Like Declan on his way to the village shop that morning, she returned to Penscombe with a feeling of optimism. She found messages from Mrs Bodkin that Rupert had rung twice, Freddie three times and Declan four.
Going into the kitchen, she poured herself a large vodka and tonic and decided to scribble down some ideas for the ‘Step’ programme while it was still in her head. Searching for a biro on the kitchen shelf, she found the yellow sachet that had been included with the flowers that Tony had sent her after he beat her up, which you were supposed to add to the water to make the flowers last longer. Stabbed with sudden misery, she wished she could sprinkle the sachet on Rupert to prolong their relationship.
With a lurch of apprehension, she heard the dogs barking in the hall. Not Rupert, the welcome wasn’t clamorous enough, but it was obviously someone they knew. She went into the hall.
‘Declan!’ Her face lit up. ‘Sorry I didn’t call back. I’ve had a great idea for a programme.’
‘On treachery?’ asked Declan bleakly. ‘You’re an expert on that subject.’
‘What are you talking about? Do you want a drink?’
‘No thanks.’ He followed her into the drawing-room. ‘You seen The Times?’
‘Haven’t seen any papers. I’ve been playing hookey.’
Declan picked up The Times from the table. It took him ages to find the right page.
‘Here.’ He thrust it at her.
‘What a crazy photo of Tony,’ she said, settling down on the sofa for a good read. ‘They’ve made him look almost benign. Oh my God,’ she whispered a minute later, the laughter vanishing from her face. ‘I don’t believe it. How the fuck did he find out?’
‘You tell me.’
Something chilling in his tone made her look up in alarm. He had moved close and seemed to tower above her, his legs in the grey trousers rising like two trunks of beech trees, the massive shoulders blocking out the light, and, in his deathly pale face, the implacable ever-watchful eyes of the Inquisitor.
Cameron shivered. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I saw you plotting with Tony on Friday night.’
‘He was waiting for me when I came out of the John, for Chrissake.’
‘So Freddie and I had him followed.’
Cameron’s eyes flickered.
‘You’re not going to tell me you and Tony were talking just about cucumber sandwiches for an hour and a half in the Royal Garden yesterday afternoon,’ said Declan.
Cameron suddenly looked the picture of guilt.
‘Sure I saw him. We had tea. I needed advice on, on —’ she flushed scarlet — ‘a personal matter.’
‘You gave him all our programme plans, just as last month you told him the names of all the moles. No doubt he’s got lots of other info about Venturer up his pinstriped sleeve for the meeting tomorrow.’
Cameron looked furious and terrified now — the hawk cornered by her captor about to strike.
‘I didn’t tell him anything.’
‘You bloody liar,’ thundered Declan. ‘How long have you been spying for him? Ever since the beginning, since Rupert got his legover in Madrid?’
‘How could I possibly spy for Tony?’ she screamed. ‘He beat me up, for Chrissake. This —’ she waved The Times piece at Declan — ‘sabotages everything we’ve worked for. Someone else leaked it.’
‘Why did you bother to go to London on the worst day of the winter?’ snarled Declan.
Blue, the lurcher, who’d been hovering nervously, jumped up on the sofa beside Cameron and, glaring at Declan, started to whine querulously at him. The other dogs licked their lips. Beaver slunk out of the room.
‘Blue believes me,’ pleaded Cameron. ‘Why the fuck should I come to Ireland, and work so hard on the programme plans, if I was spying for Tony? He’s given my old job to Ailie Bristoe.’
‘That’s a front.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Cameron furiously. ‘Is this some kind of a nightmare? Are you back at Corinium? Am I your guest tonight? Where’s the fucking thumbscrews and the rack, or do you use electrodes and knee-capping like the fucking IRA?’
Grabbing her arm, Declan yanked her to her feet.
‘No one else knew about Dermot MacBride. How much else have you told him?’
Ignoring the low growl from Blue, he started to shake her like a rat.
‘You arrogant, pig-headed Irish asshole,’ yelled Cameron. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’
Maddened because she’d let him down, violent because he felt guilty about wanting her so much, Declan slapped her very hard across the face. The next minute Blue leapt at him, burying his teeth in Declan’s arm.
‘Leave!’ screamed Cameron. ‘Leave, Blue.’ Grabbing the dog’s collar she tugged him off, then, almost carrying him back onto the sofa beside her, collapsed sobbing into his shaggy coat.
Pulling himself together, Declan lit two cigarettes, but, as he handed one to Cameron, Blue gave another ominous growl.
‘It’s OK, boy,’ gasped Cameron.
She wiped her eyes frantically on her sleeve, then took the lighted cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she felt she was drawing the fires of hell into her lungs. Blue struggled up on his front paws and licked her face.
‘My only friend,’ she said tonelessly. ‘You’d better have a tetanus jab,’ she added to Declan.
Massaging his arm, Declan retreated to a respectable distance in front of the empty fireplace.
‘OK, what was the personal problem? And why Tony?’
‘I know he’s a shit, but sometimes I figure he’s the only person in the world who truly cares for me.’
‘After beating you up?’
Cameron fingered her reddened cheek and shrugged. ‘Seems to be catching.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Cameron took a deep breath. ‘I saw Tony because Rupert doesn’t love me any more, and I can’t handle it.’
‘Just because he was bloody-minded at the ball,’ said Declan scornfully. ‘We’re all uptight at the moment.’
Cameron’s lip was trembling again. ‘Rupert doesn’t give a shit about the franchise. All he cares about is Taggie.’
‘Taggie?’ said Declan, flabbergasted. ‘My Taggie? Are you out of your mind?’
‘He saw her when we were in Ireland. In his bottom desk drawer, under the lining paper, he’s hidden pictures of her with his kids.’ Cameron gave a sob. ‘And he’s also kept some totally illiterate thank-you letter she sent him.’
Declan was utterly appalled.
‘Rupert and Taggie,’ he growled so furiously that Blue started rumbling back at him, like rival storms across a valley. ‘I’m not having that profligate bastard laying a finger on Taggie.’
‘But it’s OK for him to finger me,’ hissed Cameron, ‘I’m only a mole.’
Earlier that afternoon Rupert had flown in from Rome and gone straight to his office in Whitehall. Ignoring a long list of telephone messages, he signed his letters, gathered up the rest of the post, made sure he was paired for the Finance debate that evening and set out for Gloucestershire. Slumped in the corner of a first-class carriage with his hand round a large Bell’s, he looked at the snowy landscape turned electric blue in the twilight. Even in London it wasn’t thawing. It had been a wasted visit to Rome. He’d made no contribution to the International Olympics Conference. He hadn’t been able to sleep, or eat, or think straight, he was so haunted by the image of Taggie and Basil on the Bar Sinister balcony, or of Taggie’s gasping with pleasure in Basil’s expert embrace.
He tried to concentrate on the Standard, but beyond the fact that Corinium shares had unaccountably rocketed, and Patric Walker forecast a stormy day for him tomorrow, and warned Cancers, which was Taggie’s sign, to ignore all outside influences, he couldn’t take anything in. Sitting opposite, an enchanting blonde was eyeing him with discreet but definite interest. Glancing at her slim knees above very shiny black boots, Rupert reflected that by now, in the old days, he would have bought her a large vodka and tonic and been investigating the prospect of a quick bang at the Station Hotel, Cotchester — if not at Penscombe. What the hell was happening to him? His secretary in London had given him a carrier bag of Christmas cards to sign for constituents and party workers. Wearily he scribbled Rupert Campbell-Black in a few, but not love, not for anyone in the world except that feckless Taggie.