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'Well, Mattie, I've never really told the full story before to anyone ...' He glanced down to where Mattie was rubbing her ankles, as if to relieve sore shins. 'But I suppose there's no harm in telling you a little of the background.'
He pondered a second to decide how far he should go. 'I discovered that the Government - or rather their party headquarters - had planned a massive publicity campaign to promote the new plan for expanding hospitals. They had worked hard at it, spent a lot of money on the preparations, yet at the last minute they cancelled the whole thing. Just pulled the plug on it. I thought about this for a long while, and the only explanation I could reach was that they were actually pulling the plug, not just on the publicity campaign but on the policy itself. So I challenged the Prime Minister - and he fell for it! I couldn't have been more surprised myself.'
'I don't remember any discussion at the time about a publicity campaign. It must have been kept very quiet.'
'Of course, they wanted to keep the element of surprise. I believe all the planning of it was highly confidential.'
'You obviously have excellent confidential sources.'
'Yes. And they are staying confidential, even from you, I'm afraid!'
Mattie knew that she would need to offer much more than a flashing pair of ankles to get that sort of information out of him, and she was unwilling to pay so high a price.
'Of course, Stephen. I know how valuable sources are. But can you give me a little guidance? The leak could only have come from one of two sources, Party or Government, yes... ?'
He nodded.
'And there has been a tremendous amount of publicity about the rift between party headquarters and Downing Street in recent months. Particularly as it was to be a party publicity drive, it would be logical to suspect that the information came out of party headquarters.'
She raised an enquiring eyebrow, and puckered her lips.
'You're very good, very good, Mattie. But you didn't get that from me, OK? And I'm not saying any more about my source. You're too hot by half!'
He was beginning to chuckle merrily when Mattie played her own hunch.
'No need to worry. I want to write a feature piece, not conduct an inquisition. Roger's secret is safe with me.'
Kendrick spat out the mouthful of tea he was trying to drink and started choking.
'I never... said anything about... Roger!' he spluttered. But he knew he had betrayed his familiarity with O'Neill, and the calm face he was trying to restore simply eluded him. He decided to surrender.
'Jesus. How did you know? Look, Mattie. Big favour time. I didn't say anything about Roger. We're old friends and I don't want to land him in any sort of hot water. He's got enough at Smith Square as it is, eh?'
Mattie laughed loudly, teasing the politician for his discomfort.
'Your sordid secret is safe with me,' she assured him. 'But when you have risen to become a senior member of Government some time in the future, perhaps even Prime Minister, I hope you will remember you owe me!'
They both laughed loudly at the banter but, inside, Mattie's stomach churned. Another piece of the jigsaw had just fallen into place.
They were there at lunchtime and still there in the evening, just reading, picking their teeth, and watching. Like avenging angels they had waited for Earle in their sordid little car from over forty-eight hours, witnessing every flicker of the curtain, photographing everyone who called including the postman and the milkman.
'What do they want with me?' he screamed to himself inside his head. 'Why are they persecuting me like this?'
He had no one to turn to, no one with whom to share his misery and offer consolation. He was a lonely figure, a sincere and even devout man who had made one mistake, and he knew sooner or later he must pay for it. His mother had always drilled into him the need to pay for one's sins or be consumed by hell fire, and he felt the flames licking at him now with growing ferocity. .
He had been home half an hour on Monday evening when they knocked on the door.
'Sorry to bother you, Mr Earle. Simmonds and Peters again. Just a quick question our editor wanted us to ask. How long have you known him?'
Into his face was thrust another photograph, still of Simon, but this time taken not at a public rally but in a photographer's studio, and dressed from head to foot in black leather slashed by zip fasteners. The jacket was open to the waist, exposing a slender, tapering body, while from his right hand there trailed a long bullwhip.
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