Hunter made his way straight out of the Financeday building after leaving Archell. He did not bother to return to his desk - somebody else could switch off his screen. He was in a daze, only partly fuelled by alcohol: he had been bought, and he had betrayed a trust. He must answer to his conscience, and it was a hard thing to do. He walked slowly to the Mercedes parked outside the Financeday building - he needed to confide in somebody, to pour out his rage and frustration so as in some way to diminish it, but he had no confidant. He was a hunter, and hunters have contacts, and targets, but no real friends. He thought of Alice, and she connected directly to Cosgrave. He thought of Elaine, but the past was the past, and would never live again.
The two young Russians looked at him expectantly, but he shrugged wearily. ‘Everything has gone wrong. Let's go and have some lunch.’
They ate at a Malay restaurant in Queensway, and it was a sad and silent little meal. Hunter was still struggling to square up to what had happened - one side of him accused him bitterly of welching on a trust, and a whole way of life, but a small siren voice had also now begun singing a totally different song within him, and it was a song of self, and conceit, tinged with more than a touch of greed: for soon he would be rich, and successful, and very probably much admired, and it was an alluring prospect.
He wanted to hold true to himself, but he could sense temptation growing into a stronger force. He would become one of the great and the good, and power would break down barriers; he would be rich, and wealth would open up new frontiers. Others would beat a path to his door, and journalism would fade into a thing of the past. He would no longer serve, but command, and his commanding would anoint him.
He drank a beer, and ate curried lamb, whilst the two Russians murmured together. Past and future battled to control him, but he knew the battle had already been lost, and won, for the two were two faces of the same coin. The beer and the heat and his depression combined with the stiffness in his muscles to drain him and soil him, until he was a limp, worn, grubby shadow of himself, and he knew that he must rest, and wash himself clean. But the thought also made him wince, because he knew that he would use a ritual cleansing as a watershed, to separate old and new, and that he still had to speak to Joanna Cradock.
He paid, and got wearily to his feet. ‘We'd better get back to my flat.’
The two Russians eyed each other doubtfully.
‘It's all over.’ Hunter smiled apologetically. ‘I don't think anybody will be bothering me again.’
However the Russians took no chances. The Mercedes purred to a halt outside his block, and both stared around suspiciously. Hunter stayed obediently in the back of the car as one walked slowly to the glass doors, and then limped quickly across the pavement to join him. But nothing happened - the porter looked out at them, and waved, and it was nothing but a hot sleepy summer afternoon.
Hunter's answering machine flashed a small red welcome as he pushed open his livingroom door. He paused for a moment, to get a grip on himself, and stabbed the machine into life.
‘Hello, Jack Cosgrave here. Welcome aboard.’ Cosgrave's voice was rich with the satisfaction of a man who has just tied up a very nice deal. ‘Charlie's been on the blower. I thought I'd have a small lunch party tomorrow to celebrate: Charlie and Terry have agreed to come, I've put out feelers to Croesus and Bob Morissey, Melnikov's still in London, and Jim Small has promised to drop by. We might be able to get Dux and Delilah as well - should be an influential little gathering. Half twelve for one, dress informal. Bella's trying to mobilise Alice Carew as well.’
The answering machine clicked, and this time the voice tugged at Hunter's heartstrings.
‘Hello, sweetie, Jack had just rung.’ Arabella Cosgrave was pure honey. ‘I called Alice to make sure she comes. We thought you might also both like to join us in Spain for a week or so early next month, have a bit of a break to help smooth your transition from Fleet Street to the City. We'll be out there for a month, we'll have plenty of room.’
Another click, another woman's voice. But this one was strained and angry. ‘This is Joanna Cradock, Mr. Hunter. I left the papers with your editor, and then I heard about my father. He was a good man. He did not deserve to die. I have tried your office, but they said you had gone home. I will try again at four.’
Hunter looked at his watch. It was just after half past three. He ferreted in his kitchen and found one of Elaine’s bottles of marc, poured generous measures for himself and both the Russians, and sat down by his telephone to wait.
The telephone rang on the dot of the hour. ‘You know about my father?’ Joanna Cradock's voice was terse and very controlled, the voice of a woman under great pressure.
Hunter nodded. ‘I was with him. I’m sorry.’
She was silent for a long moment before speaking again. ‘He was a good man. I loved him.’ Now her voice had a brittle edge, as though about to break. ‘He died doing what he thought was right.’
‘I know.’ Hunter racked his brains for a way to say what he must say, but could find no words.
‘When will you publish your report?’
‘I can't.’ Hunter took a deep breath. ‘It's been scrapped.’
‘What?’ Joanna Cradock's voice climbed sharply in disbelief.
‘The Prime Minister rang the chairman of Financeday before lunch. He scrapped it. I'm leaving the paper.’
‘I see.’ Hunter heard what sounds like a muffled sob, and then she spoke again, and now her voice was breaking. ‘Can you take it to anybody else?’
‘No, I don't think so.’
‘So he died for no reason at all?’
Hunter racked his brains again, but he could not reply.
The telephone clicked, and it was an end.
Hunter picked up his marc and drained it at a single gulp. He felt on the verge of tears himself, but he could not cry; he had betrayed a trust, but he could never have kept it. He felt like a traitor, but it was through no fault of his own. He took a deep breath, and levered himself to his feet to find more alcohol.
The telephone rang again. This time it was Gorbodey, calling on a mobile from somewhere in the Chilterns. He was euphoric, his blue-eyed nurse had been gentleness and sweetness incarnate, and he was in love with Hunter's car.
Hunter explained quickly - he was in no mood for lengthy post-mortems.
Gorbodey's euphoria transmuted instantly into compassion. ‘My poor friend.’ His voice ebbed, he was plainly explaining developments to his nurse, and then returned, strong with sympathy. ‘We come back now, and meet you at Jim's.’
Hunter mobilised the two young Russians, and left his mobile on top of his television. He was going out to get paralytic, and the world could go to hell.
Nash's club slept. A man was vacuuming the lobby lethargically, and made dismissing signs as the Mercedes purred to a halt outside. Hunter limped across the pavement to try and open the glass double doors, but they were locked tight, and the man with the vacuum ignored him totally.
One of the Russians held up a mobile. Hunter punched Nash's number, and waited impatiently. A girl's voice answered, and he recognised it as Chloe's.
‘Mr. Nash is in a meeting.’ Her tone was cool and efficient.
‘I'm outside with two of the Russians.’ Hunter was past observing formalities, or attempting to identify himself. He sought only a quiet dark corner, and enough alcohol to bear him away to oblivion. He could regroup in the morning, and no doubt Cosgrave's celebration would set him off on a new path. But right now he knew only that he was a coward, and he was ashamed of himself.
‘Oh, it's you.’ Chloe's coolness melted a little. Hunter could hear her speaking, but now her voice was muffled, as if she was covering her telephone with her hand, and then she returned. ‘We'll send someone down.’
One of the Russians got out of the Mercedes to stand at Hunter's side. He had his hand tucked inside his jacket, and every few moments he looked up and down the empty street.
Hunter smiled slightly. ‘I think the war was over.’
The Russian shrugged. ‘It is habit. It is good to practise.’
‘For...’ Hunter let his voice trail away.
‘For whatever.’ Now the Russian smiled. ‘Security must never sleep.’
The double doors behind them rattled. The black man with the aviator shades had begun to unfasten locks and catches. He eyed the Mercedes and beckoned to the man with the vacuum. ‘Show the driver where to park.’
He waited for the car to drive off, and locked up carefully again as Hunter and his bodyguard waited in the lobby. Hunter was curious, despite his grief. He patted the Russian’s jacket.
‘What is it?’
The Russian slipped his hand back inside his jacket to come out holding a small black automatic pistol, flourished it for a fraction of a second, and slipped it back into its holster. ‘Nine millimetre, very good over short distance.’
The black man eyed the gun and backed away with an air of deep distrust. ‘Mr. Nash is upstairs. I'll follow you.’
Chloe was already waiting for them in the middle of Nash's VIP Suite. She smiled slightly and waved to a table. ‘Mr. Nash is tied up for a moment. He'll be with you in a minute, and meanwhile I'll get you some coffee.’
Hunter and the two young Russians stood staring at her hopefully. She frowned slightly, and then her face cleared. ‘I suppose you want something stronger?’ Her voice was as much confirmation as question.
Hunter nodded. ‘We've had a hard day.’
She inspected him coolly. ‘So I can see.’ She began to walk towards the bar. ‘What do you want?’
Hunter looked at the Russians – the Mercedes driver had rejoined them.
‘Whisky.’ Both spoke as one.
Chloe unlocked the bar, stepped inside, and reached for three glasses. She held one under a whisky dispenser, and then turned to look at them a little doubtfully. ‘I don't think I'm doing this the right way. Shall I just give you a bottle, and let you get on with it?’
Hunter and the two Russians waited.
She bent to take a bottle from a case, and placed it on a small tray with the glasses.
‘I've got to go back, so I'll leave you to it.’ She smiled again. ‘It should last you until Mr. Nash is free.’
Hunter and the two young Russians made themselves comfortable at a table and filled their glasses. The Russian with the gun suddenly smiled.
‘She likes you.’
Hunter swallowed a generous mouthful of scotch. ‘Maybe tomorrow. Tonight I'm going to get drunk.’
Nash arrived a few minutes later. He was in a jovial mood - he was back in Wonders, just for the ride, and the price had ended official trading at a record high. He poured himself some whisky and eyed Hunter. ‘How did it go?’
He listened as Hunter reprised his interview with Goodman, and Archell's decision, and looked sympathetic. ‘You must have been choked.’
Hunter swallowed more whisky. Sympathy would solve nothing, and now his future was out of his hands. He shrugged - alcohol was on its way to the rescue. ‘No choice.’
‘S'pose not.’ Nash looked a little abashed, and then brightened. ‘But you'll have the dosh.’
‘Lucky me.’ Hunter's voice was bitter.
He sensed somebody standing behind him. It was Chloe. She was holding a Standard folded open at the City page. ‘Don't knock riches - they're handy to have around.’ She made eyes at him. Perhaps she had misjudged him, and been a bit hard.
Hunter sighed. ‘Money isn't everything.’ He slurred his words slightly.
‘You'll be a star.’ Nash spoke admiringly. Top City men were handy to have around.
Chloe dropped the paper on the table. The City page was all about the wonder of Wonders. Hunter scanned it quickly, and turned to the front page to take a look at the lead story. He was no longer a journalist, but he still had a journalist's professional curiosity.
Then he stared, transfixed. A picture of Joanna Cradock took up the centre of the front page, and the headline was compelling. ‘Diplomat's daughter in suicide blaze.’
The story reported that firemen called to a blaze at a house in Hammersmith had found the body of Joanna Cradock, daughter of a retired diplomat, dead in a sucide bid less than twenty-four hours after her father's death in a Trafalgar Square car crash.
Hunter dropped the paper, and closed his eyes. Suddenly he was alone, more alone than he had ever been. The shadow of death stood at his shoulder, and he knew that he could never forget, and the knowledge was a bitter start to a new life.