The Madness of July by James Naughtie Page B

along the grand tier to pay her backstage calls.
    Paul checked that the door had clicked shut.
    ‘I told Sassi some of what we know. They’re aware and it’s taking its course.’
    Flemyng asked a blunt question. ‘Whereabouts?’
    ‘The dead man, Aidan McKinley as we know him – was found at the Lorimer, where he’d checked in. Natural choice, I’m told, and used by our boys quite a bit. Anyway, police called from Kensington, embassy notified, preliminary view – no post-mortem yet, obviously – that he took a drugs overdose. And remember this, Will, the Americans have every interest in confirming a natural death. Tourist expires; sad business. Why would they want anything else? And it’s true, so I’m told – he was a heavy user, our medics confirm it. You’ll help with the story underneath? There are many complications. Tomorrow, please, at ten.’
    The evening was over. He opened the door, saw Paul down the stairs, and in a few minutes Francesca was back. After a hug, he said, ‘Did you hear anything in the box when you opened the door to call Paul and Sassi?’ She didn’t smile.
    ‘Why? What’s up? You’re so tense. Not yourself. I didn’t enjoy this evening.’
    ‘I need to know,’ he said.
    She said that when she’d opened the door to invite them back, they were close together in conversation – so much so that she pulled back and was about to close the door when they caught her presence and broke quickly. A few words had floated towards her, that was all.
    ‘Sassi was talking. He said they were seeing Berlin at its best and its worst.’
    ‘That was it? “The best and worst of Berlin?”’
    ‘Nothing else. They weren’t smiling, though.’
    ‘Thanks, Bat-ears,’ said Flemyng with a smile. ‘No names?’ She shook her head.
    ‘Another thing,’ he said. ‘Jonathan. What was he saying to you?’
    ‘Something quite odd,’ said Francesca. ‘We hadn’t even been talking about you, but he threw something in. Said he’d heard you were knocking around with some old friends. Made a joke of it – said people like you could never let go.’
    ‘Names?’
    Only one, Francesca said. ‘Sam Malachy.’
    She saw his surprise.
    They were alone in the dining room, sitting on either side of the marble fireplace, with the extravagant clock above them, the table alongside empty except for some unfinished wine glasses and bundled napkins. Flemyng, without raising his voice, asked how she had interpreted Ruskin’s mention of Sam. Francesca said he hadn’t seemed interested in getting an answer. ‘A message, then?’ Maybe, she said.
    ‘Have you been seeing Sam?’ she said. Flemyng avoided a direct answer. ‘Jonathan’s probably had dealings with him, one way or another. He’s all over the place in his job. That’s the point of him, after all.’
    Standing up, she faced him and there was fire in her gaze. ‘What the hell is going on? Because I don’t want it to get between us. You’re down and you’re worried, and I don’t believe it’s family and nothing else. I just don’t.’ She reached out for his hand, but with no apology for her words.
    ‘Can we leave it until the morning?’ He put an arm round her. They took the stair down and found Lawrence waiting, to drive them across the river and home, an unhappy silence between them.
    *
    Near Hyde Park Corner, Sassi and Wherry were having a slow journey through the post-theatre traffic, Wherry to his Kensington house and his colleague to a favoured townhouse hotel near Sloane Square. In London the day was almost done. As they wheeled round and looked down Constitution Hill they could see Big Ben. The light above the clock face at the top of the tower that stayed burning when the Commons was sitting had now gone out. They turned towards Knightsbridge. A curtain of black velvet had come down over the park; the city was going to sleep. Will and Francesca were on their way back to Putney. Paul was nearly at his office, where he wanted to