Amsterdam (16 page)

“Ah, Linley. Is one of those for me?”

“No. And kindly bugger off.”

He would have been happy to give Lanark the drink in his right hand. Clive half turned away, but the critic was drunk and looking to have fun.

“I’ve been hearing about your latest. Is it really called the Millennial Symphony?”

“No. The press called it that,” Clive said stiffly.

“I’ve been hearing all about it. They say you’ve ripped off Beethoven something rotten.”

“Go away.”

“I suppose you’d call it sampling. Or postmodern quotation. But aren’t you meant to be premodern?”

“If you don’t go away I shall smack your stupid face.”

“Then you’d better give me one of those to free up a hand.”

As Clive was looking round for somewhere to put down the drinks, he saw Vernon coming toward him with a big smile. Unfortunately, he had two full glasses of his own.

“Clive!”

“Vernon!”

“Ah.” Lanark mimicked adulation. “The Flea itself.”

“Look,” Clive said. “I had a drink all ready for you.”

“And I got one for you.”

“Well …”

They each presented a glass to Lanark. Then Vernon offered a glass to Clive, and Clive gave his to Vernon.

“Cheers!”

Vernon gave Clive a nod and a meaningful look and then turned to Lanark.

“I recently saw your name on a list of some very distinguished people. Judges, chief constables, top business people, government ministers …”

Lanark flushed with pleasure. “All this stuff about a knighthood is complete nonsense.”

“It’s certain to be. This concerns a children’s home in Wales. Top-notch pedophile ring. You were videoed going in and out half a dozen times. We were thinking of running a piece before I got bounced, but I’m sure someone else will pick it up.”

For at least ten seconds Lanark stood erect and motionless, with military dignity, elbows tucked in at his sides, champagnes held out before him, and a remote grin frozen on his lips. The warning signs were a certain bulge and glaze in the eye and an upward rippling movement in his throat, a reverse peristalsis.

“Watch out!” Vernon cried. “Get back!”

They just managed to leap clear of the arced contents of Lanark’s stomach. The gallery was suddenly silent. Then, with an extended, falling glissando of disgust, the whole string section, plus flutes and piccolo, surged toward the brass, leaving the music critic and
his deed—an early evening
frites
and mayonnaise on Oude Hoogstraat—illuminated under a lonely chandelier. Clive and Vernon were borne away with the crowd, and as they drew level with the door were able to extricate themselves and step into the calm of the lobby. They settled themselves on a banquette and continued sipping their champagne.

“Better than hitting him,” Clive said. “Was any of it true?”

“I didn’t used to think so.”

“Cheers again.”

“Cheers. And look, I meant what I said. I really am sorry about sending the police round to you. It was appalling behavior. Unconditional, groveling apologies.”

“Don’t mention it again. I’m terribly sorry about your job and all that business. You really were the best.”

“Let’s shake on it, then. Friends.”

“Friends.”

Vernon emptied his glass, yawned, and stood. “Well, look, if we’re having supper together, I might take a short nap. I’m feeling quite whacked.”

“You’ve had a heavy week. I think I’ll take a bath. See you down here in about an hour?”

“Fine.”

Clive watched Vernon slouch away to collect his key from the desk. Standing at the foot of the grand
double staircase were a man and a woman who met Clive’s gaze and nodded. A moment later they followed Vernon up the stairs and Clive took a couple of turns around the lobby. Then he collected his own key and went to his room.

Minutes later he was standing in the bathroom barefoot but otherwise fully clothed, bending over the tub, trying to manipulate the shimmering gold-plated mechanism that stopped the plug hole. It needed to be simultaneously lifted and turned, and he didn’t seem to have the knack. Meanwhile, the heated marble floor was communicating through the soles of his feet a reminder of sensuous fatigue. White nights in South Ken, mayhem in the police station, accolades in the Concertgebouw; he’d had a heavy week too. A short nap, then, before his bath. Back in the bedroom he floated free of his trousers, loosened his shirt, and with a moan of pleasure abandoned himself to the giant bed. The gold satin bedspread caressed his thighs, and he experienced an ecstasy of exhausted surrender. Everything was good. Soon he would be in New York to see Susie Marcellan, and that forgotten, buttoned-down part of him would flourish again. Lying here in this glorious silkiness—even the air in this expensive room was silky—he would have been writhing in pleasurable anticipation if he could have been bothered to move his legs. Perhaps if he put his mind to it, if he could stop thinking about work for a week, he could bring himself to
fall in love with Susie. She was a good sort, straight down the line, she was a trouper, she’d stick by him. At the thought, he was overcome by a sudden deep affection for himself as just the sort of person one should stick by, and he felt a tear run down his cheekbone and tickle his ear. He couldn’t quite be troubled to wipe it away. And no need, for walking across the room toward him now was Molly, Molly Lane! And some fellow in tow. Her pert little mouth, the big black eyes, and a new haircut—a bob—seemed just right. What a wonderful woman.

“Molly!” Clive managed to croak. “I’m sorry I can’t get up …”

“Poor Clive.”

“I’m so tired …”

She put a cool hand to his forehead. “Darling, you’re a genius. The symphony is pure magic.”

“You were at the rehearsal? I didn’t see you.”

“You were too busy and grand to notice me. Look, I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

Clive had met most of Molly’s lovers in his time, but he couldn’t quite place this one.

Socially adept as always, Molly leaned over and murmured in Clive’s ear.

“You’ve met him before. It’s Paul Lanark.”

“Of course it is. I didn’t recognize him with the beard.”

“The thing is, Clivey-poo, he wants your signature, but he’s too shy to ask.”

Clive was determined to make everything all right for Molly and put Lanark at his ease.

“No, no. I don’t mind at all.”

“I’d be terribly grateful,” Lanark said as he pushed pen and paper toward him.

“Honestly, you shouldn’t feel embarrassed to ask.” Clive scrawled his name.

“And here too, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s no bother at all, really it isn’t.”

The effort of writing was almost too much and he had to lie back. Molly moved in closer again.

“Darling, I’m going to give you one little telling-off, then I’ll never mention it again. But you know, I really needed your help that day in the Lake District.”

“Oh God! I didn’t realize it was you, Molly.”

“You always put your work first, and perhaps that’s right.”

“Yes. No. I mean, if I’d known it was you, I’d’ve shown that thin-faced fellow a thing or two.”

“Of course you would.” She put her hand on his wrist and shone a little torch into his eyes. What a woman!

“My arm’s so hot,” Clive whispered.

“Poor Clive. That’s why I’m rolling your sleeve up, silly. Now, Paul wants to show you what he really
thinks of your work by sticking a huge needle in your arm.”

The music critic did exactly that, and it hurt. Some praise did. But one thing Clive had learned over a lifetime was how to accept a compliment.

“Well, thanks a lot,” he yodeled through a whimper. “You’re too kind. I don’t make much claim for it myself, but anyway, I’m glad you like it, really, thanks awfully …”

From the perspective of the Dutch doctor and nurse, the composer lifted his head and, before closing his eyes, seemed to attempt, from his pillow, the most modest of bows.

For the first time in the day, Vernon found himself alone. His plan was simple. He quietly closed the door to the outer office, kicked off his shoes, switched off his phone, swept the papers and books from his desk, and lay on it. There were still five minutes before morning conference and there was no harm in snatching a quick snooze. He had done it before, and it must be in the paper’s interests to have him in top form. As he settled,
he had an image of himself as a massive statue dominating the lobby of Judge House, a great reclining figure hewn from granite: Vernon Halliday, man of action, editor. At rest. But only temporarily, because conference was due to start and already—dammit—people were wandering in. He should have told Jean to keep them out. He loved the stories told in pubs at lunchtimes of the editors of old: the great V. T. Halliday, you know, of Pategate fame, who used to conduct his morning conferences
lying on his desk
. They had to pretend not to notice. No one dared say a thing.
Shoeless
. These days they’re all bland little men, jumped-up accountants. Or women in black trouser suits. A large gin and tonic, did you say? V. T., of course, did that famous front page. Pushed all the copy and
let the picture tell the story
. That was when newspapers really mattered.

Shall we begin? They were all here. Frank Dibben, and standing next to him—pleasant surprise—Molly Lane. It was a matter of principle with Vernon not to confuse his personal and professional lives, so he gave her no more than a businesslike nod. Beautiful woman, though. Smart idea of hers, to go blond. And smart idea of his to take her on. Strictly on the basis of her brilliant work for Paris
Vogue
. The great M. L. Lane.
Never tidied her apartment. Never washed a dish
.

Without even propping his head on his elbow, Vernon started in on the postmortem. Somehow a pillow
had appeared under his head. This one would please the grammarians. He had in mind a piece written by Dibben.

“I’ve said this before,” he said. “I’ll say it again. A panacea can’t be used for one particular illness. It’s a universal remedy. A panacea for cancer doesn’t make sense.”

Frank Dibben had the gall to come right over to Vernon. “I happen to disagree,” the deputy foreign editor said. “Cancer can take many forms. A panacea for cancer is perfectly good idiomatic use.”

Frank had the advantage of height, but Vernon remained supine on his desk to demonstrate that he was not intimidated.

“I don’t wish to see it again in my newspaper,” he said calmly.

“But that’s not my main point,” Frank said. “I’d like you to sign my expenses.” He had a sheet of paper in his hand, and a pen.

The great F. S. Dibben.
Raised his expenses to an art form
.

It was an outrageous request. In conference! Rather than stoop to argue, Vernon pressed on. This also was for Frank, from the same piece.

“This is 1996, not 1896. If you mean
deny
, don’t write
gainsay
.”

It was a matter of some disappointment to Vernon that Molly should approach now to plead Dibben’s
case. But of course! Molly and Frank. He should have guessed. She was plucking at Vernon’s shirtsleeve, she was using her personal connection with the editor to promote the interests of her current lover. She was bending over to whisper in Vernon’s ear.

“Darling, he’s owed. We need the money. We’re setting up together in this sweet little place on the rue de Seine …”

She truly was a beautiful woman, and he had never been able to resist her, not since she had taught him how to roast porcini.

“All right. Quickly. But we must get on.”

“In two places,” Frank said. “Top and bottom.”

Vernon wrote “V. T. Halliday, editor” twice, and it seemed to take him half an hour. When at last he had done, he continued with his remarks. Molly was rolling up his shirtsleeve, but to ask her why would have been yet another distraction. Dibben too was still hanging around Vernon’s desk. He couldn’t be bothered with either of them just now. He had too much on his mind. His heart raced as he found a higher oracular style.

“Turning to the Middle East. This paper is well known for its pro-Arab line. We shall, however, be fearless in condemning, um, atrocities on both sides …”

Vernon would never tell anyone about the scorching pain in his upper arm, and that he had just begun to grasp, though feebly, where he really was and what
must have been in his champagne and who these visitors were.

But he did interrupt his speech and fall silent for a while, and then at last murmured reverentially, “It’s a spoiler.”

That week the prime minister decided on a cabinet reshuffle, and it was generally reckoned that despite the tide of public opinion running in Garmony’s favor, it was the
Judge’s
photograph that did for him. Within a day the ex—foreign secretary discovered, in the corridors of party headquarters and down among the backbenchers, that there was little appetite now for his November challenge; in the country at large the politics of emotion may have bestowed forgiveness, or at least tolerance, but politicians do not favor such vulnerability in a would-be leader. His fate was the very obscurity the editor of the
Judge
had wished on him. Julian Garmony was therefore able to make his way to the airport VIP lounge, to which his recent status still afforded him access, unencumbered by state papers and
unattended by civil servants. He found George Lane pouring himself a scotch at the free bar.

“Ah, Julian. Join me, won’t you?”

The two men had not seen each other since Molly’s funeral and shook hands warily. Garmony had heard rumors that it was Lane who had sold the photographs; Lane did not know how much Garmony knew. Garmony in turn was uncertain about Lane’s attitude to his affair with Molly. Lane did not know whether Garmony realized just how much he, George, despised him. They were to travel to Amsterdam together to escort the coffins back to England, George as an old friend of the Hallidays and as Vernon’s sponsor on the
Judge
, Julian at the behest of the Linley Trust, as Clive’s advocate in cabinet. The trustees were hoping the ex—foreign secretary’s presence might expedite the paperwork that dogs the international dispatch of a corpse.