fade, the door closes and is locked. Squelch of Lobb shoes advancing on desk.
    ‘Jay?’
    Has Crispin been there all this time? Hiding in a cupboard, ear to the keyhole?
    No. The minister is talking to him on one of his several direct lines. His voice is fond, almost obsequious.
    ‘We’re there , Jay. Bit of nitpicking, as had to be expected. Roy’s formula went down a treat … Absolutely not , old boy! I didn’t offer it, he didn’t ask for it. If he had asked, I’d have said, “Sorry, mate, not my business. If you feel you’ve a claim, take it up with Jay” … probably fancies himself a cut above you bounty-hunters …’ A sudden outburst, part anger, part relief: ‘And if there’s one thing in the world I can’t stand, it’s being preached at by a fucking Welsh dwarf!’
    Laughter, distantly echoed over the phone. Change of subject. Ministerial yes es and of course s:
    ‘… and Maisie’s all right with that, is she? Still on side, no headaches? Atta girl …’
    Long silence. Quinn again, but with a submissive fall in the voice:
    ‘Well, I suppose if that’s what Brad’s people want, that’s what they must have, no question … all right, yes, fourish … the wood, or Brad’s place? … the wood suits me a lot better, to be frank, more private … No, no, thanks, no limo. I’ll grab a common black cab. See you fourish.’
     
    *
     
    Toby sat on the edge of his bed. On the sheets, traces of their final loveless coupling. On the BlackBerry beside him, the text of his last message to Oakley sent an hour ago: love life shattered vital we talk soonest, Toby .
    Change sheets.
    Clear bathroom of Isabel’s detritus.
    Wash up last night’s supper dishes.
    Pour rest of red Burgundy down sink.
    Repeat after me: countdown’s already begun … here we are with the bloody clock ticking … see you on the night, as they say, Paul .
    Which night? Last night? Tomorrow night?
    And still no message.
    Make omelette. Leave half.
    Switch on Newsnight , encounter one of God’s little ironies. Roy Stormont-Taylor, Queen’s Counsel, the silkiest silk in the business, in striped shirt and white open-necked collar, is pontificating on the essential differences between law and justice.
    Take aspirin. Lie on bed.
    And at some point, unknown to himself, he must have dozed off, because the shriek of a text message on his BlackBerry woke him like a fire alarm:
    Urge you forget lady permanently.
    No signature.
    Text back, furiously and impulsively: No way. Too bloody important. Vital we discuss soonest. Bell.
     
    *
     
    All life has ceased.
    After the headlong sprint, the sudden, endless, fruitless wait.
    To sit all day long at his kneehole desk in the ministerial anteroom.
    To work methodically through his emails, take phone calls, make them, barely recognizing his own voice. Giles, where in God’s name are you?
    At night, when he should be celebrating bachelorhood regained, to lie awake longing for Isabel’s chatter and the solace of their carnality. To listen to the sounds of carefree passers-by in the street below his window and pray to be one of them; to envy the shadows in the curtained windows opposite.
    And once – is it night one or two? – to be woken from ahalf-sleep to the absurdly melodious strains of a male choir declaring itself – as if for Toby’s ears alone – ‘ impatient for the coming fight as we wait the morning’s light ’. Convinced he is going mad, he scrambles to the window and sees below him a ring of ghostly men in green, bearing lanterns. And he remembers belatedly that it’s St Patrick’s Day and they are singing ‘A Soldier’s Song’ and