He kept a watch on the silent living area as Della worked at the lock. The polished tables, the empty chairs, the long-case clock that ticked away the small hours of the morning with tired reluctance. From where he was standing, he could see the stairs and most of the upper landing, too, and there was no sign yet that anybody was stirring. He looked at his watch and it was eleven minutes after two. He wondered why he felt so unreal, so detached from everything that was going on. Maybe it was this stylish and stylised house, with its Indian art treasures, and that indescribable aura of sheer wealth and political power which surrounded Shearson Jones. Maybe it was the terrible events of Sunday night, the looting and the burning – events which he felt responsible for starting, but which he had only been able to experience at second-hand, on television.

Another oddity, too, as far as his feelings of reality were concerned, was that the television news programmes kept informing him that ‘Kansas farmer Ed Hardesty, who publicly exposed the threat of a nationwide famine, is now in hiding in Washington, DC, along with Senator Shearson Jones, the man he claims is responsible for the crisis.’

The gates of Lake Vista had been firmly locked against the press since eleven o’clock Sunday evening, and two attempts by CBS News to land in the grounds by helicopter had been thwarted by Shearson’s yapping dogs and by the Muldoon brothers, waving scatter-guns and threatening all kinds of murder. Through his office in Washington, Shearson had announced that he was returning to the capital, in due course, and that he would make ‘a full and uninhibited statement’ later – but first he felt it his duty to make several ‘private and confidential’ visits to friends and political associates in Kansas. That had lent him the time to empty the Blight Crisis Appeal of anything that wasn’t nailed to the floor, while reassuring the President that he was quite prepared to return to Washington and face the music.

What Ed didn’t know was that Season had called Lake Vista five times during Sunday night and Monday morning, and that Willard Noakes had called, too, just to leave a message that ‘we’re right behind you, and if you need us, call.’

Della, wrestling with the door of Shearson’s study, said, ‘I can’t get to grips with this fucking lock. What the hell does he need with a five-lever deadlock?’

‘I thought you said it was easy,’ said Ed.

‘It should be,’ she told him, irritably. ‘It just so happens that it isn’t.’

‘Do you want me to try?’ Ed asked her.

‘Are you an FBI agent? Or a professional thief?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Well then, keep quiet, and let me get on with it.’

‘All right. I’m sorry. I was only offering to help.’

‘Don’t.’