bill.
It was unlikely that there would be any national news on the teletype yet; it was too early. But foreign news came in sporadically during the night, and more often than not it included one story which could be the splash, in a pinch. Most nights there was a major fire, a multiple murder, a riot, or a coup somewhere in the world. The Post was a London paper and did not like to lead with foreign news unless it was sensational; but it might be better than 'Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest…'
George dumped a sheet of paper several feet long on his desk. Not cutting the sheet into individual stories was his way of showing displeasure. He probably wanted Arthur to complain, so that he could point out how much work there was for him to do with the early Lad off sick. Arthur fumbled in his desk for scissors, and began to read.
He went through a political story from Washington, a Test Match report, and a Middle East roundup. He was halfway through a minor Hollywood divorce when the phone rang. He picked it up and said: 'News desk.'
'I've got an item for your gossip column.' It was a man's voice, with a broad Cockney accent.
Cole was instantly skeptical. This was not the voice of a man who would have inside information on the love lives of the aristocracy. He said: 'Good. Would you like to tell me your name?'
'Never mind about that. Do you know who Tim Fitzpeterson is?'
'Of course.'
'Well, he's making a fool of himself with a redhead. She must be twenty years younger than him. Do you want his phone number?'
'Please.' Cole wrote it down. He was interested now. If a Minister's marriage had broken up, it would make a good story, not just a gossip item. 'Who's the girl?' he said.
'Calls herself an actress. Truth is, she's a brass. Just give him a ring right away, and ask him about Dizi Disney.' The line went dead.
Cole frowned. This was a little odd: most tipsters wanted money, especially for news of this kind. He shrugged. It was worth checking out. He would give it to a reporter later on.
Then he changed his mind. Innumerable stories had been lost forever by being put aside for a few minutes. Fitzpeterson might leave for the House or his Whitehall office. And the informant had said: 'Give him a ring right away.'
Cole read the number off his notebook and dialed.
SEVEN A.M.
4
'Have you ever watched yourself doing it in the mirror?' she had asked; and when Tim admitted he had not, she insisted they try it. They were standing in front of the full-length glass in the bathroom when the phone rang. The noise made Tim jump, and she said: 'Ouch! Careful.'
He wanted to ignore it, but the intrusion of the outside world took away his desire. He left her, and went into the bedroom. The phone was on a chair underneath a pile of her clothes. He found it and lifted the receiver. 'Yes?'
'Mr. Fitzpeterson?' It was the voice of a middle-aged man with a London accent. He sounded slightly asthmatic.
'Yes. Who is that?'
'Evening Post, sir. I'm sorry to call you so early. I have to ask you whether it's true you're getting divorced.'
Tim sat down heavily. For a moment he was unable to speak.
'Are you there, sir?'
'Who the devil told you that?'
'The informant mentioned a woman called Dizi Disney. Do you know her?'
'I've never heard of her.' Tim was regaining his composure. 'Don't wake me up in the morning with idle rumors.' He put the phone down.
The girl came into the bedroom. 'You look quite white,' she said. 'Who was it?'
'What's your name?' he snapped.
'Dizi Disney.'
'Jesus Christ.' His hands were trembling. He clenched his fists and stood up. 'The papers have got hold of a whisper that I'm getting divorced!'
'They must hear that sort of thing about famous people all the time.'
'They mentioned your name!' He slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. 'How could they find out so quickly? What am I going to do?'
She turned her back on him and put her panties on.
He stared out of the window. The gray Rolls was still there, but now it was empty. He wondered where the driver had gone. The stray thought annoyed him. He tried to assess the situation coolly. Someone had seen him leave a club with the girl, and phoned the information to a reporter. The informant had built the incident up for dramatic effect. But Tim was sure no one had seen them enter the flat together.
'Listen,' he said. 'Last night you said you weren't feeling well. I took you out of the club and got a taxi. The cab dropped me off, then took you home. All right?'
'Whatever you say,' she said uninterestedly.
Her attitude infuriated him. 'For God's sake, this involves you!'
'I think my part in it is over.'
'What does that mean?'
There was a knock at the door.
Tim said: 'Oh, Jesus, no.'
The girl zipped up her dress. 'I'll go.'
'Don't be such a damn fool.' He grabbed her arm. 'You mustn't be seen here, don't you understand? Stay here in the bedroom. I'll open the door. If I have to ask them in, just keep quiet until they go.'
He put on his underwear shorts and struggled into his dressing gown as he crossed the living room. There was a tiny hall, and a front door with a peephole. Tim swung the flap aside and put an eye to the glass.
The man outside looked vaguely familiar. He had the face of a boxer. Broad-shouldered and well built, he would have been a heavyweight. He wore a gray coat with a velvet collar. Tim put his age at late twenties. He did not look like a newspaper reporter.
Tim unbolted the door and opened it. 'What is it?' he said.
Without speaking, the man pushed Tim aside, stepped in, and closed the door behind him. He walked into the living room.
Tim took a deep breath and tried not to panic. He followed the man. 'I'm going to call the police,' he said.
The man sat down. He called: 'Are you in there, Dizi?'
The girl came to the bedroom door.
The man said: 'Make us a cup of tea, girl.'
'Do you know him?' Tim asked her incredulously.
She ignored him and went into the kitchen.
The man laughed. 'Know me? She works for me.'
Tim sat down. 'What is this all about?' he said weakly.
'All in good time.' The man looked around. 'I can't say you've got a nice place here, because you haven't. I expected you to have something a bit flash-know what I mean? By the way, in case you haven't recognized me, I'm Tony Cox.' He stuck out his hand. Tim ignored it. Cox said: 'Please yourself.'
Tim was remembering-the face and the name were familiar. He thought Cox was a fairly wealthy businessman, but he could not recall what his business was. He thought he had seen the man's picture in a newspaper-something to do with raising money for boys' clubs in the East End.
