I suppose I was thinking along the lines of an illicit liaison. I don’t have much experience in these things, but Shitter Shakeshafte was well known for his dalliances with a string of School Secretaries, and I’d already noticed that Danielle was slightly starry-eyed about the new boss. I suppose he’s not unattractive—at least not to people like Danielle. But that Shakeshafte, bad-tempered and pachydermic as he was, should find such a degree of romantic success speaks volumes for the aphrodisiac effect of high office, and Harrington, with his youthful face, smooth hair, and easy charm, is the kind of man any woman might find passably attractive.

So much for my speculation. Harrington had come in alone. The girl Bethan told me as much, when she came to deliver my pint and my ploughman’s. I am not what you might call a regular at the Scholar, but people tend to remember me. In fact, I believe that Bethan (who runs the Pink Zebra during the day, a small café at the edge of the Village) goes out of her way to spoil me with larger-than-regulation servings of cheddar with my crusty roll. I rather like Bethan, in spite of the black star tattoos that spiral tribally up her arms and the row of studs in her eyebrow. Not a look I admire, as such, but she has a glow.

I sat in the Scholar for over an hour, watching Johnny Harrington. During that time he ordered two more doubles on the rocks, and ate a packet of peanuts. He did not speak to anyone, except for Bethan at the bar, and later on his cell phone. Then he left in a hurry, without even finishing his drink.

I would have liked to follow him. But he would have seen me. Instead I watched from the window as, rather than heading for the car park—where that silver BMW gleamed under a lamppost—he set off at an angry pace toward the trees of Malbry Park, where he was soon lost from view. I had no way of knowing for sure where the man was heading. But the path he’d taken led across the park toward the big houses of Millionaires’ Row. Was that where Harrington’s caller lived? Or was I chasing moonbeams?

Of course I had no answers to any of these questions. But I could tell one thing, at least: that under the remaining veneer of charm and sophistication, under the fog of alcohol, little Johnny Harrington—the perfect politician, a man as sleek as a bag of weasels—was in the throes of a rage that he could barely control. I wondered what could have provoked it. He’d always seemed so coolly immune to normal human weakness—