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    The Social Magus: Tales of MI7, #5
    The Social Magus: Tales of MI7, #5
    The Social Magus: Tales of MI7, #5
    Ebook398 pages4 hours

    The Social Magus: Tales of MI7, #5

    By James Ward

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    "John Mordred comes alive on the page and is a character readers will not soon forget." – The Booklife Review.

     

    Everyone knows UK general elections aren't what they used to be. British politics, Westminster in particular, is mired in an integrity crisis. Expenses scandals, cash for questions, a tainted honours system and other wrong-turns have created a deeply disillusioned electorate.

    Enter Real Alternative, a bold new party with a youthful, charismatic leader and a radical manifesto. True, it stands to win very few seats, but what really matters is that it has galvanised the young and apathetic. And it apparently has the establishment running scared.

    Yet RA may be more vulnerable than it looks. Who's funding it? No one quite knows. If its backers are foreign, that would constitute a clear breach of electoral commission rules - which would please a lot of people in Whitehall.

    Agent John Mordred is assigned to investigate. What looks at first like a routine probe soon becomes much more as, Inch by inch, the political becomes lethally personal.

    The Social Magus is the first of the Tales of MI7 series to be set almost entirely in London.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCool Millennium
    Release dateOct 25, 2016
    ISBN9781540145444
    The Social Magus: Tales of MI7, #5
    Author

    James Ward

    James Ward is the author of the Tales of MI7 series, as well as two volumes of poetry, a couple of philosophical works, some general fiction and a collection of ghost stories. His awards include the Oxford University Humanities Research Centre Philosophical Dialogues Prize, The Eire Writer’s Club Short Story Award, and the ‘Staffroom Monologue’ Award. His stories and essays have appeared in Falmer, Dark Tales and Comparative Criticism. He has an MA and a DPhil, both in Philosophy from Sussex University. He currently works as a secondary school teacher, and lives in East Sussex.

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      Book preview

      The Social Magus - James Ward

      The Social Magus

      Tales of MI7, Volume 5

      James Ward

      Published by Cool Millennium, 2016.

      This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

      THE SOCIAL MAGUS

      First edition. October 25, 2016.

      Copyright © 2016 James Ward.

      ISBN: 978-1540145444

      Written by James Ward.

      The Social Magus

      James Ward

      COOL MILLENNIUM BOOKS

      Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or means, without written permission.

      Copyright © James Ward 2015

      James Ward has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

      This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and events are the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. All resemblance to actual events, places, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      First published 2015

      A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

      The whole history of the world is summed up in the fact that, when nations are strong, they are not always just, and when they wish to be just, they are no longer strong. - Winston Churchill

      Cover picture taken by the author on 31 October 2014 shows St. Paul’s Cathedral.

      This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of trading or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including the condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      To my wife

      www.talesofmi7.com

      Other books in the same series:

      The original Tales of MI7

      Our Woman in Jamaica

      The Kramski Case

      The Girl from Kandahar

      The Vengeance of San Gennaro

      The John Mordred books

      The Eastern Ukraine Question

      The Social Magus

      Encounter With ISIS

      World War O

      The New Europeans

      Libya Story

      Little War in London

      The Square Mile Murder

      The Ultimate Londoner

      Death in a Half Foreign Country

      The BBC Hunters

      The Seductive Scent of Empire

      Humankind 2.0

      Ruby Parker’s Last Orders

      Tales of MI7 Spinoff

      Hannah and Soraya’s Fully Magic Generation-Y *Snowflake* Road Trip across America

      Contents

      Chapter 1: A Formal Retirement Meeting

      Chapter 2: Summons From Julia

      Chapter 3: Good Golly, Mr Brolly

      Chapter 4: So, Julia, We Meet at Last

      Chapter 5: The ‘One Hundred’ Question

      Chapter 6: The Great Mushroom Soup Fest

      Chapter 7: A Morning Walk to Hampstead Heath

      Chapter 8: The Fairly Magnificent Mr Tebloev

      Chapter 9: Oh, Come On, Everyone Loves a Logo Event

      Chapter 10: The Big Tragic Break Up

      Chapter 11: The Cunning Plan

      Chapter 12: Lots of Really Interesting Interviews

      Chapter 13: Yet Another Thames House Conflab

      Chapter 14: Burglars!

      Chapter 15: Two Ginormous Surprises

      Chapter 16: The Home Secretary Says Some Things

      Chapter 17: Alec Takes One For the Team

      Chapter 18: Outside the House of Commons

      Chapter 19: An Unwanted Meeting at Horse Guards Parade

      Chapter 20: And Lo, The Truth Will Make You Weep

      Chapter 21: Let’s All Go to Brighton

      Chapter 22: Get Chapman

      Chapter 23: London to Brighton to London, etc.

      Chapter 24: Professor William Bamford

      Chapter 25: Unexpected News About Smith & Whitby

      Chapter 26: Horvath Tries to Get Serious

      Chapter 27: All’s Well That Ends Well. Not.

      Chapter 28: The Big Flee North

      Chapter 29: Excerpts From On The Road

      Chapter 30: Hill’s Amazing Tale

      Chapter 31: Gotta Go Now, Guys

      Chapter 32: Much Ado About Quite a Lot, Really

      Chapter 33: Everything You Think You Know Is Wrong. Again.

      Other Books by James Ward

      Note on Language

      This novel was produced in the UK and uses British-English language conventions (‘authorise’ instead of ‘authorize’, ‘The government are’ instead of ‘the government is’, etc.)

      Chapter 1: A Formal Retirement Meeting

      MI7 MEETINGS: SOMETIMES the only way to survive them was to max up on coffee. Thankfully, today’s would be different. They were going to talk about – ta dah! - Constantius Sopa. An hour’s conflab about the craziest notion ever devised, bar one. But House of Fools had only been around since 2014, whereas Constantius Sopa, or Constantine Slope, or Constance Maria Soap Bar, or whatever he - or she - was called, had been around since the Crusades. Allegedly.

      And Gina would be there. After debating the significance of this, Mordred ducked into the gents’ toilet on the fourth floor of Thames House and raked his fingers through his blond curls to comb them. No effect. He stood a little over six feet, and had to stoop slightly to look directly at himself in the mirror. Twenty-eight, he was, that’s right, and damn good looking. No stubble, suit looking fresh from Saville Row, tie immaculate, knot as perfect as an M&S samosa.

      No, really, who was he fooling? He looked like a farmer defending a lawsuit. Anyway, he wasn’t interested in Gina. He was more interested in Sopa than in her. Than in anyone at all likely to be in that meeting. 3.50. Ten minutes till it kicked off. Should he make his way over? It was only two doors away. Maybe there’d be pre-meeting snacks. But no, it was MI7. There wouldn’t be anything. You were meant to live on stealth and patriotism, not canapés. 

      The door opened. Alec Cunningham walked in. Thirty-something-bigger-than-eight, balding with jet black hair that he probably dyed, tight-fitting suit, as was the fashion. For once, he didn’t look like the proverbial Japanese Crow on a Branch. But neither did he look happy.

      John Mordred, he said, as if to himself. I didn’t think you were senior enough.

      You assume I’m going to the Constantius Sopa meeting, I take it.

      And aren’t you?

      I’m going for a job interview, as a matter of fact. Station controller, Budapest.

      Cunningham was about to look in the mirror, but seemed to lose air. "What? No. Tell me you’re joking."

      What’s so funny about me being a station controller?

      You’re joking, right? You’re actually joking.

      Just because you trained me, it doesn’t mean it wasn’t always inevitable that I would leapfrog you at some point, and become your boss. No, come on. Alec was a bitter enough self-hater as it was. Added to which, he looked like he was going to cry. "But as it happens, I am joking. I’m actually going to the Constantius Sopa meeting."

      Cunningham shook his head. He trembled. Funny. Bloody funny.

      Would you actually want to be station controller in Budapest, or would you only want it because you think I might have got it?

      I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, you haven’t.

      Alec, I don’t know why you can’t be friendlier sometimes. You always act as if I’ve done something to harm you.

      Cunningham sighed and gave a lame apologetic smile. As everyone knows, I’ve got self-esteem issues. I don’t mean to get at you, John. It’s just teasing, filtered through the bitterness of a few divorces and a receding hairline. It nearly always comes out wrong. I like you, really. You get me. No one else does.

      Mordred laughed and gave his arm an affectionate slap. And I’m young and beautiful and I don’t need Viagra or a walking-frame.

      Don’t push your luck.

      You’re in your prime. Looking forward to the meeting?

      I expect to be bored rigid. An hour-long meeting about a fictitious personage, just so we can lay his – ‘his’ in inverted commas – file to rest. Bloody hell. The only thing that makes it worthwhile is I’ll probably get to look at the Three Graces for sixty minutes. That’s Phyllis, Annabel and Gina to you.

      Really? You don’t think it’s going to be interesting?

      Not unless they make it so.

      When Inter-Departmental grilled you, what did they ask?

      Alec looked into the mirror, took out a comb and used it to prod two stray hairs into place. They seemed to be under the impression that we in Grey knew all about said fictitious personage; that we always proceeded on the assumption that he’s real. I set the record straight. I hope to God I wasn’t the only one down there who knew next to nothing about him. I really don’t want to look stupid. Not in front of the Three Graces, anyway.

      "I knew next to nothing about him. But I’m not the sceptic you obviously are."

      You don’t mean to tell me you actually believe in him?

      ‘Him’. In inverted commas.

      That’s right. You surely don’t, do you?

      Mordred looked at his watch. Thirty seconds until we’re late for the meeting and we have to explain why we were so long in the toilet together.

      Cunningham held the door. John, I’m sure you’ll supply a plausible enough explanation. That results in us both being sacked.

      Don’t kid yourself. This is Thames House. They’ll just check the video footage. Gents’ Toilet, Fourth Floor, Cameras One through Ten.

      The meeting room was a low-ceilinged affair with a grey carpet, an interactive whiteboard and a row of windows overlooking the river. It felt like a classroom in a 1970s comprehensive. Twelve tables had been arranged into a square so big there was barely room to pull out the chairs without hitting the walls, and twenty people sat shuffling notes and mostly trying to look the same way they did in every meeting they ever attended: like they were far, far too important to be bothering with something inane like this. The Three Graces, as Alec called them, sat together in formal office-wear, sandwiched between four anaemic representatives of the Joint Intelligence Committee, two on either side. Ruby Parker stood at the head of the table, not acknowledging anyone, probably the only black person on the entire floor. The Home Secretary – the centre of attention, though nothing overt betrayed it anywhere - sat with a junior civil servant quietly fussing him, like erastes and eromenos. Only two seats remained, on adjacent sides of the square. Mordred took the one facing the front. Alec slipped in next to Ian, facing the windows. Since he also had a reasonably clear view of his three female colleagues, sadly he was probably as delighted as he was ever likely to get. Silence reigned. Perhaps Ruby Parker was having a last minute struggle with the right introduction. What were the appropriate words for an occasion like this – necessary, but faintly risible? Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to honour the memory of our friend, Constantius? Or maybe, Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Sopa, not to praise him?

      Time to begin, she said, as soon as Mordred was seated. As you know, we’re here to review the evidence regarding a certain ‘Constantius Sopa’ as a final formality before provisionally retiring his file. That would mean that his threat-level is indefinitely downgraded to ‘negligible’. Derek. She sat down.

      The man on her left – grey haired and muscular, in a worsted suit, the same man who had interviewed Mordred a week ago about Sopa – stood up and read through the items pertaining to his subject in a monotone, beginning with the internal leak, three years ago, of a cache of files supposedly revealing Sopa’s production of biological weapons in the 1990s, possibly with the collusion of HM Government. These documents were now considered bogus. Then his attempt to pervert the course of the 2010 UK general election. That was now considered better accounted for with reference to certain Slavic theocratists attached to the retired Muscovite politician, Vera Gruchov. Next, the 2012 ‘Venice episode’, involving agent Gavin Freedman, in which Sopa had allegedly detonated an advanced biological weapon. The whole thing was now believed to have had purely natural origins, and not such as required a perpetrator. Then there was his supposed written communication with the contemporary fine artist, Giuditta Cancellieri. Both Freedman and she were now dead and could not be called to account. Much of the information Freedman had divulged about Sopa before his untimely decease, Derek went on, was second-hand, and, in parts, fantastic. He had returned from abroad broken, AIDS-infected and mentally disturbed. Unless, and until, his testimony could be corroborated by some reliable third-party source, it was best considered worthless. Conclusion: the existence of such a ‘person’ as Constantius Sopa – which name we here use, in preference to its many other variants, arbitrarily and simply for the sake of consistency – is doubtful at best, and, for all practical purposes, probably best abandoned.

      Silence. Derek sat down. Ruby Parker stood up. Questions anyone? she asked.

      The Home Secretary folded his hands, leaned forward and looked genially around the table. And may I remind everyone that the fewer there are, the earlier we get to go home?

      General chuckles. Everyone here, it seemed, was a Home Secretary-groupie. Except perhaps Ruby Parker. She didn’t look so amused.

      Mordred raised his hand. "So what’s the ultimate explanation, Derek? You can’t just say ‘x doesn’t exist’, can you? You’ve got to have some theory as to what x stood for to begin with."

      Derek looked nervously to either side of him. I’m not sure what you mean.

      I mean, where did our belief in Sopa come from? What links all the different episodes his name’s cropped up in, and why hasn’t it appeared in others? Who was responsible for the attribution?

      Maybe ... MI7 itself? the Home Secretary interjected. Its own wishful thinking?

      More chuckles.

      Explain to me exactly how that might work, Mordred replied irritably.

      The Home Secretary looked as if he’d been pushed in the chest. "Excuse me, who the hell are you, anyway?"

      Gentlemen, I’d be grateful if you could direct your questions and comments to the chair, Ruby Parker said.

      "Who the hell is he?" the Home Secretary snapped.

      She ignored him and pointed to Alec, who had his index finger up.

      His name’s John Mordred, Alec said. He’s MI7’s resident beatnik.

      Everyone laughed, not because anything funny had been said, but simply out of relief that the Home Secretary’s honour had been quietly defended.

      I’m going back to John’s question, Ruby Parker said wearily. Because it’s a good one. Home Secretary, with respect, I’d be obliged if you could avoid belittling this meeting, and also, members of my department, outside the confines of any proper procedure. If you wish to make a point, even a cynical one, please do, but through the chair. Me.

      The Home Secretary shrugged and smiled. He seemed content that his dignity had been shielded a moment ago, and prepared to quit while he was still marginally ahead.

      Derek stood up again. I’m not so sure I can agree that MI7’s wishful thinking conjured Sopa, he said. The conclusion of our report is agnostic as regards the origin of his myth in each particular context. But we do not think there is a common origin such as would be worth investigating.

      Your report claims that the events in Venice at the end of Gavin Freedman’s assignment can be explained naturalistically, Mordred went on. If that was so, surely there’d have been some mention of it in the media.

      There have been lots of mentions, Ruby replied gently.

      "Lots of competing theories, Mordred said. All at variance with each other. From what I’ve read, not one of them explains the central facts."

      Which are? Derek said.

      The separation of good and evil?

      A few people grinned and a clutch of hands went casually up.

      The Home Secretary was allowed to speak first. Obviously, you wouldn’t expect a scientific theory to address that sort of thing, Mr Mordred. Put it down to coincidence, if you want.

      "John, ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are value judgements, Phyllis said, as if it pained her to criticise a friend, but it had to be done. No one can really even say what they are, let alone categorise human beings into groups based on them."

      Six or seven others were given permission to speak. Each repeated what the Home Secretary, or Phyllis, or both, had said, in different words. Each seemed to believe he or she was making a new point. Mordred got the sense of being hammered into the floor.

      Put it this way, Derek said when everyone else was done. Which is simpler: the belief that there’s something perfectly natural out there that’s yet to find a full scientific explanation, or the belief that there’s a master criminal at large who’s capable of a New Testament-style separation of sheep from goats?

      Everyone laughed. Sopa’s fate – or the fate of his file – had obviously been decided long in advance of this meeting. Derek looked triumphant, as if, now that the Home Secretary had heard him make a witty, eloquent remark, his life was complete, and he could finally fade back into the fixtures and fittings.

      Making yourself popular again, as ever, Alec said, as they left the building together, forty-five minutes later. Well done.

      Thanks for supporting me, Mordred replied.

      I could have said, ‘resident fruitcake’, of course. Come on, I was saving you from yourself.

      How?

      By gently showing you which way the wind was blowing. You don’t want to get into a scrap with that particular Home Secretary, believe me.

      Mordred laughed. The Home Secretary hasn’t been born who can put the frighteners on me.

      I was only thinking of your career. You’ll thank me some day.

      Do you really not believe there’s a Constantius Sopa out there, somewhere?

      No. And now no one does, except probably you. Well, you’ve been living on Lone Island all your life, why stop today? Are you planning on looking for him?

      No.

      Good. It’s academic then. Want to share a taxi?

      Mordred shrugged. The pleasure would be all mine. You doing anything tonight?

      I’ve no plans.

      "I’ve got Godzilla at home."

      The original? Okay.

      About seven. We’ll have something delivered.

      Alec laughed and put his hand over his face to mimic mortification. "We have to get lives, you know. You’ll have to get a life. I’m in my thirties: mine’s over. You’ve still got two years. You should be ashamed of yourself, really."

      It’s a classic film.

      Their taxi arrived. True, Alec conceded, as he climbed inside. And pizza’s pizza.

      Chapter 2: Summons From Julia

      IT WASN’T UNTIL HE got home that he realised it had happened again. Others had pitied him. Phyllis’s tone, for example, when she’d tried to set him straight, and the way she’d called him ‘John’ at the start of her sentence, like you would with a child, so he could be in no doubt he was being spoken to. Then Gina: she’d been the same: I love you, John, you’re really cuddly and adorable and everything, but you’re such a numpty. That was the gist. Luckily, he wasn’t in love with Gina, or any of the three so-called Graces – although, to her credit, Annabel had regarded him with silent contempt throughout. He was in love with a woman he’d lost, who supposedly worked for Black Department, and whom he had no expectation of ever seeing again. Dao-ming Chou. Boy, could he pick them: colleagues, life, girlfriend, comments in meetings – he was top connoisseur of the misguided choice.

      His flat consisted of the essentials of furniture – sofa, TV/ DVD player, bed, table and chairs – and hardly anything in the way of ornamentation. He’d been recruited to MI7 as a languages expert, and scattered across the floor he had six boxes of language resources – recordings of obscure tongues from inaccessible areas in distant continents, notes on intonation, academic journals on semiotics and linguistics, some of them including papers he’d written, lexicons, dictionaries, videos. Apart from the living room, there was a bedroom just big enough for a bed with no space for walking about, a tiny bathroom, and a kitchen so small every object was always within immediate reach. It was the sort of thing London estate agents call ‘luxurious’, which is to say, it had more than one room and the privacy of its own toilet. It looked onto a bus stop and an electricity substation.

      It was five o’clock now and just beginning to get dark. His phone rang. He removed it from his pocket and looked at the screen. Hannah. Brilliant. As if he hadn’t had enough of the older-sisterly thing at Thames House. Now an actual specimen to complete the humiliation.

      Hi, he said.

      Is something wrong? she replied.

      I don’t know what you mean. I’m just saying ‘hi’.

      It was the tone of voice. You sounded a bit glum, that’s all.

      It’s lovely to hear from you. Are you okay? How’s Tim?

      We’re both fine, she said. Listen, are you doing anything tonight? Would you like to go out? I’ve found a woman for you. And not just any woman.

      Hannah worked in the music industry. She knew lots of famous singers. She’d often hinted at pairing him with one. Previously, he’d always managed to keep the nightmare at bay.

      I’ve got a friend coming round, he said.

      A lady friend?

      A man. From work.

      Another sales rep. Brilliant. You can put him off, right? Unless you’re doing anything super-crucial together. Tell him you’ll catch up tomorrow?

      I can’t. It’s important.

      What’s so important? What are you doing?

      With anyone else, he’d have said mind your own business. But that was water off a duck’s back to Hannah. She always just carried on regardless, like The Terminator, until she got to the truth. She was capable of staying on the phone all day, if necessary. He’d seen it. "Watching Godzilla," he said.

      Which one?

      The original.

      That’s quite cool. It’s a man-thing, right?

      What do you mean?

      Women talk through films as a matter of course. Men have to have something to induce them. A piece of 1954 Japanese kitsch, for example. Listen, it’s Soraya from Fully Magic Coal Tar Lounge.

      What is?

      Your blind date, dummy.

      Well, that’s lovely, but ‘Soraya from Fully Magic Coal Tar Lounge’ can probably get any man she likes. She doesn’t need me.

      Whereas what’s-his-name does.

      That’s right.

      "What if I get someone for what’s-his-name? What is his name, anyway?"

      Alec.

      How old is he?

      Thirty-nine.

      We’ll call him thirty-five. Good-looking? Tall? Fresh breath?

      Not really.

      Fat?

      No. Look, this is ridiculous. People like Soraya and I don’t get together. You’re pitching me way above my league. And besides, I don’t want to go out. I want to stay in.

      I know what’s going on here, John. You’re still getting over the Chinese girl.

      Woman.

      Whatever. If I get someone for Alec, will you come then?

      I -

      "Before you say anything, remember: I know where you live. You might not look good in front of your friend-stroke-colleague-stroke-boss if I was to turn up halfway through Godzilla with Soraya and some other, equally beautiful woman and let slip that you rejected the possibility of a double-date."

      I don’t understand. Why are you so desperate to get me along?

      You’re my little brother and I love you.

      Right. Where are we even going? Hypothetically.

      Well, that’s how you can be sure I love you. Remember two years ago, when I set you up with Charlotte, and you complained about the noise -

      Another pop concert, hooray.

      She hooted. That’s right, John. ‘Pop’. We’re going to see Gerry and the Pacemakers.

      "Well, where are we going?"

      I was just about to tell you.

      Sorry. Go on.

      Anyway, you claimed, as I recall, that it was impossible for you and Charlotte to get a proper conversation going with Beyoncé singing at the top of her lungs.

      I later learned that ‘seeing Beyoncé’ is supposed to be quite a prestigious achievement in our society. So it wasn’t all time wasted.

      Why do I sometimes get the feeling I’m talking to Dad?

      Where are we going?

      A party political meeting.

      What?

      A party political meeting.

      He laughed. All right, stop joking around. I can just about cope with the idea of a blind date, but I would at least like to know where we’re headed. Otherwise, I’ll feel I’m walking into a trap.

      First floor, Knowle House, Tiverton Road, NW10, eight pm, smart-casual, by invitation only. I’m deadly serious. I’ve got six tickets. They’re like gold dust.

      "Très romantic. I’ll stick with Godzilla, if that’s okay. I’m sure Alec will too. He’s even less passionate about British politics than I am, and I don’t even vote."

      "You don’t vote? John, that’s disgusting."

      I don’t see why.

      We’re getting off the point. We can talk about that later: don’t think I won’t come back to it either. The point is, this isn’t just any old political meeting. It’s a Real Alternative meeting.

      I’ve heard of them. Is Johnny Quid going to be there?

      Who’s Johnny Quid?

      "RocknRolla. The Guy Ritchie film. That’s what he looks like. What’s he called? Chapman Hill?"

      Lord be praised, you’re not a complete ignoramus, after all.

      From what I remember, he wants to nationalise everything. Including the music industry, presumably.

      It might be a price worth paying. Anyway, it wouldn’t put me out of a job. Young people love him, by the way. He’s the twenty-first century equivalent of a rock star to people like Soraya.

      They all make big promises when they’re in opposition.

      He’s different.

      No, he isn’t.

      Oh, stop it. How do you know?

      Because everyone said exactly the same thing about Cleggie, five years ago. ‘He’s different’. No one’s different. It’s not possible to be different in this society. We’re electing someone to manage the economy, that’s all.

      Even assuming you’re right, wouldn’t you like to meet him? As a ‘things to do before you die’ item, it’s right up there with ‘seeing Beyoncé’, and you wouldn’t even get your precious ears blown off.

      Nope.

      "Oh, for God’s sake!"

      When you tell me what’s actually going on, I’ll consider it ... Hello? Hello?

      She’d put the phone down, of course she had. But she’d be back. He could tell from her tone of voice she wasn’t giving him the whole story. He’d got the tip of the iceberg, that’s all. Did she know he worked in intelligence? Was she working for someone?

      No, that was silly. She was his sister. She loved him and he loved her. But something was definitely going on. She’d ring back.

      But what if she didn’t? He’d been here before. Maybe she’d let him stew until he felt guilty; so guilty he’d ring her. They’d been there before, too. She was a master of manipulation.

      But she was on a hiding to nothing this time, because he really didn’t want a twenty-minute trundle to NW10 in the tube, then a long walk through the cold, then an hour’s sit on a hard chair next to a musician he hardly knew, all so Chapman Hill could rail on about wealthy tax-avoiders and career-politicians and the alienation of the young. He’d already been to one meeting today, and he couldn’t trust himself not to ask at least one more stupid question. Besides, these first-floor rooms in big London office-cum-flats were always the same: draughty and maudlin. He hoped she wouldn’t ring back.

      Maybe he should switch his phone off. But no: that would be provocative, the sort of thing that caused family rifts. 

      She rang back. He let it ring twice and picked up. Hi.

      Let’s start over, she said. I’m going to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

      He laughed. I knew it. I’m listening.

      It’s Julia.

      "What? Our Julia?"

      Our little sister, yes. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her much recently, have you?

      She tends to keep herself to herself a bit. Is she okay?

      She and Chapman Hill are – were - in a relationship.

      Bloody hell. Exclusive?

      From what I understand, yes. At least, until recently. Until he broke it off, that is.

      "Don’t tell me. He

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