Amsterdam (17 page)

They carried their drinks through the packed lounge—most people were VIPs these days—and discovered a relatively empty corner by the door to the lavatories.

“To the departed.”

“The departed.”

Garmony thought for a moment, then said, “Look, since we’re in this together, we may as well get it out of the way. Was it you who supplied the pictures?”

George Lane drew himself up a useful inch and said in a pained tone, “As a businessman I’ve been a loyal supporter and contributor to party funds. What would be in it for me? Halliday must have been sitting on them, waiting for his moment.”

“I heard there were bids for the copyright.”

“Molly assigned the copyright to Linley. He might have made a few quid. I didn’t like to ask.”

Garmony, sipping his scotch, reflected that the
Judge
was bound to protect its sources. If Lane was lying, he did it well. If he wasn’t, then Linley and all his works be damned.

Their flight was called. As the two were going down the stairs to the waiting limousine, George put his hand on Julian’s arm and said, “You know, I think you came out of it bloody well.”

“Oh really?” Without seeming to, Garmony moved his arm away.

“Oh yes. Most men would have hanged themselves for far less.”

An hour and a half later they were being driven through the streets of Amsterdam in a Dutch government car.

Because they hadn’t spoken for rather a long while, George said airily, “I hear the Birmingham premiere has been postponed.”

“Canceled, actually. Giulio Bo says it’s a dud. Half the BSO refuse to play it. Apparently there’s a tune at
the end, shameless copy of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, give or take a note or two.”

“No wonder he killed himself.”

The bodies were being held in a little mortuary in the basement of the main Amsterdam police station. As he and Lane were being led down the concrete stairs, Garmony wondered if there was a similar secret place beneath Scotland Yard. He would never find out now. The official identifications were made. The ex-minister was drawn aside for a discussion with Dutch Interior Ministry officials, leaving George Lane to contemplate the faces of his old friends. They looked surprisingly at peace. Vernon had his lips parted slightly, as though he were halfway through saying something interesting, while Clive had the happy air of a man drowning in applause.

Soon Garmony and Lane were being driven back through the city center. Both men were lost in their own thoughts.

“I’ve just been told something rather interesting,” Garmony said after a while. “The press have got it wrong. We all have. It wasn’t a double suicide at all. They poisoned each other. They had each other destroyed with God knows what. It was mutual murder.”

“My God!”

“Turns out there are these rogue doctors here, pushing the euthanasia laws to the limits. Mostly they get paid for bumping off people’s elderly relatives.”

“Funny, that,” George said. “I think the
Judge
ran a piece on it.”

He turned away to look out of his window. They were passing at walking pace down Brouwersgracht. Such a pleasant, well-ordered street. On the corner was a spruce little coffeehouse, probably selling drugs.

“Ah,” he sighed at last. “The Dutch and their reasonable laws.”

“Quite,” Garmony said. “When it comes to being reasonable, they rather go over the top.”

Late in the afternoon, back in England, having settled the business of the coffins at Heathrow and passed through customs and then spotted their respective drivers, Garmony and Lane shook hands and parted, the former to spend more time with his family in Wiltshire, the latter to call on Mandy Halliday.

George had his car stop at the far end of her street so he could walk for a few minutes. He needed to plan what he would say to Vernon’s widow. But instead, as he strolled through the cool and soothing dusk, past ample Victorian villas, past the sounds of the first lawnmowers of this early spring, he found his thoughts turning pleasantly in other directions: Garmony beaten down, and trussed up nicely by his lying wife’s denials of his affair at her press conference, and now Vernon out of the way,
and
Clive. All in all, things hadn’t turned out so badly on the former-lovers front. This
surely would be a good time to start thinking about a memorial service for Molly.

George reached the Hallidays’ house and paused on the front steps. He’d known Mandy for years. A great girl. Used to be rather wild. Perhaps it was not too soon to ask her out to dinner.

Yes, a memorial service. St. Martin’s rather than St. James’s, which was favored these days by credulous types who read the sort of books he himself published. St. Martin’s, then, and he alone would make the speech, and no one else. No former lovers exchanging glances. He smiled, and as he raised his hand to touch the doorbell, his mind was already settling luxuriously on the fascinating matter of the guest list.