Mickey resisted the temptation to fall back on Job humour in the pause that followed. While James waited for his answer, wearing a serious face. Mickey knowing that a cheap joke probably wouldn’t land well. Actually wanting to hear the other man’s view. But there was something deeper too. A colleague was reaching out, offering an insight.

‘I can keep it to myself.’

‘I’m sure you can.’ James thought for a moment. ‘Thing you have to bear in mind, Michael, is that I’m a Grenadier, first and foremost. I probably wouldn’t be in this godforsaken job if I weren’t. I know exactly the call that went out, when Sir Patrick’s tumble from grace started.’

‘To find someone they could trust?’

James smiled wanly. ‘More than that. They went looking for an insider. Someone so close to the whole ethos of the regiment that they could be trusted implicitly. Someone who would instinctively put the regiment and therefore the army first every time. And they found me.’

‘And you’re perfect for it?’

‘Yes, sad to say, I am. Active service as a young subaltern, without any major mistakes. Two more tours after that. A medium-weight gallantry decoration, to buff the image. For an act of overconfident stupidity under fire that I managed to get away with. And having achieved the ideal rank for this sort of role.’

Mickey frowned. ‘Ideal?’

James waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m a major, Michael. Significant, but disposable.’ He smiled bleakly at Mickey. ‘I’m the perfect man for this benighted role. Utterly, totally, unimpeachably trustworthy. And, in the event that matters get too hot to handle, I can be dropped over the side with Sir Patrick. I’m the spy in his camp, and he knows it, of course. Doubtless he’s busy telling everyone he knows what a shit I am. Which means I’m going to find getting any sort of decent job a bit of a stretch, when this is all done with.’

‘It all sounds a bit piss-poor for you, put that way.’

‘Quite so.’ Cavendish shook his head in bemusement. ‘Certainly not quite the glorious end to my career I’d envisaged. Mind you, it could be worse.’

He pulled a paper from the collection. With a rare headline, not focused on allegations of ill-considered mendacity and depravity on the part of the man they both served.

‘See? “Faces of evil!” I wouldn’t want to be any of those gentlemen this morning, would you?’

Mickey looked at the paper. The Clarion, of course. Known for ploughing its own furrow. Refusing to run with the press hounds. Alone in not having chosen to go with the Sutherland story. And froze, momentarily. Staring back at him, one of three men pictured, was Joe Castagna. Recovered his equilibrium, hoping that the momentary shock had gone unnoticed. Scanned the page for the picture credit. Clarion Newspaper Group/Tamara Egerton. Shit.

16

‘Clarion Group.’