We ring off. I’ve been so engrossed, I hadn’t noticed I’ve come all the way up Shepherd’s Bush Road and have reached the corner of Shepherd’s Bush Green. It’s a quaint, rural-idyll of a name for what is actually a triangle of exhaust-poisoned grass in the middle of a traffic gyratory. Streatham’s death is a result, but I have to settle accounts with Breitner too. As a minimum, I want him bust, forced back to South Africa in ignominy, no longer the maker and breaker of governments, just a forgotten failed businessman. Clare would approve.

It’s 2 a.m. I’m on my own, hurt, in a part of London I can’t stand. It’s time I went home, though the only one waiting for me is a cat who is even more of a sociopath than me. I feel an uncontrollable desire to make a telephone call to someone I never feel the urge to call.

Dad answers surprisingly quickly, given the time of the night. He’s alert. Why wasn’t he asleep?

‘Gil. Is everything all right?’ There’s concern in his voice, and too late I clock how insensitive I am. This is how he heard about Clare; now every unexpected phone call could be a harbinger of disaster.

‘Everything’s fine, Dad,’ I try to reassure. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

A silence. He’s probably waiting for me to explain why I’m calling at this ungodly time of night.

‘Are you up? Can I come over?’

‘Of course.’ Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Another pause. Then, tentatively, as if he’s feeling his way carefully, ‘It’ll be nice to see you.’

‘You too.’

‘Are you sure everything is all right?’

‘Yes. I promise, Dad.’ I’ve been angry for so long, with my family, my work, myself, that I forgot something that matters more than everything else. Dad had a daughter. I had a sister. She’s gone. And that means Dad and I have something big and important in common, to share. We can help each other. And there is something else, too. One very bad man is dead. Breitner is going down. Gil and Clare, we were always a great team. We always will be.

‘Actually, I’m pretty good.’

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Thursday, 1 May – Election Day

ELECTION DAY IS THE EMPTIEST news day of the year. For a political editor, there’s mileage in ringing candidates for on-the-ground colour; or chatting with those running the national campaigns, to get a sense of how they think citizens are exercising their democratic right. But until the polls close at 10 p.m., it’s all surmise and speculation. The best thing to do is pretty much nothing, to preserve energy for the overnight marathon. This is the first day I am willingly following Lorimer’s instruction, and taking a day off.