When the foreign editor spoke, attention in the room began to focus. There was a meeting of European foreign ministers and Garmony would be attending, unless he resigned straight away. With this possibility floated, a murmur of excitement spread through the room. Vernon brought in the political editor, Harvey Straw, who dilated on the history of political resignations. There hadn’t been many lately and it clearly was a dying art. The prime minister, well known to be strong on personal friendship and loyalty, weak on political instinct, was likely to hang on to Garmony until he was forced out. This would prolong the affair, which could only help the Judge.
At Vernon’s invitation, the circulation manager confirmed the latest figures, which were the best in seventeen years. At this, the murmur swelled to a clamor and there was some swaying and stumbling around the doorway as frustrated journalists standing in Jean’s outer office decided to push against a wall of bodies. Vernon slapped the table to bring the room to order. They had still to hear from Jeremy Ball, the home editor, who was obliged to raise his voice; a ten-year-old boy was going on trial today accused of murder, the Lakeland rapist had struck for a second time in a week and a man had been arrested last night, and there was an oil spill off the coast of Cornwall. But no one was really interested, for there was only one subject that would quieten this crowd, and finally Ball obliged: a letter to the Church Times from a bishop attacking the Judge over the Garmony affair ought to be dealt with in today’s leader; a meeting of the government’s back-bench committee this afternoon should be covered; a brick had been thrown through the window of Garmony’s constituency headquarters in Wiltshire. Ragged applause followed this news, and then silence as Grant McDonald, Vernon’s deputy, started in on his few words.
He was an old-timer on the Judge, a large man whose face was almost lost inside a ridiculous red beard he never trimmed. He liked to make great play of being a Scot, wearing a kilt to the Burns night he organized for the paper and honking on bagpipes at the New Year’s office party. Vernon suspected McDonald had never been farther north than Muswell Hill. In public he had given due support to his editor, and in private, with Vernon, he had been skeptical of the whole affair. Somehow the entire building seemed to know about his skepticism, which was why he was listened to so eagerly now. He started at a low growl, which intensified the silence around him.
“I can say this now and it’ll come as a surprise to you, but I’ve had my wee doubts about this right from the start …”
This disingenuous opener earned him a manly round of laughter. Vernon thrilled to the dishonesty of it; the matter was rich, complex, byzantine. There came to his mind an image of a burnished plate of beaten gold inscribed with faded hieroglyphs.
McDonald went on to describe his doubts—personal privacy, tabloid methods, hidden agendas, and so on. Then he came to the hinge of his speech and raised his voice. Frank’s briefing had been accurate.
“But I’ve learned over the years that there are times in this business—not many, mind—when your own opinions have to take a back seat. Vernon’s made his case with a passion and a deadly journalistic instinct, and there’s a feeling in this building, an urgency on this paper now, that takes me back to the good old times of the three-day week when we really knew how to tell it. Today the circulation figures speak for themselves—we’ve tapped the public mood. So …” Grant turned to the editor and beamed. “We’re riding high again, and it’s all down to you. Vernon, a thousand thanks!”
After the loud applause, others chimed in with brief messages of congratulation. Vernon sat with folded arms, his face solemn, his gaze fixed on the grain in the table’s veneer. He wanted to smile, but it wouldn’t seem right. He observed with satisfaction that the managing director, Tony Montano, was discreetly taking notes of who was saying what. Who was on board. He would have to be taken aside and reassured about Dibben, who had slumped down in his chair, hands deep in his pockets, frowning and shaking his head.
Now Vernon stood for the benefit of those at the back of the room and returned the thanks. He knew, he said, that most people in the room had been against publication at one time or another. But he was grateful for this, because in some respects journalism resembled science: the best ideas were the ones that survived and were strengthened by intelligent opposition. This fragile conceit prompted a hearty round of applause; no need for shame, then, or retribution from on high. By the time the clapping faded, Vernon had squeezed through the crowd to a whiteboard mounted on the wall. He peeled away the masking tape that held in place a large sheet of blank paper and revealed a double-size blowup of the next day’s front page.
The photograph filled the entire width of eight columns and ran from under the masthead three quarters of the way down the page. The silent room took in the simply cut dress, the catwalk fantasy, the sassy pose that playfully, enticingly, pretended to repel the camera’s gaze, the tiny breasts and artfully revealed bra strap, the faint blush of makeup on the cheekbones, the lipstick’s caress that molded the swell and smipout of the mouth, the intimate, yearning look of an altered but easily recognizable public face. Centered below, in thirty-two-point lower-case bold, was a single line: “Julian Garmony, Foreign Secretary.” There was nothing else on the page.
The crowd that had been so boisterous was completely subdued now, and the silence lasted for over half a minute. Then Vernon cleared his throat and began to describe the strategy for Saturday and Monday. As one young journalist would remark to another later in the canteen, it was like seeing someone you know stripped in public and flogged. Unmasked and punished. Despite this, the general view that took hold as people dispersed and returned to their desks, and that consolidated in the early afternoon, was that this was work of the highest professional standards. As a front page, it would surely become a classic that one day would be taught in journalism school. The visual impact was unforgettable, as was the simplicity, the stark-ness, the power. McDonald was right—Vernon’s instinct was unerring. He was thinking only of the jugular when he pushed all the copy and resisted the temptation of a screaming headline or a wordy caption. He knew the strength of what he had. He let the picture tell the story.
When the last person had left his office, Vernon closed the door and dispelled the fug by pushing the windows open wide to the damp March air. He had five minutes before his next meeting and he needed to think. He told Jean over the intercom that he was not to be disturbed. The thought scrolled round and round in his mind—it went well, it went well. But there was something, something important, some new information he had been about to respond to, then he had been diverted, and then he had forgotten, it had flashed away from him in a swarm of other, similar items. It was a remark, a snippet that had surprised him at the time. He should have spoken up right then.
In fact, it didn’t come until the late afternoon, when he had another chance alone. He stood by the whiteboard trying to taste again that fleeting flavor of surprise. He closed his eyes and set about remembering the morning conference in sequence, everything that was said. But he could not keep his thoughts on the task and he drifted. It was going well, it was going well. But for this one little thing he would be hugging himself, he would be dancing on the desk. It was rather like this morning, when he had lain in bed contemplating his successes, denied full happiness by the single fact of Clive’s disapproval.
And there he had it. Clive. The moment he thought of his friend’s name, it came back to him. He went across the room toward the phone. It was simple, and possibly outrageous.
“Jeremy? Could you step into my office for a moment?”
Jeremy Ball was with him in less than a minute. Vernon sat him down and began an interrogation and took notes on places, dates, times, what was known, what was suspected. At one point Ball used the phone to confirm details with the journalist covering the story. Then, as soon as the home editor had left, Vernon used his private line to call Clive. Again the protracted, clattering pick-up, the sound of bedclothes, the cracked voice. It was past f
our o’clock, so what was it with Clive, lying there all day like a depressed teenager?
“Ah, Vernon, I was just—”
“Look, something you said this morning. I need to ask you. What day was it you were in the Lake District?”
“Last week.”
“Clive, it’s important. What day?”
There was a grunt and a creak as Clive struggled to pull himself upright.
“It would have been Friday. What’s the …?”
“The man you saw—no, wait. What time were you on this Allen Crags?”
“About one, I’d say.”
“Listen. The guy you saw attacking this woman, and you decided not to help her—it was the Lakeland rapist.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Don’t you ever read the papers? He’s attacked eight women in the last year, mostly hikers. As it happened, this one got away.”
“That’s a relief.”
“No, it isn’t. He attacked someone two days ago. They arrested him yesterday.”
“Well, that’s all right, then.”
“No, it isn’t all right. You didn’t want to help this woman. Fine. But if you’d’ve gone to the police afterward, this other woman wouldn’t have copped it.”
There was a brief pause as Clive took this in, or gathered himself. Now he was fully awake and his voice had hardened.
He said, “That doesn’t follow, but never mind. Why are you raising your voice, Vernon? Is this one of your manic days? What exactly do you want?”
“I want you to go to the police now and tell them what you saw.”
“Out of the question.”
“You could identify this man.”
“I’m in the final stages of finishing a symphony that—”
“No, you’re not, dammit. You’re in bed.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“This is outrageous. Go to the police, Clive. It’s your moral duty.”
An audible intake of breath, another pause as though for reconsideration, then, “You’re telling me my moral duty? You? Of all people?”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning these photographs. Meaning crapping on Molly’s grave—”
The excremental reference to a nonexistent burial place marked that point in a dispute when a corner is turned and all restraints are off. Vernon cut in. “You know nothing, Clive. You live a privileged life and you know fuck-all about anything.”
“—meaning hounding a man from office. Meaning gutter journalism. How can you live with yourself?”
“You can bluster all you want. You’re losing your grip. If you won’t go to the police, I’ll phone them myself and tell them what you saw. Accessory to an attempted rape—”
“Have you gone mad? How dare you threaten me!”
“There are certain things more important than symphonies. They’re called people.”
“And are these people as important as circulation figures, Vernon?”
“Go to the police.”
“Fuck off.”
“No. You fuck off.”
The door of Vernon’s office opened suddenly and Jean was there, writhing with anxiety. “I’m sorry to interrupt a private conversation, Mr. Halliday,” she said. “But I think you’d better turn on the television. Mrs. Julian Garmony is giving a press conference. Channel One.”
iv
The party managers thought long and hard about the matter and made some reasonable decisions. One was to allow cameras into a well-known children’s hospital that morning to film Mrs. Garmony emerging from the operating theater, tired but happy, after performing open-heart surgery on a nine-year-old black girl called Candy. The surgeon was also filmed on her rounds, followed by respectful nurses and registrars and hugged by children who clearly adored her. Then, captured briefly in the hospital car park, was a tearful encounter between Mrs. Garmony and the little girl’s grateful parents. These were the first images Vernon saw after he had slammed down the phone, searched in vain for the remote control among the papers on his desk, and bounded across to the monitor mounted high in a corner of his office. While the sobbing father heaped half a dozen pineapples into the arms of the surgeon, a voice-over explained that one could rise so high in the medical hierarchy that it became inappropriate to be addressed as Doctor. It was Mrs. Garmony to you.
Vernon, whose heart was still thudding from the row, retreated to his desk to watch while Jean tiptoed away, closing the door quietly behind her. Now we were in Wiltshire, at some elevated point, gazing down at a little tree-lined stream threading its way between the bald and undulating hills. A cozy farmhouse nestled by the trees, and as the commentary sketched in the familiar background to the Garmony affair, the camera began a long, slow zoom that ended on a sheep tending its newborn lamb on the front lawn, close to the shrubbery, right by the front door. It was another party decision to send the Garmonys and their two grown-up children, Annabel and Ned, to their country home for a long weekend as soon as Rose was finished at the hospital. Vernon saw them now as a family group, looking toward the camera over a five-barred gate, dressed in woolies and oilcloth coats and accompanied by their sheepdog, Milly, and the family cat, a British shorthair by the name of Brian, which Annabel lovingly cradled. It was a photo call, but the foreign secretary was uncharacteristically hanging back, looking, well, sheepish, even lambish, for his wife was the center of this event. Vernon knew that Garmony was sunk, but he could not help but nod in knowing tribute to the presentational skills, the sheer professionalism of it all.
The commentary faded and there was actual sound, the snap and whir of motor-driven still cameras and various aggrieved voices out of shot. It was clear from the tilt and wobble of the frame that a degree of jostling was going on. Vernon had a glimpse of the sky, then the cameraman’s feet and orange tape. The whole circus must be there, confined behind a line. The picture found Mrs. Garmony at last and steadied itself as she cleared her throat and prepared to make her statement. There was something in her hand, but she was not going to read from it because she was confident enough to speak without notes. She paused to ensure she had everyone’s full attention, then began with a little history of her marriage, from the days when she was at the Guildhall, dreaming of a career as a concert pianist, and Julian was an impoverished and high-spirited law student. Those were the days of hard work and making do, the one-room flat in South London, the birth of Annabel, her own late decision to study medicine and Julian’s unflinching support, the proud purchase of their first house at the less popular end of Fulham, the birth of Ned, Julian’s growing success at the bar, her first internship, and so on. Her voice was relaxed, even intimate, and derived its authority not so much from class or status as a cabinet minister’s wife as from her own professional eminence. She spoke of her pride in Julian’s career, the delight they had taken in their children, how they had shared in each other’s triumphs and setbacks and how they had always valued fun, discipline, and above all, honesty.
She paused and smiled, as though to herself. Right at the beginning, she said, Julian told her something about himself, something rather startling, even a little shocking. But it was nothing that their love could not absorb, and over the years it had endeared itself to her and she had come to regard it with respect, as an inseparable part of her husband’s individuality. Their trust in each other had been absolute. It hadn’t entirely been a secret either, this curious thing about Julian, because a friend of the family, Molly Lane, who died recently, once took some pictures, rather in a spirit of celebration. Mrs. Garmony was lifting up a white cardboard folder, and as she did so Annabel kissed her father on the cheek, and Ned, who was now seen to be wearing a nose stud, leaned across and put a hand on his father’s arm.
“Oh God,” Vernon croaked. “It’s a spoiler.”
She pulled the photographs clear and held up the first for all to see. It was the catwalk pose, it was Vernon’s front page. The camera wobbled as it zoomed in, and there was shouting and pus
hing behind the line. Mrs. Garmony waited for the clamor to subside. When it had, she said calmly that she knew that a newspaper with a political agenda of its own intended to publish this photograph and others tomorrow in the expectation of driving her husband from office. She had only this to say: the newspaper would not succeed, because love was a greater force than spite.
The line had broken and the hacks were surging forward. Behind the five-barred gate the children had linked arms with their father while their mother stood firm against the rabble, unfazed by the microphones shoved into her face. Vernon was out of his chair. No, Mrs. Garmony was saying, and she was glad to be able to put the record straight and make it clear that there was absolutely no foundation to the rumor. Molly Lane was simply a family friend, and the Garmonys would always remember her fondly. Vernon was on his way across his office to turn the thing off when the surgeon was asked whether she had any particular message for the editor of the Judge. Yes, she said, she did, and she looked at him, and he froze in front of the television.