Debbie muttered something, but Connor ignored her.
‘Bowes,’ he said. ‘You haven’t said a word.’
A new silence began — moment after moment of embarrassment that quickly accumulated, became exquisite.
‘Bowes?’ Connor said.
At last Neil cleared his throat. ‘There’s an old Chinese proverb: “The wisest man lets others speak for him.’”
Connor stared at Neil for a few seconds, then his shoulders began to shake. ‘That’s good, Bowes. That’s very good. “The wisest man —”’ Connor was laughing.
The meeting broke up in an atmosphere of surreal good humour. Even Debbie had smiled at the proverb.
Jimmy followed Neil and Debbie across the boardroom to the door, then he paused, allowing them to go on without him. When they had disappeared round the corner, he turned back. Connor was writing in a small black notebook.
‘How much do you know about the source?’ Jimmy asked.
Connor glanced round. ‘Almost nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s believed to be someone who participated in the programme.’
‘So they saw through it, somehow?’
‘It would appear so.’
For the rest of the morning Jimmy worked at his desk, but he found it hard to concentrate. The documents that he was dealing with seemed artificial, hollow. The lines of type were just shapes on a page; they had no meaning. Whenever he looked up, everything around him appeared unnaturally bright and quiet.
At lunchtime he ran into Neil outside the lifts.
‘That proverb,’ he said.
‘I made it up.’ Neil looked at his floor. ‘He bought it, though, didn’t he. Bit worrying, that.’
The doors opened and Jimmy followed Neil into the lift. Once the doors had closed, Neil turned and faced him. ‘What part did you play in all this, Jimmy?’
‘It was my idea.’
The distances between Neil’s features seemed to grow.
‘It was only an idea,’ Jimmy said. ‘I mean, I never really thought —’ He cut the sentence short, unsure where it was leading.
‘What’s going to happen?’ Neil said.
Jimmy frowned. ‘It’s hard to say. I imagine he’s been in situations like this before, though.’
‘Yes,’ Neil said. ‘I imagine he has.’
That night Jimmy woke up suddenly, the covers thrown aside, the sweat on his chest already cold. A dream came back to him in its entirety. He had been to dinner with Margaret Thatcher. There were others present, perhaps a dozen in all, the men in evening dress, the women wearing jewels. On the dining-table stood silver candelabras, flower arrangements, bowls of fruit. He sat on Thatcher’s right and for most of the night she had talked to him, talked to him as if she knew him well, as if they were close friends. He could still see her leaning towards him as she spoke, one hand on his wrist for emphasis. That hair, that nose. That voice.
Thatcher!
He couldn’t remember what it was that she’d been saying, only that she’d been confiding in him and that her conversation had been littered both with intimate details of her life and with the names of great world leaders. He had to admit that, despite himself, he had been flattered by her attentions, if a little mystified. There had even been a moment when he thought: Should you be telling me all this?
After dinner he found himself standing in the library. Wing-backed chairs, wood-panelling. Books bound in leather, brown and red and gold. At first he assumed he was alone. But then he realised someone was in the room with him. He turned round, saw Thatcher sitting beside a crackling log fire. She seemed to be asleep, her hands in her lap, her mouth slightly ajar. He approached her, spoke to her. She didn’t answer. He touched her shoulder. She didn’t wake. He shook her gently and her head fell sideways until her chin was resting on her collar-bone. Then he understood. She wasn’t asleep at all. She was dead.
He moved to the library window, which was tall and had no curtains. The land fell away in front of him. He could see the lights of the city below him and, beyond the lights, an area of darkness which he knew to be the sea. It was late now. One in the morning, maybe two. He stood at the library window and looked out over the city. Thatcher’s dead, he thought, and I’m the only one who knows.
One arm cushioning his head, he lay in bed, struck by the wealth of detail in the dream, its unusual precision. Then, closing his eyes, he turned over and went back to sleep.
At half-past seven he woke again. He dressed quickly and drank a black coffee standing in his kitchen. Outside, the sun was veiled in thin white cloud. It would burn off later.
On his way to the tube he bought a newspaper. Thatcher did not appear to have died during the night. In fact, there was no mention of her on the front page at all. Even so, for the next few hours, he felt as if he had been caught up in extraordinary events, as if he had somehow stumbled into history.
On Wednesday evening, at nine o’clock, he parked his car in Bridle Lane and then walked north, towards Marshall Street. When he reached the swimming-pool, Karen Paley was leaning against the wall outside, a short flared skirt exposing her bare legs, her hair already dry.
‘You got the message, then,’ she said.
He smiled.
On Tuesday Bob had called him from the lobby. A package had arrived for him by hand. Things had been so tense that week that Jimmy viewed this unexpected delivery with some suspicion. Could it be a communication from the journalist? Inside the package he found a pair of swimming-goggles — and that was all. What did it mean? Closer examination of the goggles revealed a message written on the inside of the rubber strap you slip over your head: MARSHALL STREET. TOMORROW. 9 P.M.
He kissed Karen lightly on the cheek, thinking it was strange how erotic even the faintest smell of chlorine had become for him.
‘I’m sorry about Saturday,’ he said. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
‘That’s all right. A woman came and told me.’
They walked slowly in the direction of his car. It was another hot night — the temperature still up in the seventies, even after dark. People would be eating in their gardens, sleeping under single sheets. And Lambert in the city somewhere, putting slaves to death. Figuratively speaking, of course.
‘How did it go?’ he asked.
‘I came second.’
‘Out of fifty? That’s pretty good, isn’t it?’
She sighed. ‘There’s a figure they asked us to do. It’s called the Knight. I can never seem to get it right.’
‘What’s so difficult about it?’
She started to explain and then broke off with a smile. ‘Almost everything,’ she said.
He didn’t know what she expected from the evening — which, after all, had been her idea this time. He didn’t know what he expected either. He remembered something Simone had said when he told her he had a date with a synchronised swimmer. Well, there have got to be some pretty interesting positions. He smiled to himself. After the hours he’d put in recently, it felt like a release just to be out.
‘I’m not really your kind of girl, am I,’ Karen said suddenly.
‘Aren’t you?’ Still smiling, he turned to her.
‘You’ve only seen me twice,’ she said, ‘and then only for a couple of minutes. You might have made a mistake.’
He noticed her profile for the first time, and how her top lip curled upwards, back on itself, which made her look both trusting and provocative. He wanted to kiss her.
‘You don’t know what I’m like,’ she said. ‘You might be disappointed.’ She paused. ‘You might think I’m boring.’
‘Why would I think that?’
‘I don’t drink, I don’t smoke. I don’t go to clubs —’