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  “Are you on the committee?”

  He nods. “Yes, I am.”

  “So you decide who you sell it to?”

  “I have some influence, but it's not just my decision, as you can imagine. We have to follow due process. Quite rightly, there are checks and balances.”

  “Well, yes, of course. Can I count on your vote, Tony?”

  He stands, fills the kettle, and remains standing by it. “As I said, there's due process to be followed.”

  “Yes, of course there is, and that's only right. But as friends surely I can count on you going in to bat for me?”

  “If you meet all the key criteria, then of course we'll give any bid you make serious consideration.” He can't look at me; he speaks instead into the steam that rises from the boiling kettle.

  I say, louder this time, “That's hardly a ringing endorsement, is it? I'll ask you again: will you back my bid?”

  “Hang on, Reynard. Another tea, by the way?”

  “Stop stalling. Will you back my bid?”

  “Well, yes, if the bid is the best, as determined by the committee's criteria.”

  “I see. Thanks for nothing, mate.”

  I stand, and the floor seems to shift beneath me; the Reverend's image splits into two then shakily converges again. He remains out of focus as he says quietly, “Reynard, I'm sorry but you must understand my position. And you're clearly not well. Do you think you should see a doctor?”

  “Ah fuck it. Tony, this is the real world, not theological college. You need a dose of realism. You need to understand how things actually work. You'll end up supporting my bid, believe me.”

  “Reynard, let's discuss this when you've calmed down and are feeling better.”

  “I'm going now. But just one thing before I go.”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope you've no skeletons in your closet,” I say.

  “Sorry?”

  “You heard. Maybe some closets shouldn't be opened – but there's always someone who has the key.”

  Furrowed brow, a draining of colour from his face. Softly, he says, “Explain what you mean, please, Reynard.”

  “I mean exactly what I say. Have a think about it. Give me a call when you want to discuss. See you later.”

  “Wait! Reynard!” he calls after me, but I'm gone, back up the narrow staircase, past the altar, and through the heavy oak doors into the deserted London streets. Rain thunders down harder, wind whips around my ankles, gutters overflow, the pavements are awash. This is London, in all its glory. Ripe with opportunity, gloriously messy and chaotic, and the centre of the universe. If you designed London from scratch, you couldn't have planned what we have now: a sprawling, organic, pulsating, infinitely complex mess. But underneath the chaos, things are falling into place. Soon, surely, proof that I was right all along. Finally, credit where credit's due.

  This rain's unrelenting, but it somehow imbues me with more power; a hitherto unparalleled, unshiftable strength carries me onwards. I follow an apparently random path through Mayfair that'll finally take me home. Outside Coq de Platine, I pause to look at the menu, although I'm not hungry. I glance through the window, clouded by condensation. There, in a booth, is that Uncle Ish? The table's other occupant has his back to me, but that apologetic, weak posture can belong to just one man: Roger.

  But it can't be them. Alternatively, it can be them, but it doesn't matter. An act of treachery or one of cooperation that will bring about my inevitable victory? Or just two old friends having lunch? Irrelevant; I'm borne aloft once more by an irresistible force which carries me away from the restaurant, and towards...

  I open my eyes to semi-darkness, the taste of citrus, a pain in my rectum. I seem to be naked, on all fours, on my own living room floor. I reach around and remove an anal probe, cold, smeared with an unnamed substance. From elsewhere: a flash, followed by another, then another. Slowly getting to my feet, I tread on discarded orange segments. The flashes return, staccato and frequent now.

  In the relative safety of my bathroom, I piss loudly and try to piece together the fragments of what’s happened. But nothing fits. Perhaps it doesn't matter.

  As I flick on the table lamp in the living room, more flashes, which seem to emanate from across the square, near the widow and her daughter's place, perhaps even from it. But through the binoculars, I see nothing exceptional. There's nothing to be done now.

  To bed, where a thick dreamless sleep blankets itself around me.

  20

  The day starts with a cataclysmic bowel movement; a splattering of blood with a shearing pain. I take a long shower to clean myself up and a little ice-cold vodka to alleviate the worst of the tremors. In the mirror I'm looking damn good, if a little pale. I dress conservatively today: sober charcoal suit, white shirt, navy tie, Church's brogues. The briefest of pangs as I see some of Akemi's dresses still hanging in the wardrobe. Her evocative scent as I flick through them then draw them close to me.

  I stroll to the office in sunshine, the dawning of a new working day, but frankly the optimism just isn’t there; instead there’s simply a void.

  I call Roger into my office. “Did I see you having lunch with my Uncle Ish yesterday?”

  “You may well have done. We go back donkey's years, as you know. As you get older, it's important to stay in touch.”

  “Well, I hope you didn't spend the entire lunch talking about me!”

  Finally, a hint of a smile across that frail, nervous little face. “Not the entire lunch, no. So … changed your mind over Reynard House yet?”

  “It’s not happening, so just let it lie, got it?”

  Lucija walks in, wearing navy culottes and an off-white cashmere roll-neck. Her breasts look magnificent.

  “Nice outfit, Lucija.”

  “Oh, er, thanks.”

  “Although I do particularly like that green dress you wore last week.”

  Lucija glances at Roger, then back to me. “Oh, right. Reynard, there’s a policeman on his way up to see you. I’ll put him in the boardroom. Espresso?”

  “Okay, make him feel at home will you? Rog, just leave it to me.”

  Detective Inspector Mutch doesn't conform to type, more building society clerk than policeman. He’s weedy, sandy-haired, slightly effeminate, and unimpressive. But discreet. He seems to understand the sensitivity of a police visit, and as far as the rest of the office are concerned, he could be anyone.

  He peers into the trophy cabinet and says, “That’s a lot of awards, sir, you must be very proud.”

  “Yes, I am. I’ve worked very hard to build up this business, so it’s gratifying to have some public recognition for what the fund has done for so many people.”

  “I suspect you’ve done rather well out of it too, sir.”

  “Well, I can’t really complain, no.”

  “It’s all very impressive, and unimaginable to someone like me. Coppers don’t drive around in Bentleys. Unfortunately.”

  Lucija slinks in, places a cappuccino and a croissant on the table, and says, “There you are, Detective Inspector. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  A glint in D.I. Mutch’s eye. “That’s great, thanks, and nothing else for the moment, thank you so much.”

  Lucija hands me an espresso and then leaves us alone.

  Mutch sits at the boardroom table. “This is another world, it really is.” He takes a large bite of croissant and then slides his palm along the surface of the table as if stroking a thigh.

  “So what can I do for you, Inspector?”

  “Ah, yes. I work for the City of London police, Fraud Squad. I wonder, sir, if you are familiar with The Bribery Act 2010.”

  A quivering arsehole, a gargle deep in the guts. A sudden coldness passes, first across my face, then deep in my marrow. I squeeze out the words, “Not intimately, no. Pourquoi?”

  “We’ve been contacted by an individual in our jurisdiction who has alleged that an extremely large bribe was offered in exchange for…”r />
  When I come to I’m being cradled by Lucija, her fragrant breasts forming the best possible pillow.

  D.I. Mutch looms back into focus. “Sir, sir, are you okay? Shall we call you an ambulance?”

  “What, no, I’m okay, must have fainted. Lucija, get me home, will you?”

  Lucija and D.I. Mutch help me to my feet and into a chair. A glass of water appears in front of me, Roger and Lucija confer noiselessly by the door, D.I. Mutch hands Lucija a card with a nod, then disappears.

  In time, Roger’s sitting opposite me, his elbows resting on the table, chin on clenched hands. “Reynard, what on earth’s going on?”

  “What, Rog? Nothing. My flat was broken into, the policeman was here to ask some questions, that’s all. And I fainted, must have been something I ate.”

  Roger stares fixedly at a point above my head. Finally he says, “I’m sorry, Reynard, but that’s not true, is it? Look, I don’t know what Mutch wants — he wouldn’t tell me — but I know it’s connected to Gyges, and so I need to know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I bloody well do, I’m the CFO, I’m the compliance officer, and if there’s anything going on I have to know. Christ, if the regulator gets involved, it really is game over, if it isn’t already.”

  “Look, Rog, I’m tired. Stop worrying, okay. Mutch is not a problem. Everything’s going to be fine, just stop worrying, got it?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I can’t. It’s my job to worry — you know someone’s got to do it. I really can’t see a way out, I’m sorry. We should be talking to the regulator already, flagging up that we’re in distress.”

  “Who’s in distress? Not me, not Gyges. Maybe you, but that’s your prerogative. Help me up, will you, then bugger off and sell some assets. Have you shifted any of that Northern high-street stuff yet?”

  “You’re joking, presumably? It’s toxic stuff, you’d have to be massively gung-ho to go anywhere near it at the moment.”

  “It’s massively high yield.”

  “It’s massively high risk. Seen the papers? Stores closing all over the place. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but the market’s fleeing to safer, higher quality assets, not that kind of stuff.”

  “Prime central London then.”

  “Like Reynard House?”

  “All the others, not Reynard House,” I say as he helps me up, his feeble grip on my forearm. “Off you go then, Rog, get to it.”

  I’m back home, propped up in bed with a bottle of Grey Goose, a goody bag of pharmaceuticals and sketches of St Saviours after development. In the context of other London developments — The Shard, Battersea Power Station, The Cheesegrater — it’s comparatively modest, but what it lacks in size it more than makes up in quality. But casting my eye over the designs, I’m underwhelmed, frankly. The planning constraints make the full realisation of my vision impossible, but even the proposed development just isn’t floating my boat: it’s small-minded, parochial, not global enough. But then the solution comes to me: although the planners will forbid any increase in height, there’s surely nothing to prevent me increasing the depth. So-called iceberg developments are rife across London now, but generally small fry: just a storey or two to include, say, a gym, a multimedia room, maybe a sauna or a pool. Fripperies for the mid-league lawyer or banker to wind up the neighbours. But what St Saviours needs is a five-, six-, seven-storey basement. The ultimate wolf in sheep’s clothing for the discerning global super-rich.

  Knocking back a restorative shot of Grey Goose, I take my Mont Blanc Meisterstück UNICEF Doué Platinum Classique Ballpoint Pen and rapidly sketch further basement levels: the library, the dance floor, the golf simulator, the yoga and pilates studio, the S&M dungeon. It’s exactly the shot in the arm the project needs: you have to think big if you’re going to win big. Faint heart never won fair lady.

  I message the Reverend; no reply.

  I message Victor and get him to send over Chiquita/Patricia, whose arrival an hour later wakes me from thick, clotted dreams. She wears a nurse’s uniform, as requested, but I’m surprised to find there’s nothing erotic about it at all, despite her scissor-like legs, vertiginous heels, comic-book cleavage, and pouting lips. I get her to fix me a quadruple espresso while I shower.

  Reclining in my Daniel Hanson robe while she trims my toenails, I say, “I’ve been meaning to ask, where do you come from?”

  “Tarragona in Catalonia. I am here in the UK for my studies.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “A PhD in Molecular Biology. Signal transduction. Just do this sort of thing to, you know, pay my bills. London is silly expensive.”

  “It is. Well, you’re very good at what you do, worth every penny.”

  She is about to thank me, but the entryphone buzzes so I tell her to see who it is. She totters over to the screen, lifts the handset, then calls over and says, “Detective Inspector Mutch?”

  “Oh, shit. Okay, buzz him up will you?”

  D.I. Mutch saunters in with a broad smile. He looks Chiquita/Patricia up and down and then offers his hand.

  She takes it, smiles, and says, “Hello, I’m Jacinta.”

  As I cross the room I say, “What? I thought your name was … oh, don’t worry. Mr Mutch, good to see you again.”

  “How are you feeling, sir? Being well looked after, I see.” We shake hands.

  “Getting there, thank you.”

  “Good. May I have a word in private?”

  “Yes of course. Erm, Jacinta, could you make yourself scarce for a while? Maybe have a bath or something?”

  She nods, heads off to the main bedroom, and closes the door behind her, D.I. Mutch watching her all the way.

  With an offhand gesture towards the closed door, he says, “My God, she is, well, you know. You’re a very lucky man, sir. A very privileged man.”

  “Well, Inspector, with privilege comes responsibility. It’s not all a bed of roses.”

  He nods towards the sofa and says, “May I?” He sits, I stay standing. “I hope you don’t mind, your colleague Roger Harbourne helpfully filled me in on Gyges Holdings. A remarkable history, sir, although I understand that things have been a little more difficult recently.”

  “It happens. Ebb and flow, you know.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. Now, my main reason for calling today: you and Edward Cryx are close associates, is that correct?”

  “I’m a client of his, that’s all. Why?”

  “I understand that a recent decision by Mr Cryx may have disappointed you?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  Mutch wrinkles his nose. “Okay, let me put it another way. Cryx’s decision to withdraw funding has put Gyges in a very dicey position.”

  I pull the cord to my robe tighter. “Right … is that a question?”

  “Do you disagree?”

  “I would not use the word ‘dicey.’”

  “But it would make a big difference if Cryx reversed his decision?”

  “It would help, yes. What are you getting at, Inspector? Shall I call my lawyer?”

  Mutch smiles, thin-lipped and insincere. “Let’s not get carried away, sir. You’re not under arrest. Only…”

  I cough. “Yes?”

  “Only, I could easily arrest you and see where we can take it. Cryx is a very straight man, it seems. A man who plays strictly by the rules. I think you probably targeted the wrong man there. What made you think he could be bought off?”

  The pain returns to my right side with a vengeance. I grimace and excuse myself as I retrieve a couple of cocodamol from the bedroom and sluice them down with a glass of water. Soft music plays from the bathroom; the aroma of scented candles.

  Back in the living room, I sit gingerly in the armchair. “Look, Mutch, this is all speculation, and in the absence of hard evidence I’m not going to entertain any of it. If you want to take this further — and you’d be ill-advised to do so — speak to my lawyer.”

 
; “Hard evidence? You mean like a recording of a conversation, perhaps?”

  “What?”

  “Cryx approached us. He agreed to record your little chat in the pub.”

  “Okay, that’s enough, I want my lawyer.”

  Mutch leans forward. “Let’s not be hasty, okay? I haven’t arrested you and officially there’s no case to answer. Perhaps we can find you a way out of this pickle.” He runs his hand across the coffee table, then stands and demonstrably admires some of my art: paintings from English surrealists — Penrose, Maddox, Trevelyan — drawings from Sutherland, an expansive Paul Nash depicting Arnhem. “All originals, no doubt, sir? Only the best for Reynard Xavier, eh?”

  He fixes me with a stare. “And the young lady, presumably equally expensive? Better than you can get on a policeman’s salary, anyway.”

  I smile. Mutch smiles broadly back and raises his eyebrows.

  “You know, Mutch, I think she definitely took a shine to you. I’ve just got this feeling she might want to get to know you better, you know what I mean? Let me have a quick word with her.”

  “Good man.”

  Five minutes later, I’m lacing up the Berlutis and pulling on my Givenchy overcoat. “Mutch, I’ll be out for a couple of hours or so. I hope you don’t mind looking after the flat for me while I’m gone? If you need to lie down at all, then feel free to use that bedroom over there.”

  I pocket my wallet and phone, button up my coat, and head out to an afternoon of glorious, bright sunshine. Strolling across Green Park towards the Bacchus Club, the warmth on my face, I can’t help but reach the conclusion that something significant’s just happened; that Gyges has just turned a corner.

  One of the central tenets of the Bacchus Club's constitution is no women. It can be a relief to escape from their fragrant wonderfulness, from their alluring curves, and from all the unnecessary stimulation and fuss they bring. But casting my eye around this oak-panelled room, there are few signs of life. Instead, it looks like the end of the empire: whiskery, cologned, hairy-eared, tweedy. Nothing but decline in opulent surroundings. Few of the old duffers in here would know what to do with a pert pair of breasts or a glistening quim. Most of them would be unable even to stand and salute.