Up in his room, Julian, fuddled, looks down on the lake. North Lakeshore Drive has a new aspect; it is now a necklace of light along the outline of the lake, which has turned to a deep impenetrable indigo. Out there, towards Canada, the huge barges and ships move slowly, their bridges ablaze with riding lights all halating in a light fog in blurs of light like spun sugar. England, he thinks, is a Ratty and Mole place by comparison. It’s late, but ribbons and shafts and cones of headlights scroll and dip and flare along the lake’s margins.

When he turns back, the message light on his phone is flashing and it sends a spasm straight through his body, tight with crab claws and dipping sauce and Goose Island Ale and Key lime pie.

‘Hi, darling. Just Kim here. The kids are fine. Sam fell off the new swings and broke his arm, but he’s fine. Just a greenstick fracture. Love you. Oh, and Sam loves his cast. Little boys love an injury. It’s more like a brace than a cast, really. Love you.’

Julian lies on his bed; he’s shaking. He tries to sleep. He longs – I am pathetic – to dream about his pony and hear what she has to say.

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The editor of the Cornish Globe and Mail is parked at the top of Bodmin Moor where the road crests before rushing down towards Bodmin. The mists lift from time to time to reveal the Jamaica Inn. Trucks rumble and roar by. Some ponies stand stoically in a huge field, head to tail. It’s six o’clock in the morning.

The editor knows that if he seeks permission to publish the documents London will be on the phone very quickly. But he also knows – he’s an old Fleet Street hand after all – that a certain momentum can be built that makes it impossible to stop publication. The technique is to release bits of information. His first call is to a friend, retired from the FT, but still freelancing on financial matters.

‘J.D.,’ he says, ‘Tredizzick here.’

The voice at the other end sounds a little fractured as though drink and disappointment have lodged permanently in the vocal cords.

‘Tredizzick, you old cunt, how are you? And what’s the time?’

‘It’s almost seven.’

‘Have you gone mad?’

‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’

‘Still waving the sword of righteousness?’

‘Yes, that sort of thing. But it’s mostly polluted beaches and Spanish trawlers stealing our fish. Look, J.D., I have something very big to tell you. And I need your help.’

‘OK, but a warning. I am still in my pyjamas. I don’t think well in pyjamas.’

‘Very big. I have some facts about a certain bank which I want you to leak.’

‘Ah, you’ve become a short seller. Can’t help you, old fruit.’