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, 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. “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.”