When we were done, Neville walked me towards the foyer. He stopped at the top of the stairs and nodded admiringly at the Italian travertine marble. It was lovely sleek, clean, cold.

'Spent my whole working life here,' he said. 'Fifteen when I started; can't do that these days, can you? My dad fixed me up. By the time I was eighteen, I knew how a government worked, I knew what was wrong with it, and I knew when to shut up and when to speak. There's guys starting here nowadays, twenty-five years old, loaded down with degrees in this and masters in that, they can wave ten million statistics in your face, but couldn't tell you who Carson was.' He shook his head around the foyer, but it wasn't meant to be negative. 'I love this place. There's so few measure up to it. Dan, I've always done what I can to protect it, the idea of it, and I'll keep doing it until the day I die.'

He had been using the wide marble steps for more than fifty years, but old age had brought with it a need for care. He had one hand on a gleaming rail, the other thrust into his jacket pocket to hide a slight tremor I'd noticed at the table. I was on the verge of offering an arm for support, but with my luck we'd probably have ended up tumbling to our deaths. When we eventually reached the bottom, he turned towards a small alcove close to the front doors.

'You want to come down and watch me record?' he asked.

'I'm not eleven,' I said.

All the impressive bits of the building were above ground the Great Hall, the Assembly and Senate chambers but the door in front of him led down into the bowels of the building. There were miles of claustrophobic corridors down there where much of the real, sleeves-up, heads-down dirty work of government got done. I'd been up and down them a thousand times in my reporting days. Drink used to be freely available. I had once gotten lost in their labyrinth-like design for twenty-four hours. But she was worth it.

Neville held his hand out and I shook it. 'Thanks,' I said.

He held on to it. 'Watch yourself, Dan. I don't know what you're into, but things have changed these past few years. It's more like business now it used to be about defending this, or attacking that; now it's about the bottom line. No morals, no principles, no prisoners. And it's impossible to keep secrets we're such a small bloody country, everybody finds out everything, instantly, and Tweets it. It took thirty years for the Disappeared to turn up; these days they wouldn't stay hidden for thirty minutes.' He nodded at the various Assemblymen and civil servants around us. 'The funny thing is, the terrorists, the ones who've given up their guns and gone into politics, and won't even acknowledge that this place has any legality, they're actually better politicians than those who choose it as a career. They bring passion to it.'

'If you can conveniently forget the fact that they used to blow people up,' I said.

'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.'

But it wasn't Neville. It came from behind us. I turned.

Man mountain, black suit, sharp, handsome but dour face, grey hair swept back.

'Will I walk you down, Neville?' Professor Peter Pike asked. 'I'm on just after you.'

'Yes, of course,' Neville replied. He darted a wary glance at me. I gave him the slightest nod. 'Professor Pike . . . I don't believe you've met . . . Mr Dan Starkey.'

Pike's brow crinkled. He put his hand out. 'Dan Starkey . . . Dan Starkey . . . Didn't you used to be big in newspapers?'

'Yes,' I said.

You can never remember a good line when you really need it. Also I instinctively dislike people who employ vice-like handshakes. Also, also I instinctively dislike people who stare into your eyes when they talk to you and who prosper because of snake-oil charm. Threepike didn't have much going for him, really. I don't have to agree with a man's beliefs, but I like a man who stands by them. I've often argued with Trish about our changing times: she favours giving people a second chance, allowing them to change. I maintain that a leopard can't change its spots. She says I'm a miserable, curmudgeonly old stick-in-the-mud and I say I probably am.

Threepike said, 'You look like you've been in the wars.'

'Yes,' I said.

'We were just talking about your lovely wife,' said Neville.

'Really? What's she been up to?'

'Oh you wouldn't believe it!' Neville cried. 'That woman! She's a scandal!'

'Neville.' Pike pretended to give the old man a punch on the arm. 'Though for all I know, you could be right. Honestly, we're like ships that pass in the night.'

'Shits,' said Neville. 'Isn't that what Republican News said about you? Shits that pass in the night.'

'They did,' said Pike, drily. 'They're always misquoting me. Luckily we're all friends now. Isn't that right, Dan?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Are you joining us?'

'No.'

'Come then, Neville, let's get down to yon poky little studio. I do believe you're the only one around here who knows the short cut, isn't that right?'

Pike pulled the door open and indicated for Neville to lead. As they disappeared through it, Neville gave me a wink.

I stood where I was, a little stunned by my own inept performance. I used to be able to pin assholes. A question with a barb, backed up to the teeth with facts that could not be denied. Or fictions that at least earned an unregimented response. I had managed a grand total of three yeses and a no. He'd caught me by surprise as I was still trying to come to terms with the gossip Neville had so undiplomatically imparted. I was in physical pain from my burning and beatings. I had all kinds of instant excuses, but I couldn't escape from the fact that in my heyday I would have laughed in the face of any or all of these handicaps. I was Dan Starkey, master of the put-down, but I had flailed, my reflexes as rusty as . . . oh, fuck it. I was . . . diminished.

I stepped out into the fresh air.

It was raining hard and winter cold.

I stepped back inside to ring a taxi. I'd switched my mobile off during lunch. But now I saw that there were three voicemails: one from Joe saying that Bobby had stormed out of the shop and disappeared; one from Patricia saying that Bobby had called her at work, and that she was having to leave to let him into the house, and she wasn't very happy about it and had I sorted anything for him yet; and a third from Maxi McDowell asking me to give him a call right away.

I did. He said, 'You're in luck. The Millers have a cancellation. They'll see you at noon tomorrow. I'll get you in and out, but you're the performer. Okay?'

'Okay,' I said.

I cut the line. I took a deep breath. I stood in the doorway and looked out over the lawns sweeping away down to the gates. The grounds were open to the public, and were dotted with joggers braving the elements and dog-walkers with extended leads sheltering under trees that had not yet sprouted leaves.

It was a little after two o'clock in the afternoon. That gave me roughly twenty-two hours to come up with something that would satisfy the Millers and possibly save Bobby Murray's life.

I was not optimistic.

37.

'Where's the car?' was the first thing Trish asked when she saw the taxi driving off.

'I got a flat,' was an approximation of the truth.

'So you just abandoned it?'

'Obviously.'

She showed me into the lounge and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned swiftly with a can of Harp.

'You may need it,' she said.

'What happened with the butcher?'

'Bobby got shouted at, so he walked.'

'Why was he shouted at?'

'Smoking in the cold room.'

'As you would. What does Joe say is he done with him?'

'Nope. I think they're both quite volatile; difference is Joe doesn't sulk. He'll have him back tomorrow. He says Bobby shows a definite flair for cutting and chopping.'

'It's good to have a talent. What does Bobby say?'

'Very little.'

'Will he go back?'

'Not if he has to apologise first.'

'Is that a condition?'

'Yep.'

'From Joe?'

'From me.'

'My house, my rules?'

'Something like that.'

'Good job you never applied them to me.'

'You were beyond saving.'

I opened my Harp. 'You shouldn't give up so easy.'

'Who says I have?' Her smile. Love it. 'Will I get him?'

'If you must.'

'Go easy on him, Dan.'

'Trish, the time for going easy has passed.'

She shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

He yelled back, 'Just let me get to the end of this level.'

'No, now!'

Ten minutes later he sauntered in. He was wearing one of my T-shirts. It had the front cover of The Clash's first album on it. It was twenty-three years old, and too tight for me.

As an icebreaker I said, 'Have you heard of The Clash?'

'Yes. It's the muck you try to impress me with when I'm in your car.'

Patricia smirked. 'Are you still doing that?'

I made let's get serious eyes at her.

Bobby sat on the armchair, sideways, with his legs over the arm. I still hadn't quite got used to the fake one.

'Bobby . . .' I began.

'I'm not fuckin' sayin' sorry to him,' he snapped. 'There was no need to scream at me like that.'

'That's not why I'm here,' I said. 'Though I would advise it.'

'No way am I fuckin'-'

'Shhhh, Bobby, listen to me. It's not about the butcher's.'

'What then? What else have I done?'

'Nothing,' said Trish. 'You've done nothing.'

'Trish, please . . .' I said, 'let me . . .'

'Of course. Sorry. Master of diplomacy.'

She held her hands up in apology. She pretended to zip her lips. Bobby watched her, and then me.

'What?'

'Bobby this situation is untenable.'

'Unwhatable?'

'This can't continue. Living here, working at Joe's, even staying at my apartment, you're putting us all in danger.'

'All right, fuck it.' He swung his legs off and began to haul himself up. 'I'm off, then.'

'Bobby sit down.'

'Make your bloody mind-'