"It's fine, Berthy. It really is. Roger's promised me that everything will be all right. Nothing will change."

She decided to change tack. "Don't do it, Terence," she said. She searched for language that might get through to her brother. "His karma, you see. It's a question of karma."

"But his karma's fine," said Terence. "You're right to raise the issue, Berthy, but Roger's karma is absolutely positive. No, there's no problem there."

She did not give up. "It's just that I had this feeling about ... about his aura. I felt that there was something negative there. I can't put my finger on it, but I think we should trust our intuitions."

"You're right," he said. "We must trust our intuitions, and my intuitions all say that Roger is the right person to have a centre here. I just know it, Berthy. I'm convinced." He paused. 'You know, I'm touched that you should take an interest in this. And I'm really pleased that you're getting on so well with Rog and Claire. It means a lot to me that the whole family should be happy with the s.p.a.ce that everybody's in."

Berthea gritted her teeth. "So you haven't signed anything yet?"

Terence shook his head. "Not yet. But Roger has had a deed of some sort drawn up and it's going to arrive next Wednesday. I'll sign it then."

"Don't you think you should show it to Mr Worsfold?" Herbert Worsfold was the family solicitor; he might be able to stop this, thought Berthea. He had rescued Terence from a number of difficult situations before now, although none as potentially disastrous as this.

"Mr Worsfold's terribly busy," said Terence. "Lawyers always are with all that law, you know. I don't want to bother him."

"But you must!" pleaded Berthea. "You really must, Terence. Mr Worsfold loves being bothered. He really does. It's ... it's part of his karma."

"No, Berthy. My mind is made up. If I start getting solicitors involved in all this, then the karma would certainly be wrong. This is a transaction based on love and respect, Berthy. Lawyers spoil all that with their 'notwithstandings' and their 'hereins' and all that nonsense. Not for me, Berthy. Not for me."

Berthea looked back at the house. It meant a lot to her; she had spent her childhood there and it was rich in memories. She was perfectly content that it had been left to Terence rather than to her, as he was more vulnerable and would never have been able to find a place to live had he needed to. And with him living there, it felt for Berthea that it was still, in a way, her family home. She would not give it up without a fight. It did not matter if she had to resort to underhand techniques; she was prepared to do that. And she knew a thing or two about those, she reminded herself. After all, she was the mother of Oedipus Snark MP, which must make her in the eyes of some ... well, not all that far removed from Lucrezia Borgia.

Very well, she thought. Gloves off. Roger and Claire: you're toast. She pondered the expression, alien in her mouth though it seemed. It was so vindictive, so primitive, so unforgiving. She should not use it, because she was neither vindictive nor primitive, and she was always willing to forgive. Except, perhaps, in the case of Oedipus. He would be toast too, she thought. In time. In time.

Chapter 46: Blackmail.

Freddie de la Hay had found a comfortable spot on the floor of the flat occupied by Tilly Curtain, a Senior Field Officer (Grade 2) in MI6. The salary of an MI6 field officer, though adequate, is not unduly generous and certainly was not enough to stretch to a flat in that particular street in Notting Hill. Even C himself, who was paid at the level of a senior civil service mandarin plus a twelve thousand pound annual danger allowance, and an automatic C ("C's C"), leading, of course, to a K would barely have managed the inflated monthly rental on this flat without feeling the pinch. The reason for the expensive rental was that the landlord had realised just how keen his prospective lessee was for this particular flat. He had suggested a number of other places to the young woman but she had not seemed in the slightest bit interested in those. That was when he understood that there was something about this flat in particular that she wanted. He could not see what it was, frankly, but people had their little ways, and if these idiosyncrasies enabled him to ask for twenty-five per cent more rent than he could normally expect to command for a short-term let, then so be it. And bless the little ways of tenants.

It had not occurred to the landlord that the attraction of this otherwise mediocre flat might be the neighbours. In the rental market, neighbours were usually a drawback rather than a positive feature, the one exception to this rule being celebrity neighbours, who by their mere presence could cause surrounding rentals to shoot skywards. To live next to a flamboyant and egocentric actor or actress should surely be counted a misfortune, but so great is the public fixation with the cult of celebrity that to many, such neighbours were a positive attraction rather than a drawback. The landlord, in fact, wondered whether this might explain the young woman's desire to secure the lease on the flat at all costs. He believed that an ill-mannered celebrity chef lived in the vicinity, as did a minor rock star. He quickly drew up the lease, with its exorbitant rental provisions, and the deal was struck.

He had no idea that it was the flat on the other side of the landing that was the draw. He had let that property six months ago to an East European company, which wanted it for its London employees. They paid the deposit immediately and appeared to be good tenants although they were reluctant to invite him over the threshold once they had moved in. "There is no need for you to come in," he had been told by a burly Russian who answered the door when he had called to see whether all was well. "There is nothing wrong. Everything functions. We are very happy. Goodbye."

The prosaically named firm seemed completely inoffensive; n.o.body would give such a business a second thought, and certainly not a second glance. It was obviously concerned with international trade, although not trade in anything interesting; it must deal in bearings, perhaps, or pork futures, or steel.

In reality, the firm was far from bland: it was entirely concerned with blackmail, which it used as a means of securing the sensitive trade secrets of major companies and government departments. These were then sold on to Russian companies who found themselves in compet.i.tion with western counterparts. The resulting revenues were divided equally between a shady and virtually unknown Russian security agency which provided the London staff and the commercial backers, a syndicate of wealthy St Petersburg investors with no sense of commercial propriety, or indeed any of other form of honesty and fair dealing.

The techniques of blackmail used by this organisation differed in few particulars from the blackmail that had been so widely practised by certain agencies of the former Soviet Union. The most common form was s.e.xual: a target would be identified a middle-ranking official in an appealing company and his appet.i.tes a.s.sessed. Thereafter there would be a sustained and carefully planned attempt to compromise him. (The victims were entirely men; women, it appeared, were considered less p.r.o.ne to temptation.) Once an indiscretion had been made, it was extraordinary how cooperative the victim became. Even in a permissive society, where there were few limits to what one could do, people were still sensitive to a light being shone upon their private affairs and indiscretions, and they would risk everything including their careers to avoid exposure.

These techniques paid off handsomely. It was in this way, for instance, that the firm obtained the formula for an improved fuel additive that could prolong the engine life of domestic cars by up to eighteen per cent. It was in this way that a radically more efficient refrigerator, which was upon the point of being granted European and American patent protection, suddenly popped up in an attractively priced Chinese version, having been licensed by a St Petersburg engineering company that had previously done no work at all on refrigerators, or indeed on any other kind of engineering. And when several British inventions in gun-sight optics were produced in Moscow before the release of the United Kingdom prototype, and the detailed plans for these devices were found on the laptop computer of the personnel officer of the firm developing them, MI6 became involved.

And now Freddie de la Hay too. His role was to spend time with the Russians suspected of being behind these dubious affairs, not so much with a view to arresting and punishing the Russians as to find out who was being targeted and get to them first, before they started doing their blackmailers' bidding.

In order to identify the targets, MI6 had to hear what the Russians were saying. Unfortunately, attempts to bug the flat had failed, an electronic sweep by the Russians having quickly discovered the tiny hidden microphones. After that, the occupants of the flat had started to have long and earnest conversations among themselves as they walked in Kensington Gardens. It was not easy to eavesdrop on what was said in the open, of course, but if they were to take a dog on their walks, and the dog had a transmitter in his collar, then everything could be heard loudly and clearly in a loitering surveillance van bearing the livery of the Royal Parks ...

This was the mission upon which Freddie de la Hay now embarked. Wearing his new collar, in which a small transmitter had been expertly concealed, the obliging and urbane Pimlico terrier was put on a lead and taken downstairs by Tilly Curtain. Freddie's new career had begun. He was now officially in the service of his country.

Chapter 47: Freddie de la Hay Meets Mr Podgornin.

For Freddie de la Hay it was just another walk, although he felt a bit strange wearing this new, rather heavier-than-usual collar. But it was not for him to argue with the choice of collar or lead: this, he recognised, was the domain of the humans in whose shadow he led his life. He had his views which were strong enough, and sometimes vocal on subjects such as biscuits, squirrels or smells, but when it came to the broader parameters of his life, as laid down by humans, Freddie understood that this was simply not his sphere. Had he possessed the words to express it, he would no doubt have said that this was part of the social contract that existed between man and dog, which had been negotiated a long time ago, presumably not long after the first dog had stood outside the early human cave, which was redolent of warmth and charred meat and comfort, and whined to be admitted. That was the moment that sealed the fate of both parties, but particularly of dogs. Man did not ask to join dog, dog asked man, and was therefore the supplicant to whom no concessions needed to be made.

Freddie missed William. Having no real sense of time, he had no idea how long William had been gone from his life. In human terms, it was less than a day; in dog terms, it could have been a month, a year, half a lifetime. He just knew that William was not there and might never be there again. But he did not dwell on what might or might not be; dogs do not see the point, they are concerned only with what is happening now, and with the possibilities of the present moment.

What was happening at that moment was that Freddie was in the park, constrained by a leash, at the other end of which was his temporary custodian, Tilly Curtain. There were intriguing smells at every turn, and Freddie applied his nose to the ground in quivering antic.i.p.ation. Kensington Gardens was a ma.s.s of potential lines of enquiry; smells going in every direction; smells that ran straight along paths, smells that wound this way and that: smells that crossed flower beds and gra.s.s and path and then suddenly and inexplicably stopped at the base of a tree. It was enough to keep him busy for hours, for days perhaps, if this new person would only allow him the chance to investigate. But she was pulling on his collar, hauling him off in the direction of a thickset man who was standing on one of the paths, smoking a cigarette and looking pensive.

"Mr Podgornin," said Tilly. "What a fine day, isn't it? I love being out here on a day like this."

Podgornin looked at the young woman standing before him; his neighbour, of course, the one who lived in the flat across the landing. And that dog of hers. It was a Pimlico Terrier, she had said something about that. What good dogs those were. I'm almost tempted to steal him! he thought. But no, she's a pleasant woman and one doesn't want to do anything to attract undue attention. The British are odd about that sort of thing. They become very excited if anybody does anything to a dog. Stupid people! Sentimentalists! No wonder they're finished, he said to himself.

"Good day, Miss ... Miss ..." What was she called? They had such ridiculous names, it was terribly hard to remember them. This young woman, for example, had a name that had something to do with furniture or construction or something like that.

"Tilly. Tilly Curtain."

"Of course!" He took his cigarette out of his mouth with his left hand as he extended his right hand in greeting. Crude though he was, Podgornin knew how to behave gallantly to women. And they were always always impressed! They really were most predictable, he thought; like the whole country utterly predictable.

"I think I may have mentioned to you that I was getting a dog," said Tilly. "A Pimlico Terrier." She pointed to Freddie de la Hay, who looked up at Podgornin with mild interest, wagging his tail politely.

"Of course, you did," said Podgornin, drawing again on his cigarette. "It's a breed I am particularly fond of. I had one myself a few years ago, when I first came to London. It was a very fine dog." He paused, and bent down to pat Freddie on the head. Freddie smelled the tobacco tars on the approaching hand and struggled with the urge to turn his head away. He knew that this was not what was expected of him, and so he closed his eyes and let Podgornin's hand ruffle the fur around his collar. Now he had the smell of tobacco on his coat, an acrid, cloying smell that would make it difficult to distinguish the fascinating smells that he had been so happily investigating before this unwanted encounter. Who was this man? Was he a member of William's pack? Was he expected to accept him?

"I'm very pleased with him," Tilly said. "But ..." She hesitated, and Podgornin, who had been staring at Freddie, looked at her quizzically. "But, well, you may remember that I was concerned about what I would do if I had to go away and couldn't take him with me."

Podgornin thought for a moment. "Oh, yes, I remember. I said that I'd be very happy to look after him for you. Very happy. We Russians are very fond of dogs, you know. Woof, woof!"

Tilly looked relieved. "Oh, thank you, Mr Podgornin. In fact, I'm facing a bit of a crisis right now."

Podgornin frowned. He drew on his cigarette. "Crisis?"

"Oh, nothing out of the ordinary really. It's just that I have this rather infirm relative I think I spoke to you about her. She has a carer, but the carer needs respite from time to time. I have to go off tomorrow, actually, and look after things for a week or two."

Podgornin smiled. "I said I'd help you out, and of course I will. I'll be very happy to take this fine dog. You mustn't worry."

"I'll get all his things together, his bowl, his food and so on. Would ten o'clock suit you?"

Podgornin nodded. He looked at his watch and then threw his cigarette b.u.t.t on the ground. Freddie de la Hay looked with distaste at the small, smouldering object. He did not like Mr Podgornin. He did not like his smell. He did not like the way he looked at him. He was not dog-friendly in the way that this woman, or that other man in the park, or those people downstairs at Corduroy Mansions were. Corduroy Mansions ... Where was it? Where was Pimlico? Where was William?

Chapter 48: A Breakfast Exchange.

On the morning after their impromptu inspection of Barbara Ragg's flat, Rupert Porter and his wife, Gloria, sat at their breakfast table, exchanging recriminatory glances. It was all Rupert's fault, thought Gloria, it had been his idea to go to the flat after dinner; it was true that she had agreed, but she would never have initiated such a visit herself. That was Rupert's trouble: he was so persuasive. And her trouble was that she allowed herself to be persuaded by him, often against her better judgement.

"You shouldn't have-" she began, breaking the increasingly frosty silence.

"Don't start!" he interrupted.

"I'm not starting anything, I'm simply observing that had you not come up with the idea of going to Barbara's flat then we wouldn't have landed in that extremely and I mean extremely awkward situation. That's all I'm saying."

Rupert pursed his lips. He would never never refer to that flat as Barbara's, just as no Argentinian not even the most enthusiastic, polo-playing Anglophile would refer to the Falkland Islands as the Falkland Islands. No, it was "my father's flat" or "Pa's flat". But now was not the time to go into all of that.

"Well, we got out of it, didn't we?" he protested.

"Yes, but it could so easily have gone the other way. And it nearly did, Rupert you can't deny that. What if the yeti had woken up?"

Rupert sighed. "Don't be absurd, Gloria. There's no such thing as the yeti. It's all complete nonsense, encouraged, I might say, by la Ragg, who should know better but clearly doesn't. She's swallowed the whole story cooked up by that crackpot Greatorex. If ever there was a questionable piece of work, it's him."

Gloria agreed with this a.s.sessment of Errol Greatorex, the yeti's biographer, but she was not yet quite prepared to let Rupert get away with last night's debacle. "Do you really think he believed you?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Greatorex. When you came up with that perfectly farcical story about having forgotten that we were meant to stay with your mother rather than with Barbara. What a ridiculous excuse. Does anybody go to stay with somebody and suddenly remember they're in the wrong place?"

Rupert shrugged. "I considered it was rather quick thinking on my part," he said. "And a fat lot of good you were. I had to do all the talking."

"Well, I don't think he believed you. I saw his eyebrows go up. When a person's eyebrows go up, it's a sure sign that he's smelled a rat. And what's he going to say to Barbara when she comes back? What if the real Teddy, or whatever his name was, turns up at the flat? What then?" She paused. The mention of rats raised another issue that she needed to discuss with Rupert: Ratty Mason. Last night, just before the disastrous visit to Barbara's flat, Gloria had finally caught sight of Ratty Mason, dining alone in the restaurant in which they had eaten a rather unsatisfactory meal to celebrate her birthday. Ratty Mason had stared at them and when she had asked Rupert who the strange man was, he had revealed the name. But he had refused to tell her anything more.

"Well, let's forget all about Errol Greatorex," she said. "And his yeti. What I want to know is this: who exactly is Ratty Mason? At least I've seen him now, but what else do I know about him? Virtually nothing. That he was at Uppingham with you, and that's it." She fixed Rupert with a steely gaze. "Rupert, what's all this with Ratty Mason? Why the secrecy?"

Rupert looked uncomfortable. He flushed. "I've told you. I've told you more than once. Ratty Mason was a chap at school. I didn't know him all that well. In fact, hardly anybody knew him all that well, as it turned out ..."

Gloria pounced. "What do you mean as it turned out? What turned out?"

Rupert looked fl.u.s.tered. "It's just an expression. It doesn't mean anything."

"Oh, yes it does. If you say 'as it turned out' you are suggesting, I should have thought, that something happened. Well, what happened? What happened with Ratty Mason?"

Rupert rose from the table. "I'm not going to sit here and be interrogated," he said. "Let's get this clear once and for all. I barely know Ratty Mason. I hardly knew him then. There's nothing more to be said about him." He glared at Gloria. "And now I'm going to the office. I've got work to do."

He reached down and took a final sip of his coffee, banging the cup down and spilling the dregs on the tablecloth.

"Look what you've done," said Gloria. But Rupert was not listening. He went into their bedroom, took his jacket from the wardrobe, and straightened his tie, ready to leave. Then he returned to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that ... All this stress. Publishers are cutting advances across the board. Our authors are being terribly bolshy. La Ragg has swanned off to Scotland with her toyboy and ... and it's all a bit much for me. Sorry, my darling. So sorry."

Gloria came to his side. "Poor darling! I'm the one who should say sorry. I understand how things are. We should get away."

"Where to?"

"Oh, anywhere. Amsterdam. Paris. What about somewhere in the UK? Aldeburgh. How about Aldeburgh? It's such a lovely place, and they've got a divine bookshop. Remember we met the booksellers, that nice couple the Jameses? We could potter about in there, and go to some funny little pub for lunch. And we could go and see the monument to Ben Britten, that amazing scallop sh.e.l.l, and watch the fishermen launch their boats from the stony beach. Just like Peter Grimes. It would be so therapeutic."

Rupert looked wistful. "I love that scallop sh.e.l.l," he said. "It's so much better than a statue. You can sit on it, and you can watch the sea from it, and listen. There are so few statues one can sit on."

"I agree," said Gloria. "And yet it's recognisable. We know what it is. It's part of our world. Unlike anything that wins the Turner Prize. Not that all Turner Prize artists are useless. I know somebody who actually knows what she's talking about, and she says that some of them have been real artists."

Rupert thought about this. "Actually, the Turner Prize stuff is part of our world," he said. "That's the problem. Those installations are merely the ba.n.a.l replication of the ordinary, and nothing more." He looked at his watch. "We're so lucky, my darling."

She looked at him enquiringly. Why were they lucky? Because they had one another? Because they could go off to Aldeburgh together, when lots of people had n.o.body to go to Aldeburgh with?

Rupert explained, "We're lucky because we both think the same way about the Turner Prize. Imagine being married to somebody who actually thought all that pretentiousness had any actual merit. Imagine that!"

Gloria shook her head. "Impossible," she said.

Rupert looked at her fondly. "Do you think we're reactionary?"

Gloria shook her head. "Not at all. Not us. n.o.body really likes the jejune things those people create, Rupert. n.o.body. But it's the Emperor's new clothes. Remember the story? n.o.body will dare to say: Look, can these artists actually sculpt, or paint, or make anything of beauty? Or terrible, naive question can they actually draw?"

"They can't," he said. "Or many of them can't. That's what David Hockney was complaining about when he talked about the art colleges ..."

"He can draw," said Gloria.

"He certainly can." He looked at his watch. "I really must get to the office, darling. Tempus fugit."

"Tempus is so utterly predictable, darling. All he ever does is to fugere."

Rupert shook a finger. "Darling, you mustn't say 'to fugere'. That's like saying 'to to fly'. Fugere is the infinitive form, my little darling. Too many 'to's. No additional 'to' required."

She planted a kiss on his brow. "Oh, darling, you're so clever."

"Not as clever as you, my darling! A bientot!"

Chapter 49: In the Waiting Room.

The offices of the Ragg Porter Literary Agency occupied one third of a comfortable-looking building overlooking a leafy square in Soho. It was convenient for both the agency's members of staff and for their clients, as it was a stone's throw or, as Rupert's father, Fatty Porter, used so wittily to put it, a ma.n.u.script's throw from Piccadilly Circus. He used the expression to describe to new authors how to find the offices, and they usually laughed, little realising that Fatty did, in fact, throw ma.n.u.scripts out of the window if he considered them dull or they otherwise annoyed him. Behaviour was different in those days, and a literary agent who threw ma.n.u.scripts out of the window was considered merely eccentric, or colourful, rather than an over-educated litter-lout. The sense of ent.i.tlement, now so deeply embedded in consumerism, that would have regarded such behaviour as insensitive and arrogant was then quite unheard of. In those days people took what they got from a literary agent, just as they did from doctors, teachers, policemen and virtually all other figures of authority. That this was grossly unfair and intimidating is surely beyond debate, especially in an age when the tables have been so completely reversed as to require doctors, teachers, policemen and other figures of authority to take what they get from members of the public, and to take it in a spirit of meekness and complete self-abas.e.m.e.nt.

The office occupied the top storey of the building, the two floors below being having been let for as long as anyone could remember to a film-editing company and a dealer in Greco-Roman antiquities. The dealer in antiquities, Ernest Bartlett, was himself of great antiquity, and there was occasionally some debate as to whether he could technically still be alive. However lights still went on and off in his office, and sometimes on the stairs one might hear drifting from behind his door s.n.a.t.c.hes of sound from the ancient device that Gregory Ragg had christened "Bartlett's steam radio". This radio was permanently tuned to a radio station of the sort everybody thought had stopped broadcasting. It played light cla.s.sical music and big bands, but played them in a quiet, rather distant way, as if from a far corner of the ether. The effect was haunting.

Ernest Bartlett was always invited to the Ragg Porter Christmas party, and would normally attend. He would arrive wearing a very old silver-grey double-breasted suit and a Garrick Club tie, and bearing an armful of carefully wrapped gifts. In conversation with the staff, he would refer to Rupert as "Fatty Porter's much-admired son", and to Barbara as "Gregory Ragg's distinguished daughter". He drank bitter lemon at these parties and rarely ate more than one or two small biscuits, which he described as "egregiously Baccha.n.a.lian behaviour on my part".