He took a deep breath. "Do you know much about your editor's past?"

I stopped and turned to him. "Would you stop talking about the p.i.s.sing editor and get on with your story?"

He shushed me, a hand on my arm again, and walked on. "I am, I am. This is about him. Burnett. Do you know what he did before the Bugle?"

"A reporter on Fleet Street, is all I know. Does he have something on you? A little dirt? Is that what all this no-notepad stuff's about, you want to tell the story properly? I can probably arrange-"

"No. You are correct, he was on Fleet Street, twenty years ago. He was an investigative reporter, just like you want to be. He broke stories, like you want to, and sent people to prison, like you want to."

"Why do I get the feeling there's a but coming up."

Emerging from the trees, we walked a few yards to a zebra crossing. There were still a few taxis trailing up and down. Were we heading towards Midsummer Common, I wondered? It looked very much like it.

Maybe, I thought, he just said he lived by the river. Maybe he was planning to lure me to the riverside, break my back on a narrowboat and toss me in. Maybe the story might be about me after all. The pavement ahead peeled right, towards the river, and I consoled myself drunkenly with the knowledge that if he did b.u.mp me off there'd be a ma.s.sive front page photo of me, albeit below the masthead where you don't really want it rather than as one of the columnists' mugshots along the top, the duck shoot.

Seb took his time, apparently gathering his thoughts. I kept my mouth shut, and shivered.

"My father had a business. It was moderately successful, not yet global but expanding. It had won an export award. A bright future awaited us, so we thought. And then your editor decided this could not be allowed to happen. He uncovered some financial irregularities - correction, what he thought were financial irregularities."

"Ah," I said. I saw where this was going. I imagined a small silver key in his back, winding him up and up as he spoke.

"He didn't contact my father. Why not? Why not? It could all have been stopped there and then. Misunderstanding, or something. An apology, no hard feelings. But no, oh no. As far as we can tell he didn't contact anyone from the company at all. Not a word! No phone call, nothing!" He was angry now. "Based on barely more than supposition and a source even the- even the Metropolitan Police considered unreliable, he and his editor went barrelling ahead and just printed the story. No regard for the truth. No regard for the effect on the business. No regard for the family." He punctuated the sentences by chopping the chill air ahead of him. Someone across the street looked over at the noise.

We skipped across a set of traffic lights and through a metal gate with a narrow cattle grid, its dark paint peeling off with the pa.s.sage of thousands of bikes and feet. This was Midsummer Common, dozens of acres of gra.s.sland criss-crossed by paths, and with Narnia-like street lamps at the intersections. It was currently occupied by a herd of cows somewhere away in the mist. Only in Cambridge.

The river was getting closer. We skirted the eastern edge of the common, on a path curving slowly to the right as the common narrowed, and then took a fork aimed directly towards one of the footbridges over the Cam. We'd be pa.s.sing not far from many of the college boathouses across the river, where some of the fittest and most lycra-hugging a.r.s.eholes of their generation trained and rowed. Not that I used to walk along the footpath occasionally on the off-chance, of course, and never with my long lens.

"So what happened?" I asked, hoping he'd unwound a little.

There was no let up in his anger. "What happened? What always happened. Businesses were ruined. Lives were ruined. There was a cascading effect." He mimed tumbling over and over. "I was young at the time, protected. It is only recently that I learned the whole truth. The board sacked my father, of course. They could do little else against the publicity, day after day after day. He tried to clear his name. No chance of that. Your editor and his friends kept on and on with the story despite the lack of evidence. They grabbed at anything to destroy him. They dug up an old girlfriend and made people think they were having an affair. Nudge-nudge, no smoke without fire. Those stories. Bitter, vicious lies."

I nodded. He needed to get this out.

"It was relentless, and groundless, and devastating. The family, my family suffered greatly. The pressure. The constant cameras, the intrusion. At our windows, at the front door, on the bonnet of the car. It was a witch hunt. I used to have nightmares, all banging and flashes and arguments and tears, whirling around."

He stopped for a moment, and looked at me, and took a breath, and became quiet again. "My elder sister took an overdose. Luckily we found her in time. In fact, I found her - she was supposed to be babysitting me while our parents were out talking to solicitors. And the stress of it all, well, ultimately, it ended my parents' marriage."

Well, that put a great big f.u.c.king downer on the evening, right there.

"So you see," he said with a cold smile, "I'm not a great fan of Geoff Burnett."

It was my turn to be silent.

He finished the story, slowly, quietly. "And afterwards, well, my father was reinstated eventually because he had done nothing wrong, of course. But it could never be what it had been before. It was not long before he left that company and started something new, not so corrupted with memories I suppose. Something quite successful, which is good. I grew up with my mother, as did my sister."

"How is she now?"

"Fine. Both are fine. My sister is married, with a little girl. My mother says she is far too busy now for marriage." He let out a short, sad grunt. His foot connected with a pebble, deliberately or not I couldn't tell, and it skittered along the path and escaped into the gra.s.s.

I made the right noises but I wasn't sure what I was expected to say - what I could say. I could hardly apologise on behalf of all journalists - or even just Geoff, had I wanted to - for any wrongdoing perpetrated by others while I was playing kiss-chase. And that's a.s.suming everything Seb had told me was true.

"Listen, I'm sorry, but-"

"What's it got to do with you?"

"Crudely, yeah." I gave him a sympathetic smile.

We were approaching a footbridge, which arced low over the Cam to slice through the boathouses on the other side. At the steps, Seb stopped and turned to me. "We were a happy, contented family until Geoff Burnett came along. I would very much like to organise a little payback. I want you to help."

Hands deep in my pockets for warmth, I shrugged and shifted from foot to foot. "Hey, I mean, I sympathise, but what the h.e.l.l can I do? Your beef is with Geoff and I don't want to be piggy in the middle. If I'm honest I'm only in this right now for the mojitos and the afters - and since we're standing still in the cold I have the sneaking suspicion I'm gonna be eating dessert on my own tonight."

Seb laughed sadly. "I apologise. I had no intention to lead you on. I want you to help because you say you want to right wrongs. You want to fight injustice. You want to put away the bad guys."

"Yeah, but not the guy who pays my c.o.c.king wages."

"So justice has a limit, and the limit is your wallet, is that what you are saying?"

"I'm saying-" I let out a frustrated breath, a cloud of steam rising into the night. "I'm saying you don't get far in journalism by attacking the man with the spike, is all, even if he is a s.h.i.thead."

"Look at it this way. Who better to establish your credentials? You want to be an investigative journalist? Investigate."

"It's not as easy as that. There's a contract, you know, reasons."

"Of course. There are always reasons. And all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing."

"Is that from Hollyoaks?" I said, giving him a grin. Then I looked up at the stars for a second or two, and sucked in a lungful of air, sharp and cold. "Look, I'll see what I can do. I'm not saying no, I'm not saying yes. I have a bit of due diligence to work through. Make sure you're not some kind of lunatic, that sort of thing. You've got to admit you haven't given me a huge amount to go on, though."

He held out his hand and I shook it. It near burned with heat, the pa.s.sion of a wronged soul. "Sebastian Greatsholme. Spelled G-R-E-A-T-S-H-O-L-M-E, p.r.o.nounced Gresham. Pain in the a.r.s.e. I might change it one day - if I meet the right man. I shall be in touch."

five.

The Potential "Was it something I said?" Best puppy-dog eyes at Claire as she ranted all over me.

"Oh, Spencer!" she growled, wrapping the G.o.d-awful scarf around her neck. "I'm tired and I've drunk too much and I'm afraid my patience is exhausted. You're a spoiled child. I don't see why I should have to change your nappy. It's no wonder Amanda can barely tolerate you. In her position I'd probably be the same."

"Don't talk about her, that mangy old- Tonight is for dancing and flirting and loving and tomorrow is another hangover." I might have been a little tipsy, perhaps one or two over the eight. I'm not entirely sure how I managed to upset Claire so, but she clattered to her feet and effected a vibrant and stentorian exit at a stomp unexpected in one usually so delicate. I suspect it likely I made an unfortunate remark about her little salesman fellow, probably occupying a double-seat on a red-eye to Taiwan at that very moment to pick up more door-to-door throwaways.

I granted myself a silent five minutes, huddled in the cubicle with what drops remained of bottle n, before a swift visit to the below-ground toiletry facilities for activities that were purely above board.

I returned to find the cubicle hijacked by two young things ascending each other's learning curves at some velocity. No matter. In any case it was well past time for a leisurely sweep around the establishment to see and be seen, to sniff and be sniffed. It was always a similar pattern: the same faces with the same greeting rituals, the same vapid smalltalk. Yes, it's nice and busy tonight. No, I haven't seen so-and-so. I do hope the weather clears up. I fear punting season is at an end. Have you heard about such-and-such? I understand X is seeing Y, and Z is climbing the walls. I was not a gossipy queen, except in that I was (a) a bit of a queen and (b) a bit of a gossip.

Cambridge had a relatively small cabal of h.o.m.os.e.xualists for its size - at least, counting those that frequented Bar Humbug. There were many others who never dared venture out of St Paul's or whichever lesser college they attended, and there were rufty-tufty towny types who preferred to take their alcohol from a much straighter gla.s.s and drank with the dirty heteros.e.xuals. Consequently you could stride into the bar and know almost everyone there. Not know know, necessarily - not biblical knowledge, though one or two theologists worshipped there occasionally - but anything from basic facial recognition to flighty acquaintance to drinking buddy to closest chums of all sorts. And then there were the sainted Others, the strangers. I'm not referring to the weirdos - like my good self - with caps and hypno-eyes, but the gentlemen recognised by no-one. The fresh meat, one might say.

My grand pinball tour of the bar was never explicitly designed to identify these types, but it was a pleasing side-effect. On a busy Friday evening thumping with multicoloured young persons' music there were usually one or two strays to be found loitering. Sometimes these were naive, unaccompanied straight boys, smelling of something advertised on television, who never stayed long unless a few umbrella specials revealed they were secretly neither naive nor straight. Occasionally we were visited by hetero couples, the male inevitably clinging tightly to the other to a.s.sert his s.e.xuality, and anxiously avoiding eye contact: these p.u.s.s.ies of the Jungle were always worth a slow, deliberately accidental touch or two to make them all skittish and jittery, eyes wide - and there's me thinking that we were the friends of Dorothy.

And then, as this night, we might see some obvious college gentlemen testing the waters, polar bear cubs perhaps out on the ice for the very first time. Usually a small, tight group, rarely alone. This time, three: a confusing number, as any two might be paired already and it was not always evident which. What was always evident was the unofficial queue of regulars trying their luck. A succession of doomed redshirts.

I liked to think this was modernity's homage to the centuries-old tradition of presenting debutantes to the sovereign at court - which was, of course, merely a device to insert marriageable young ladies into the eyelines of eligible stallions. Our miniature establishment had even evolved an order of precedence, of sorts. Your Otherly Majesty, might I present the Usual Suspects, beginning with Count Hypno-Eyes of Bucharest.

I did not consider myself unduly predatory. I was a mere amateur, a part-timer in the lower leagues who occasionally enjoyed a rewarding run in the cup. Lack of success did not p.r.i.c.k my drunken ego: I didn't consider myself a miserable failure if I staggered home alone after Eddie or one of his boys sluiced us onto the streets. Where an opportunity presented itself, I indulged. It is true that the more I had imbibed, the more indulgent I became. Upon the calling of Time and the raising of the minger lights I could be less than fussy. A cavalier in search of a roundhead for hand-to-hand combat and heavy petting.

Of the trio of Others comprising that evening's little group, body language and instinct indicated two were coupled: a hand on the small of the back, sustained eye contact, whispered nothings. The third stood fractionally apart, still engaged with the twosome but with one toe dipped into the frothing 'mocean of the wider bar.

On my promenade through the room I tackled another regular about who they were - who the singleton was. He shrugged. Ah well, I thought: carpe diem, before any other b.u.g.g.e.r does. Set phasers on stunning.

He seemed to grow taller as I approached, or perhaps I shrank at his beauty: olive, mediterranean, sultry, knee-weakening. He smelled of late Spring, of a garden at full thrust. Sober me would wilt and shrivel, his burning glance scorching into my heart, his black surfboard fringe dashing my lifeless body onto the rocks. I locked onto his deep brown eyes and roused the most confident and attractive smile from my armoury.

"Wotcha," I said. Wotcha? Dear jeebus. "I'm Spencer. I don't think I've seen you here yet. Not that I've been stalking you. Are you newly gay, or just here on the off-chance?" Oh, a.r.s.e, I thought, I've turned into Amanda.

He glanced at his friends and grinned. "I'm sorry?"

Warp core breach imminent, Captain. I stuck out my hand: in for a penny. "Spencer." Say nothing else, your foot's in too deep already.

He was British, and therefore obliged to shake and respond in kind: "Laurie."

"Are your friends called Lift and Pavement?" What in the devil's name am I saying?

"I'm sorry?" He laughed. I fear this was at rather than with.

I ploughed on, treading a fine line between lecture and unconsciousness. "Laurie brought to mind the road vehicle, the lorry, and then truck, the ghastly American equivalent. And then other G.o.dforsaken Atlantic variations, like elevator for lift and sidewalk for pavement, and then my mouth just blurted them out you have very s.e.xy eyes."

"Spencer, right?"

I nodded. First goal achieved.

"I hope you're not driving."

"I've never driven a lorry in my life."

"Ah, very good." A gentle chiding. "I've heard them all, you know."

"Heard them all what?"

"Never mind." His smile warmed me pleasingly.

I thought it was going rather well at that point. We'd scaled that initial awkward hump and were hurtling towards an intimate conversation of some length, should the dice fall my way. I launched into the usual conversational gambit and attempted at all times to maintain eye contact.

In the next hazy time period I discovered many things. He was a post-graduate student specialising in early Romance languages, who'd spent eleven months circ.u.mnavigating the globe and teaching English along the way for subsistence. He was a keen and accomplished chef, helping out in his parents' restaurant during vacations. His fringe would fall over his eyes were it not for his defensive eyebrows. And I was a fool and a wastrel and we had absolutely nothing in common, bar the obvious.

I bl.u.s.tered haphazardly, the drink sploshing about my brain. "That's all rather exciting. As for my own self, I'm preparing to embark on a major marvellous project at St Paul's designed to practically rocket our profile into the broiling stratosphere and take us sprawling to the next level in funding income achievement."

"Sounds interesting. What are you doing?"

My hands began unaccountably to wave. "A, er, celebrity, charity, compet.i.tion, er, thing. Lots of charity and mystery celebrity, wrapped up in an enigmatic compet.i.tion. Hush-hush, early days, need-to-know, shush, that sort of solid business."

"Charity compet.i.tion? What, like a race? I did the London Marathon for charity a few years back."

"A race? A race! Yes, a race." Subtle was not the word. Paralytic, paralytic was the word.

"In Cambridge? Whereabouts?" Bless him, he seemed genuinely interested.

I touched his arm, his drinking arm, and a quant.i.ty of beer escaped. "Careful," I said, "they make you lick it up. Whereabouts? Now then. This has yet to be confirmed, but we're looking at, we're looking at, all over. From St Paul's, to, to, which college are you doing again?"

"I'm at St John's."

"Yes, St Paul's to St John's, that seems fair. And back again. No! Not back again. Somewhere else." I pointed at his two friends, silent and smiling admirers of my delicate flirting technique. "You two, Pavement and Sidewalk, or whatever you were. Colleges." My finger now alternated rapidly between myself and Laurie. "St Paul's, St John's, St John's, St Paul's, then where? Speak up. St, St, John, Paul-"

One of them looked at Laurie, and me, and said: "George and Ringo?" All three laughed.

"St John's, St Paul's, St George's, St Ringo's. Yes. That's it. And we're getting all four of them along, except the lookalikes. No, except the- hang on. No. Which one's St Ringo's again? Is it the little fiddly one by Darwin?"

"He's joking with you, Spencer," said Laurie. Rather kindly, I thought. "There's no St George's, no St Ringo's. You should probably go home now, I think you've had enough to drink."

"Yes, we should go back to mine. I have a bed and everything-"

"No. Sorry. I have a boyfriend. Go home, drink plenty of water, sleep it off."

He gave me what I could only interpret as a go thither look.

My crest fell, shattering into a hundred and one pieces to be lost in the crowd along with my dignity. I attempted a blurred smile, nodded, muttered an inconsequence, and withdrew. Curtsey to the sovereign and retire, and do not turn your back. Self-destruct sequence initiated.

I decided to call it a night.

My autopilot set me on course at half impulse power from the bar to my room in college. At this level of alcohol consumption my flat half-way across town, with its proper bed, and hot and cold running water, and curtains that successfully blocked the light, was light years beyond sensor range. The tiny part of my consciousness still battling against the onrushing booze knew this and lamented that I would awake in a small number of hours thumping and banging and in a foul mood ready to heft skywards through the window any undergraduate presenting the slightest of grammatical squeaks. As chance would have it - well, no, as careful planning had it - I kept Sat.u.r.day's diary always mercifully free of such unfortunate potential.

I have no idea what time it was when with the usual grudging a.s.sistance of the night porter I tumbled through the college gate on St Andrew's Street into Dryb.u.t.ter's Court. Colloquially and commonly, Dryb.u.t.ter's Court was known as Bottom Court, in contrast to its northerly neighbour Top Court, properly Prince Albert's Court. West of these two lay my room in New Court, which spanned the remaining half of the larger rectangle that made up the college as a whole. New Court's unofficially a.s.signed nickname, Versatile Court, had sadly yet to catch on.

Bottom Court was the earliest part of the college: a cosy, almost claustrophobic enclosure of three-storey late-Georgian architecture in pale Portland stone, edged with cobbles and deep, tempting flower beds. Its central lawn, as ever, was impeccably tidy. Prince Albert's Court to the north had a more Victorian feel to it, as one might imagine: a pompous curtain of fussy, neo-gothic stonework around a much larger rectangle of gra.s.s. New Court was a dull late-Victorian addition, prim and proper but with a saucy fountain at its core daring undergraduates to cross the forbidden greenery for a closer, more educational examination.

Unlike many other colleges we had no adjoining gra.s.sland outside the rectangle, no sprawling playing fields. We shared sporting facilities with other colleges and generally kept ourselves to ourselves. The college was always closed to tourists, at least these days. One main gate, on St Andrew's Street, and one wider maintenance gate around the rear. Secure, private, monitored.

As was my habit upon returning from Bar Humbug I urinated freely and copiously in the flower beds I perceived to be most directly above Amanda's office in the Admin dungeon, below Bottom Court. There were, of course, toilet facilities near my room, had I cared to use them, but I did not.

Humming drunkenly through the low archway linking Bottom and New Courts, I nearly ploughed directly into the poor Praelector, who recoiled in aged fright.

"Heavens above, Flowers, have a care, have a care," he said.

"Praelector! Dennis! I'm not in the bushes tonight, sorry!" He was the chap who'd discovered me with Scott - git and landed me in Amanda's bubbling pot. He was the longest-standing college official, supposedly sixty-nine but with a birth year that crept up annually and had done so for all the years I'd known him. The unofficial estimate was eighty-five, giving rise to the recurring and eternally changing college joke about a calendar year being sixty-nine eighty-fifths of a St Paul's year.

For a man of either age he was skeletal of frame, and nary a grey hair on his head remained, but he was surprisingly robust behind the standard augmentations of his vintage: round-lensed spectacles of thin silver, and an un.o.btrusive aid in one ear. He always had a kind word - about most.