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telephone’s shrill ring woke William from his reverie. He waited a beat, hoping his housekeeper would pick it up, but eventually got up and answered it himself. ‘Yes,’ he snapped.
    It was an hysterical woman, babbling incomprehensibly.
    ‘Who is this?’ he said coldly. It was William’s personal phone. Only a handful of people had the number; this woman must have misdialled. Then William heard Maynard’s name. He tried to slow the woman down. ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying,’ he said, and told her to take a deep breath.
    ‘He’s dead, sir. Please come.’
    ‘Has there been an accident?’ William asked. The phone felt clammy in his hand. When he realized what she was telling him, his heart lurched. ‘Listen to me! Do nothing until I get there, do you understand? Wait until I see you. Do not call anyone until I get there.’
    His heart was still thudding as he drove from his four-storey house in The Boltons towards Ladbroke Grove.
    When he saw Maynard, he became icy calm. Mrs Skipperwas sitting at the kitchen table below. He could hear her sobbing. She had refused to accompany him up the stairs, so William was forced to confront the grotesque sight of Andrew Maynard’s body alone. His first reaction was of stunned horror, as if the scene before him was some sick theatrical set-up. Nothing he knew about Maynard had prepared him for this. He didn’t touch the body, but looked down into the open eyes, the dark hair floating around the head, and reached forward to turn off the taps. Maynard’s blood had stained the water a soft shell pink. The cuts in his wrists were deep and blood had sprayed down the bathroom tiles. Beside the bath was an empty gin bottle, and an overturned crystal glass with a slice of lemon still resting at the bottom.
    William went to Maynard’s study, pocketed the note with his phone number on it, and looked around for Maynard’s diary, address book and any personal papers. He placed them in his own briefcase, and searched for a suicide note before returning to the bedroom. He found it partly hidden beneath the bathtub. It was sodden from the overflowing water and the ink was blurred, which made the few hastily scribbled lines hard to decipher, but William could see it was addressed to him.

    Dear William,
I have no ambition left, just heartbreak and terrible longing.
I am sorry,
Andrew

    William read and re-read it. It made little sense to him. What heartbreak, what longing had made Andrew take his own life? He felt numb and confused, as if he still could not believe what had happened. Eventually he called the police and sat waiting for their arrival, studying the note as it dried in his hands. Maynard’s death would create a media frenzy, and one part of his brain was already wondering who would be the best man to hire for damage control.
    Five hours later William returned home. He had his own press office prepare a statement, but no matter what he said, Maynard’s death would cause one hell of a scandal. William poured himself a brandy, retired to his drawing room and started checking through the papers he had removed from Maynard’s study. He had made no mention of them to the police, but they had taken the suicide note. They had asked if it was Maynard’s handwriting, and William had nodded, but in reality it was so smudged it was hard to tell. The large bundle of personal letters he placed to one side as he flicked through the first leatherbound desk diary filled with appointments, then Maynard’s private diary.
    He couldn’t believe he had been so blind, that he had failed to detect this other side of Maynard. It confused and angered him, yet he found the details of the man’s bizarre, hidden life strangely compelling: the neat, meticulous handwriting, the lists of names, lovers, descriptions of sexual practices and a detailed account of monies paid out for years on sexual gratification. One name, Justin Chalmers, featured more often than most. This man had