‘Is that why he photographed my papers?’
‘We needed Delgado’s engagements. There are missing hours in Delgado’s life.’
‘They’re not missing hours. They’re when he goes to Mass or looks after his wife and kids. He’s got a kid in hospital. Sebastian.’
‘That’s what Delgado tells you.’
‘It’s true. Don’t give me that bullshit. Is Harry doing this for England?’
‘England, the States, Europe. Civilised free world. You name it.’
‘Then he’s an asshole. So’s England. So’s the civilised free world.’
It took her time and effort but eventually she managed it. She climbed onto her elbow and turned to look down on him.
‘I don’t believe a fucking word you’re telling me,’ she said, ‘You’re a slimy English crook with a sackful of clever lies and Harry is out of his mind.’
‘Then don’t believe me. Just keep your big mouth shut.’
‘It’s bullshit. He makes it up. You’re making it up. Everyone’s jerking off.’
The phone was ringing, a different phone, one she hadn’t noticed, although it was on her side of the bed, linked to a pocket tape recorder next to the reading light. Osnard rolled roughly over her and grabbed the receiver, and she was in time to hear him say ‘Harry’ before she clapped her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes shut and yanked her face into a rigid grimace of refusal. But somehow one of her hands didn’t do its job properly. And somehow one ear heard her husband’s voice above the babel of screaming and rejecting that was going on inside her head:
‘Mickie was murdered, Andy,’ Harry was announcing. His voice was deliberate and forearmed, but pressed for time. ‘A professional shooting, by the sound of it, which is all I can say at the present time. However, I’m told there’s more of the same on the way and precautions should therefore be taken by all interested parties. Rafi has already left for Miami, plus I’m getting word to the others in accordance with laid-down procedure. I’m worried about the students. I don’t know how we’re going to stop them calling out the flotilla.’
‘Where are you?’ Osnard asked.
And there was a spare moment after that when Louisa might have asked Harry a question or two on her own account – something on the lines of: ‘Do you still love me?’ – or ‘Will you forgive me?’ – or ‘Are you going to notice the difference in me if I don’t tell you?’ – or ‘What time will you be home this evening and shall I get food in so that we can cook together?’ But she was still trying to select one of these when the line went dead and there was Osnard on his elbows above her, with his fluid cheeks hanging down and his little wet mouth open, but otherwise not apparently with any intention of making love to her because for the first time in their brief acquaintance he seemed to be at a loss.
‘Hell was that?’ he demanded of her as if she were at least in part responsible.
‘Harry,’ she said stupidly.
‘Which one?’
‘Yours, I suppose.’
At which he puffed and flopped onto his back beside her with his hands behind his head as if he were taking a short break on a nudist beach. Then he picked up the phone again, not Harry’s but the other one and, having dialled, asked for Señor Mellors in room something or other.
‘It seems to have been murder,’ he said without preamble, and she guessed he was speaking to the same Scottish man as before. ‘Looks as though the students may break ranks… lot of emotion riding on the ball… much respected man… A professional wet job. Details still coming in. What do you mean, a peg, sir? Don’t get you. Peg for what? No, of course. I understand. As soon as I can, sir. Straight away.’
Then for a while he seemed to go through a lot of things in his mind, because she heard him snorting and occasionally letting out a grim laugh, until he sat up sharply on the edge of the bed. Then stood up and walked to the dining room, to return with his rolled-up clothes. He fished out last night’s shirt and pulled it on.